“Darned if I know,” Drake told him. “I haven’t been on the job long enough to know.”
“Some man paying for the apartment in the Bellefontaine?”
“Apparently not. She keeps it under the name of Diana Morgan, has a few boy-friends who drop in to see her,but no more than could be expected with a respectable young woman. Everything’s handled very discreetly and aboveboard. But occasionally she announces she’s going to take a trip down to Mexico, up to San Francisco, or over to Reno. She sends a transfer man up, has her trunks taken down to the depot, and doesn’t show up for a week or so. Then she comes back with her procession of trunks, and settles down to routine life.”
“What does she do while she’s gone?” Mason asked.
“Apparently just keeps on working at Prescott & Wray’s office for a salary of a hundred and twenty-five dollars a month. Incidentally, the apartment in the Bellefontaine costs her three hundred and ninety-five.”
Mason puckered his forehead into thought.
“Does that add up and make sense?” Drake asked. “You know, she could be a phony, but still not have anything to do with this case.”
Mason nodded thoughtfully. “She could, ” he said, “but all the way through this case there’s been something screwy, something which just didn’t make sense. So, under the circumstances, we’re going to dig into everything that looks the least big irregular. I hate to pry into Rosa Hendrix’s private love-life, Paul, but I want a complete report on everything she does.”
“I’m watching her like a hawk,” Drake told him. “It happens that the manager of the Bellefontaine is a client of mine. I did some work for him once, and he’s let me put one of my men on the elevator.”
The car gained the open road and roared into high speed. Mason sat frowning thoughtfully until he had finished his cigarette. Then he pinched out the stub, dropped it in the ashtray, shook his head and said. “Somewhere along the line, Paul, I’ve overlooked the big bet in this case. It’s just running around in circles.”