Mason winked surreptitiously at the detective, rushed his baggage through customs, parried questions from a group of reporters, and pushed Della Street into a taxicab.
Paul Drake, loitering at the curb, apparently an innocent bystander, popped into the cab just before the driver slammed the door.
“Make time to the airport,” Mason ordered.
Drake said, “I have a chartered plane waiting, Perry... My gosh, you two had better take a vacation every six months. It’s taken years from you both. Della looks positively immature.”
Mason grinned and said, “No go, Paul. She’s been kidded by experts since you’ve seen her. Spill the dope, and spill it fast.”
“What’s this about the murder?” Drake asked.
“I’ll tell you about that after you tell me about the Products Refining Company.”
Drake pulled a notebook from his pocket. “There’s a shortage of twenty-five grand. It was discovered by C. Denton Rooney, the head auditor, a couple of days after Carl Moar failed to show up. Rooney accused Moar of embezzlement and wanted the company to have a warrant issued immediately, but the lawyer who handles things for the corporation is a conservative chap. There’s a nigger in the woodpile somewhere. I don’t know what it is. They’ve engaged outside accountants to make an audit of the books and hired a firm of private detectives to pick up Moar’s trail. So far, as nearly as I can understand, the detectives have drawn a blank.”
“I haven’t met Rooney myself. I talked with Jackson, who had a talk with Rooney and got no place. Jackson hates him, says he’s a pompous little bantam rooster; that he’s absolutely incompetent and holds down a four hundred and sixty dollar a month job because he married the sister of the president’s wife.”
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Mason asked.