“I was just wondering if the girl who owned that lipstick didn’t perhaps have part of a ten-thousand-dollar bill in her purse… I’m getting a complex about that bill, Della. I’m afraid to go to sleep for fear I’ll dream of chasing a witch who turns herself into a beautiful young woman poking a part of a ten-thousand-dollar bill under my nose.”
Della Street said, “More apt to be a beautiful young woman who turns into a witch… Let me know if you want anything, Chief.”
“I will. Thanks for calling, Della. ’Night.”
“ ’Night, Chief.”
Mason rang up the Drake Detective Agency. “Paul Drake — is he where you can reach him?” he asked of the night operator at Drake’s switchboard.
“I think so, yes.”
“This is Perry Mason calling. I’m at my apartment. Tell him to give me a ring soon as he can. It’s important.”
“Okay, Mr. Mason. I should have him within fifteen minutes.”
Mason slipped out of bed, put on bathrobe and slippers, lit a cigarette, and stood in frowning concentration, his feet spread apart, his eyes staring intently down at the carpet. From time to time he raised the cigarette to his lips, inhaling slow deliberate drags.
The ringing of the telephone aroused him from his concentration. He picked up the instrument, and Paul Drake’s drawling voice said, “Hello, Perry. I was wondering whether to call you tonight or wait until tomorrow morning. I’ve got some information on Tidings.”