“But how can we attack? We have no more hope of attacking than a rabbit that’s being chased by a pack of greyhounds.”
“That’s just the point,” Mason said. “Don’t you get it? They aren’t on our trail yet. They won’t get on it until they find this body. They won’t find it until some person comes to the house.”
“Who?”
“Perhaps,” Mason said, “it’ll be Rodney Wenston — although I hardly think so. Even if he does come here, he’s hardly in a better position to call the police than we are.”
“Why?”
“Because of the purpose for which this house was used, and the deception Karr practiced on the officers. Karr evidently fears the police as much as we do. And Rodney Wenston, unless he has an iron-clad alibi, is more apt to have pulled the trigger than anyone else — remember, Wenston’s been flying Karr back and forth to San Francisco, helping keep the secret of that wounded leg.”
Della nodded, then, indicating the bedroom with a slight inclination of her head, asked, “How did he get there, and why was he killed?”
Mason said, “Let’s get out of here. We’ll talk in Locarno’s Grill. Right now the big thing is a getaway.”
They switched out lights in the corridor, went down the stairs to the living room. Mason went around turning out lights. “No need to bother with fingerprints down here,” he said. “Once they suspect us, the two police officers can make an absolute identification.”
“Out the front door or the back?” she asked.