Drake frowned. “What’s the matter, Perry?” he asked.
Mason said, “Those are instructions, Paul. That’s all you need to know. You won’t want to know any more.”
“Do I wait here all night?”
“All night or until we telephone you.”
Drake slipped out of his overcoat, said to the man behind the arch-shaped window, “Go down to the all-night drugstore and get me four bits’ worth of chewing gum.”
Mason nodded to Della Street. “Come on, Della. We go within about three blocks of the place and walk the rest of the way.”
Twenty minutes later, Mason’s groping fingers encountered a key in the bottom of the mailbox marked “Marcia Whittaker.” He latch-keyed the front door, switched on the stair lights, and noiselessly climbed the carpeted treads.
“Just what I was afraid of,” Mason growled as he switched on lights in the flat and entered the bedroom.
Everywhere were evidences of hurried flight. The imprints of a suitcase showed on the white counterpane of the bed. Clothes had been laid out and discarded. Drawers had been opened and ransacked.
Mason glanced at Della Street. “How about it, Della,” he asked, “can you put this place in order?”