Chapter seven
THE parrot, in the back of the car, squawked from time to time slumberous noises of parrot protest as the lurching of the car forced him to fight for his balance.
Drake, at the wheel, seemed particularly pessimistic as to the probable outcome of their mission, while Mason, settled comfortably back against the cushions, smoked cigarettes and stared in meditative silence at the unwinding ribbon of moonlit road which flashed past beneath the headlights of the speeding car.
“Don’t overlook the fact that Reno isn’t so very far away — not by airplane,” Drake said. “If Mrs. Sabin was in Reno, and if she was the one who employed private detectives to tap Sabin’s telephone line, then you’d better forget this Monteith woman.”
“How much do you charge for tapping telephone wires?” Mason asked.
Drake was sufficiently startled to take his eyes momentarily from the road. “Me?” he asked.
“Uh-huh.”
Drake said, “Listen, Perry, I’ll do darn near anything for you, but tapping a telephone line is a felony in this state. I’m certainly not going to do that for you.”
“That’s what I figured,” Mason observed.
“What’re you getting at?” Drake wanted to know.