Several minutes later the door opened and his confidential secretary, easing her way into the room, waited for him to look up. It was almost five minutes before, turning a page, he saw her standing there. “What is it?” he asked.
“An aviator who wants to see you on behalf of his stepfather,” Della Street said. “He’s in the outer office.”
“Not interested,” Mason said. “I have this Consolidated case on my mind and don’t want to be disturbed.”
“He’s a tall, handsome devil,” she said, “and knows it. He says that his stepfather is a cripple and can’t come himself, that he has a most important legal matter to take up with you, that because there was a shooting affair last night in the flat below, he’s afraid the situation may be complicated.”
Mason put down the law book somewhat wistfully. “The gunshot does it,” he announced with a grin. “I never can concentrate on a brief when there’s shooting going on. What’s his name, Della?”
“Rodney Wenston. He’s one of these playboy aviation enthusiasts; living, I gather, largely on funds inherited from his mother. I doubt if his stepfather entirely approves of him, and I also doubt if he entirely approves of his stepfather — refers to him as the guv’nor.”
“How old?” Mason asked.
“Somewhere around thirty-five. Tall, straight, and has that slow-moving assurance of a man who’s accustomed to the best in life. He has a lisp when he’s embarrassed or self-conscious and you can see it annoys him.”
“He’s not flying for a living, just as a sport?”
“A hobby, he calls it.”