Della Street scooped her notebook and pencils into a handbag, said, “Do you want me, Chief?”
He shook his head and said, “Go over Mrs. Prescott’s story with her a little. Pretend you’re a newspaper woman. Ask her questions and get her answers. I’ll either be back in an hour or telephone you.”
He grabbed his hat, jerked open the corridor door, and strode down the flagged floor. Drake was waiting for him at the elevator.
“What is it?” Mason asked.
“It’s reported as an automobile accident,” Drake said. “It went in through the traffic department. I don’t think the police have taken a tumble yet.”
“What sort of an accident?”
“Car rolled over a grade out in the mountains between Santa Monica and Triumfo. It’s been down at the bottom of the canyon for a couple of days.”
“The man that drove it?” Mason asked.
“Under the car. Smashed flatter than a pancake.”
The elevator slid to a stop. Drake started to say something as they stepped into the cage, but Mason said, “Save it, Paul,” and glanced significantly at the elevator operator.