“That’s seven cars,” she said, “that have come there in the last half hour. Now, who do you suppose that could be?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Mason told her.
“Well, one of the cars had ‘Homicide Squad’ painted on the side. You could hear the siren coming a mile away.”
Mason said, “Perhaps the man who was hurt in the automobile accident died.”
“Don’t be silly,” she snapped. “The man who was hurt went to a hospital. Traffic accidents aren’t homicides. This was the homicide squad.”
“Are you,” Mason asked, “absolutely certain that the young man ran out of the Prescott house?”
“Of course I’m certain.”
“Isn’t it possible he’d been sitting in a car parked around the corner? I see that the Prescott house is right on the corner of Fourteenth Street and—”
“Certainly not,” she interrupted. “That’s absurd! I guess I know when a man comes out of a house. What’s more, I saw him in the house before that accident.”
Mason raised inquiring eyebrows. “Whatever happened in the Prescott house couldn’t have any bearing on the automobile accident. I’m afraid you’ve exaggerated some trivial neighborhood happening—”