“What’s the trouble?” Mason asked, frowning.
Drake lowered his voice and said, “Listen. A couple of men in a prowl car drove up, stopped at the Prescott house, opened the back door with skeleton keys, and went in. About fifteen minutes later, Sergeant Holcomb of the homicide squad came out with lots of sirens and a couple of men, and a few minutes later the coroner showed.”
Mason gave a low whistle. “Did you pick up anything, Paul?”
“Not much, but I understand the tip-off came from a Mrs. Weyman, who lives just west of the Prescott house on Fourteenth Street.”
“How did she get the tip-off?” Mason asked.
“No one knows.”
“And you don’t know who’s the corpse.”
“No.”
“You,” Mason told him, “wait for me in front of Stella Anderson’s place. I’m coming out. And let me give you a tip, Paul — don’t ever underestimate a hunch on a lame canary.”