It lacked twenty minutes to five when Mason opened the door of his private office and ushered Paul Drake into the room.
Della Street, seated at a private switchboard, with an ear phone clamped over her head, and covering her right ear, looked up as they entered, snapped a plug and said, “What’s new, Chief?”
“The embezzlement business is out, ” Mason said.
“You threw a scare into Rooney?” she asked.
“Did more than that,” he told her. “Rooney confessed. He’s the embezzler. What’s new at this end?”
Della Street consulted a notebook. “They’re holding Belle Newberry in San Francisco without charges. They’re holding the mother on suspicion of murder. They found a thirty-eight caliber revolver on the boat deck. Two chambers had been fired. They’ve identified Mrs. Newberry as Mrs. Moar and one of the San Francisco papers has run a story about the embezzlement. Roy Hungerford’s waiting in the reception room.
“I thought we’d head off that embezzlement,” Mason said, dropping into the big swivel chair back of his desk and looking at his wrist watch. “Seconds were precious. I guess we missed it by a matter of minutes. What does Hungerford want?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been too busy to see him. I’ve engaged a suite of rooms in San Francisco and have a plane chartered and waiting.”
Mason said, “Get me the district attorney’s office in San Francisco. Find out who’s in charge of this case and get him on the line.”
“Donaldson P. Scudder is in charge,” she said. “Just a minute, I’ll get him on the line.”