“Long distance. San Francisco is calling you.”
Mason frowned at the telephone and said, “And how did you know that my office hours were from six P.M. until two A.M.?”
The long distance operator ignored the sally. Her voice was crisp and businesslike. “I tried your apartment, Mr. Mason, and then called the office. Just a moment, please... Go ahead. We’re ready with your call to Mr. Mason.”
A woman’s voice, sounding thin and frightened, said, “Mr. Mason, this is Miss Whittaker. Do you remember me, Marcia Whittaker?”
“Certainly,” Mason said. “Where are you now?”
“San Francisco.”
“How did you get there? You were here around ten o’clock, weren’t you?”
“Yes. I came up on a late plane. I’m calling from the airport now.”
“All right,” Mason said, “what is it?”
Her voice showed traces of hysteria. “I can’t do it,” she sobbed. “I can’t run away from it. I thought I could, but I can’t.”