Drake muttered, “I don’t like this a damn bit, Perry. If we get caught it’s a felony, and if he comes in he’ll spray us full of lead.”
Mason whispered, “You have a cheerful mind, Paul.”
They climbed to the service porch on the rear of the third-story flat. Fog which drifted in from the ocean blanketed the city, lowering visibility, distorting sounds. The mournful drone of fog signals could be heard at intervals. Fog-bred moisture dripped from the eaves.
Mason inserted a skeleton key. The lock clicked back. Mason gently opened the door.
Drake said, “If he should be in there, Perry—”
His voice trailed into silence. The men stood waiting.
Mason took a flashlight from his pocket. “Come on, Paul.”
The beam of the flashlight sent a long, white pencil of illumination stabbing through the darkness. It showed a kitchen, with its windows tightly closed. An odor of stale cooking and rancid frying fat clung to the room.
Mason led the way through the kitchen to a dining room and living room, then into a bedroom. His flashlight showed a wheel chair. “That’s Cartman’s wheel chair, Paul,” Mason said. “And you’ll notice that someone did some hurried packing here. Notice the way things have been pulled from the drawers. Look at the empty coat hangers in the closet. See the imprint on the bed where a suitcase has been placed.”
“Well,” Drake said, “Eves had a lot of baggage and his wife had been over in Honolulu—”