“But,” Drake said, “that would swing public opinion very strongly against her.”
“I’m not certain but what that’s what he was trying to do,” Mason said. “You see, his manner contrasts very much with my own. I sit in court with an armful of legal monkey-wrenches and toss them into the machinery whenever I see a couple of wheels getting ready to move around. Cuff is one of those chaps who apparently wants to co-operate all the time. He was so nice down there at the inquest that butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Yet he managed to squeeze out from under and leave Rita Swaine holding the sack.”
They rode for a while in silence. Then Drake asked, “What was your hunch on the redhead in Prescott’s office, Perry?”
“I just thought she’d bear investigation, that’s all. Why, did you find out anything?”
“She’s leading a double life,” Drake said, grinning. “I know that much.”
“What’s the double life?”
“Daytimes she’s Rosa Hendrix. She works at the office under that name, goes home to a thirty-four-dollar-a-month apartment at 1025 Alvord Avenue. She stays there for half an hour or so, then calls a taxi and goes to apartment 5-C in the Bellefontaine, one of the swankiest apartment houses in the city.”
“And what does she do there?”
“Spends the night, apparently, then goes to the Alvord Avenue address and then to work.”
“But what’s the idea?” Mason asked.