“No.”
“That,” Mason said, “was clever. If it hadn’t been for this murder, no one would ever have detected that forgery. A certified copy of a decree of divorce is accepted at face value everywhere. Unless there’s some question of the pleadings, no one ever thinks of going back to look at the court records. What a sweet job that was. A cool hundred thousand, and still his legal wife! Of course, there’s the forgery angle and obtaining money under false pretenses; but if it hadn’t been for this murder, no one would ever have tumbled to it.”
“Even as it is, she’s doing pretty well for herself,” Drake said. “She’s the legal widow, and, as such, entitled to step in and take charge.”
“All right,” Mason said, “we’ll skip that for a while. What’s this about Helen Monteith?”
Drake made a wry grimace and said, “I wish you’d wash your own dirty linen, Perry.”
“Why?” Mason asked.
“It’s bad enough to hold your coat while you cut the legal corners,” Drake said, “but when I find myself suddenly wished into the position of wearing your coat, it doesn’t go over so big.”
Mason grinned, offered a desk humidor to the detective, and helped himself to a cigarette. “Go on,” he said, lighting up, “give me the works.”
“Della called the agency about quarter past eight this morning, and was in an awful lather,” Drake said. “She wanted to get in touch with me, and wanted to get in touch with you, and wanted operatives to watch for Helen Monteith in San Molinas. My agency got in touch with me, and I telephoned Della at the number she’d left. She was registered under the name of Edith Fontayne. She told me all about Helen Monteith taking a run-out powder, and how you wanted her kept away from the police, and for me to beat it down to San Molinas and pick her up, and keep her hidden out.
“I told her to get in touch with you.