Della Street’s excited voice said, “Sergeant Holcomb and two local deputies, with big sombreros and tanned faces, are just getting in the elevator, Chief.”
“Grab a cab,” he told her. “Beat it to the airport. Meet me there. If I don’t show up in an hour, head back for the office. Hang up your phone, quick!”
Mason jiggled the hook up and down with his finger until the hotel operator said impatiently, “Yes, what is it? No need to have a fit! That hurts my ear.”
Mason said, “I’m in a hurry. This is Perry Mason, a lawyer. I want to report that there are three persons in room three thirty-one who are wanted by the Los Angeles police. There’s Rosalind Prescott, registered under the name of Mildred Owens, Jimmy—”
Jimmy Driscoll lunged for him. Mason, holding the receiver to his ear with his left hand, lashed out with his right, catching Driscoll on the point of the chin. As the young man staggered back, Mason went on evenly into the telephone, as though there had been no interruption, “Driscoll, both of whom are wanted for the murder of Walter Prescott in Los Angeles. There’s also Rita Swaine, Rosalind Prescott’s sister, who is wanted for questioning in connection with the same murder.”
Driscoll, recovering his balance, came charging forward.
Mason slammed the receiver back on its hook and said, “Stop it, you fool! The jig’s up. Now listen, Rosalind, you and Rita are going to be questioned. Don’t answer questions. Don’t waive extradition. Stand on your constitutional rights. Don’t do anything unless I’m—”
A peremptory pounding on the door interrupted him. A man’s voice said, “Open up in there!”
Driscoll stood glowering at Mason. Rosalind Prescott was watching him with a puzzled question in her eyes. Mason pushed past Rita Swaine, and unlocked the door.
Sergeant Holcomb, accompanied by two bronzed men in Stetsons, pushed forward, then came to a surprised halt as he saw Perry Mason.