He turned to Della Street. “You probably got most of it,” he said, “from what I said at this end. Marcia Whittaker. It’s an even money bet that John Milicant has either committed suicide or been murdered. I’m inclined right now to the suicide angle.”
Della Street, with calm competence, took a notebook from her purse.
“I took down the schedule as Paul Drake read it off,” she said. “Do you want to know the people who came in during the evening?”
“No,” Mason said, “they’re not important. Serle had dinner with him. A man who answers the description of Alden Leeds was in at ten-five. The girl was there at ten-twenty-one. The man left just before the girl came. That’s the picture. Whatever happened, happened late.
“These people stayed too long to have been standing in front of the door, knocking and waiting for an answer. It’s hardly likely that both Leeds and Marcia would have stumbled on a dead body and said nothing about it... Come on, Della, we’re going to see Paul Drake.”
They trooped back to Drake’s office. Drake was just struggling into his overcoat.
“You again!” he said. “Why don’t you go on out and make whoopee? — In other words, why don’t you get the hell out of here and let working men get a decent night’s sleep?”
Mason said, “Listen, Paul. You’re not going home.”
“That’s what you think,” Drake said. “It’s after one.”
Mason shook his head. “You’re going right back and sit at that desk,” he said. “You’re going to keep on the telephone, in direct communication with your men who are watching Conway’s apartment. If there’s anything unusual, any sign of activity, you’re to telephone me at Graymore six-nine-four-seven. You’re to memorize that number and not leave it hanging around on any slips of paper, and you’re to forget this whole business tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”