The motor ceased its monotonous, rhythmic roar. The nose of the plane tilted sharply forward. Della Street, her face pressed against the window, said, “So that’s Reno,eh?”
Mason nodded. Together they watched the lights as the plane banked into a sharp turn and slid downward through the darkness. The sound of the wind through the struts became audible as a high-pitched, whining note. The pilot flattened out, gunned the motor, and throttled down to a perfect three-point landing. Then the motor roared once more into a crescendo of noise as the plane taxied up to the airport.
Della Street’s face was glowing with excitement as she stood in the doorway of the enclosed fuselage, and Mason extended his hand. Wind, thrown back by the idling propeller, whipped her skirts closely about her. She placed her hand in Mason’s and jumped lightly to the ground.
“Any clues, Chief,” she asked, “or do we go it blind?”
“We go it blind. Get a cab,” he told her. And to the pilot, “All right, get your ship fueled and ready to take off at a moment’s notice. Get something to eat and hold yourself available, with everything ready.”
In the taxicab, Mason said, “We’ll cover the gambling places. I don’t know about Rosalind, but Rita Swaine doesn’t impress me as one who would stay in a hotel room — not in a city like Reno.”
“What do we do when we locate her?” Della asked. “Try to shadow her?”
Mason shook his head and said, “We put it up to her, cold turkey.”
“Suppose she tells us to go jump in the lake?”
“In that event,” Mason said, “we’ll get rough with her.”