Mason shook hands with the sheriff. “I may give you a ring later on, Sheriff,” he said. “In the meantime, thanks a lot.”
He took Helen Monteith’s arm, and, with Della Street on the other side, piloted her out into the fresh air of the warm night.
Twice while they were riding up the long stretch of moonlit road to Santa Delbarra, Helen Monteith tried to find out from Perry Mason what he expected to find at the end of their journey. In both instances Mason avoided the inquiry.
Finally, in response to a direct question, Mason said frankly, “I don’t know. I do know that on one side of this case there’s an inconsistency, a place where the loose threads fail to tie up. I want to investigate that and make certain. I’m going to need you to help me. I realize it’s a strain on you, but I see no way of avoiding it.”
Thereafter he drove in silence until the highway swung up over a hill to dip down into the outskirts of Santa Delbarra.
“Now,” Mason said to Helen Monteith, “if you’ll tell me how to get to the hotel where you stayed...”
“It’s not particularly inviting,” she said. “It’s inexpensive and...”
“I understand all that,” Mason told her. “Just tell me how to get there.”
“Straight down this street until I tell you to turn,” she said.
Mason piloted the car down an avenue lined with palm trees silhouetted against the moonlit sky, until Helen Monteith said, “Here’s the place. Turn to the right.”