Della picked up her menu. The waitress said, “If you like the daily special, I’d recommend it — unless you want a short order.”
“Let’s see,” Della said, studying the menu. “What’s today?”
“Friday,” Drake snorted. “What a gal!”
“Friday,” Della said. “Well, I’ll take the fish special.”
Mason looked at the menu. “The roast lamb, for me,” he said to the waitress.
“Same here,” Drake told her.
“Do you,” Mason asked of Paul Drake, “have a correspondent in Yuma?”
Drake nodded. “There’s an agency there that will take over.”
Mason took a pencil from his pocket, turned the menu over, and wrote on the back of it, “Mrs. J. B. Beems, Border City Hotel, Yuma, Arizona.” He slid it across to the detective, and said, “Don’t repeat this out loud, Paul. Just remember the name and address. I want a damn clever operative put on that party.”
Drake read the name on the menu. “I can,” he said, “get someone on the job down there by telephone, and then can send down a clever woman operative to take over in the morning. She’s sixty-five, white haired, motherly, and could talk blood out of a turnip. — Well, what I mean is, listen blood out of a turnip. You know the type, Perry.”