Mason said, “There’s a hotel in the next block, Della, with a switchboard and telephone booths. I think we can get a call through.”
“Whom are you going to call, Chief?” she asked.
“Emily Milicant,” he said. “There are some holes I want mended... Evidently she knew there would be.”
They walked to the hotel. Mason gave the switchboard operator his call and told her to rush it. “Mrs. J. B. Beems at the Border City Hotel, Yuma, Arizona.”
They smoked a silent cigarette. Della Street’s hand moved over to grip Mason’s arm, a wordless pledge of loyalty. Then the telephone operator beckoned to Mason. “The hotel’s on the line,” she said, “but they have no such party registered.”
“I’ll talk with whoever’s on the line,” Mason told her.
“Okay,” she announced, snapping a key on the switchboard. “Booth three.”
Mason entered the telephone booth, said, “Hello, is this the night clerk of the Border City Hotel?”
“That’s right,” a man’s voice said.
“I’m anxious to find out about Mrs. Beems.”