Mason said, “Shut up. Now listen to me. Emily, have you any other relatives?”
“No, just the two of us.”
Mason said, “John’s life must have been a closed book back of a certain date. It must have been, for him to have covered up that felony conviction.”
“It was,” she said.
Mason said, “Get down to the room where you’re Mrs. Manchester. Don’t waste any time. After I leave, don’t sit here and talk. Don’t get sentimental. Don’t get excited. Do exactly as I have told you. Remember that the man who killed two birds with one stone had only to throw the rock. We have one bird, and we have to account for two stones.”
He strode out of the room, took the elevator to the lobby. The drizzle had become a cold, steady rain. As Mason stood in the doorway, waiting for a taxicab, a police car rounded a corner and skidded into the curb. Four officers in uniform jumped out. Two plain-clothes men, who had been standing near the door, converged on the group of officers.
Mason’s taxicab took him to the telegraph office where he sent Della Street a message, saying simply:
“WIRE RECEIVED MAKE NO COMPLAINT ABOUT MATTER MENTIONED DO NOT BE SURPRISED AT ANY CONVERSATIONS I HAVE WITH YOU OVER TELEPHONE.”
He signed the wire, paid for it, returned to his taxi, and said, “Take me to a newspaper office. I want to put an ad in the personal column.”
At the newspaper office, Mason, with moisture glistening on his suit and dripping from the brim of his hat, wrote an ad for the personals.