“We have no one by that name registered here.”
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely certain.”
Mason said, “I received a letter from her, stating that she was registered there under that name and would stay there until she heard from me. She’s heavy around the hips, thin in the face, with big, black eyes. She’s around fifty, although she could pass for forty-two or forty-three, medium height, with black hair, talks with a quick, nervous accent, and keeps her hands moving while she’s talking.”
“She isn’t here,” the night clerk said “This isn’t a large hotel. We only have three unescorted women, none of whom answer the description — and it happens we know something about all three. One of them has been here a year, one going on to three months, and the other two weeks.”
Mason said, “Okay, thanks a lot. Sorry I bothered you,” and hung up. He crossed over to the switchboard operator, paid the toll charges, left her a dollar tip, and said, “Come on, Della. Let’s go.”
Out on the street, she said, “Chief, what does it mean?”
Mason, frowning, reaching in his pocket for a cigarette, offered no explanation.
“Suppose the district attorney should get hold of Harold Leeds?” Della Street asked. “We found him, and why couldn’t the D.A. find him? After all, we’ve given them the lead by dragging Inez Colton into it.”
Mason’s reply was an inarticulate grunt. He shoved his hands down deep into his trousers pockets, lowered his chin to his chest, and slowed his walk until it was a slow, even, regular pace. Della Street, accustomed to his moods, slowed her own steps and remained silent.