Drake’s automobile was parked near a neat, but somewhat dingy-looking house, just to the north of a big two-storied residence in front of which half a dozen cars were clustered.
Mason slid his car to a stop in behind Drake’s machine. The detective joined him on the sidewalk. “They know you’re here, Paul?”
“Not yet. They haven’t spotted me.”
“Have they started asking questions of the neighbors?”
“Not yet. They’re fooling around inside the house.”
“Newspaper men?”
“Yes, a couple of those cars are Press. I got the lowdown on the Weyman tip-off from one of them.”
“Okay,” Mason said, “we haven’t much time. Let’s go. You make a stab at Mrs. Weyman, pretend you’re selling washing machines, life insurance, or investigating the auto accident. I’ll take Mrs. Snoops. Join me here. Make it snappy.”
Drake nodded, swung around the corner. Mason walked up a narrow cement walk, climbed the echoing steps of a wooden porch, and pressed his thumb against the bell button. He had rung the third time when the door was thrown open and an angular woman, whose long, bony nose fenced apart restless, glittering eyes, asked impatiently, “What do you want?”
“I’m investigating an automobile accident which took place out here—”