The Stockton Boulevard address was a two-and-a-half-story flat. In the basement floor were two shops. One bore the legend, “F. KRANOVICH, Tailoring, Cleaning and Pressing ”, the other, “MABEL FOSS, Picture Studio — Developing, Printing, Framing. ” The window carried a display of photographic prints and an assortment of picture frames. The second-story flat seemed vacant, while the third apparently was tenanted.
One of Drake’s men had driven them out and Mason instructed him to park the car half a block down the street. The lawyer and the detective climbed the half dozen stairs which led from the street and looked at the name on the mail box.
“Here it is,” Drake said, “Morgan Eves. This chap may be a tough customer, Perry. He won’t fall for any of the usual lines.”
“All right, then,” Mason said, “we won’t give him a usual’ line,” and jabbed his finger against the bell button. They could hear the faint jangle of a bell two floors above.
“Being in trouble doesn’t mean anything to this chap,” Drake went on. “He’s taken lots of raps. If you leave him an opening, he’ll take it, and take it damn fast. This is no time for any theatrical stuff.”
Mason nodded, pressed his finger against the button once more. “Nobody home,” he said, after several seconds had elapsed.
“Now listen. Perry,” the detective cautioned, “let’s not go snooping around this place.”
Mason walked to the edge of the porch, stood staring out at the reflecting surface of the wet street. The rain had ceased, but low clouds, splotched with the black markings of potential showers, drifted overhead.
“I have an idea the birds have flown the nest,” Mason said.
“If Evelyn Whiting had recognized Carl Moar and had worked some kind of a blackmail racket on him, she wouldn’t have stuck around where she could be located — particularly after the murder case, broke.”