“Want them in now?” Della Street asked.
“Uh huh,” Mason said, and crossed over to the washstand. He ran water into the bowl and was drying his hands on the towel when Della Street ushered in Mrs. Tump and an attractive, willowy girl whose eyes flashed about the room in a swift glance, and then registered approval as they appraised Perry Mason.
“This is Mr. Mason, Byrl,” Mrs. Tump said, and to Mason, “Byrl Gailord.”
Mason caught a glimpse of red lips parted to disclose flashing teeth, of intense black eyes, and then Byrl Gailord’s hand was in his as she smiled up in his face. “I’m afraid I’m a nuisance, Mr. Mason,” she said, “but when I told Mrs. Tump about what you’d said over the telephone — you know, about investigating a hot tip — well, we just couldn’t wait.”
“That’s quite all right,” Mason said. “The tip panned out. Won’t you sit down?”
“What was it?” Mrs. Tump asked. “What have you found out?”
Mason waited until they were seated. “Albert Tidings is dead,” he said. “We found his body stretched out on a bed in a bungalow owned by his wife. We notified the police. He’d been shot in the left side. Police can’t find the gun. There was one in his pocket, but it hadn’t been fired, and it’s the wrong caliber anyway. There was a faint smudge of lipstick on his lips.”
Byrl Gailord stifled a faint exclamation. Mrs. Tump stared at Mason with startled eyes. “You’re sure it was he?” she asked.
“Yes,” Mason said. “Mrs. Tidings identified him.”
“The body was found in her house?”