romantic looking."
"No wonder Mrs. Allred is supposed to have gone overboard for him," Mason said.
"That's the way it looks," Drake said, "but this Mrs. Allred is quite a dish herself. She may be forty-two, but from all the dope I can get, she looks around thirty."
"Any pictures yet?"
"I've got one of her in a bathing suit that isn't too good as far as the face is concerned, but it's swell for the figure. And believe me, she's got one!"
"Have you been able to find Patricia yet?"
"No. She dusted out shortly after breakfast and hasn't been back since."
"Okay," Mason said, "keep plugging. I'll go see this Milford gal. Keep your man on the job until I get there, then he can go."
Chapter 7
Mason circled the block which contained the Westwick Apartment Hotel, a twelve-story, commodious building with wide, individual balconies and sun porches for the front apartments, a modern building streamlined in appearance and thoroughly in keeping with the quiet, aristocratic atmosphere of Las Olitas.
Mason kept on driving, his forehead creased in thought. He turned down Eighth Street, found the Central Garage & Machine Works and went in.
It was a big garage with more than a dozen mechanics working in busy efficiency.
A workman was buffing a fender with a portable wheel from which sparks were fanning out in a stream. Over in a corner a man with a paint gun was spraying a fog of paint over the side of a car. The sound of hammers kept up an intermittent tattoo.
Mason found the manager, said, "I'm trying to find a witness."
"Lots of people are. Mean anything for me?"
"It might."
"What's the name?"
"Jane Smith mean anything to you?"
"I'd have to look in the books. I don't recall a Jane Smith offhand."
"Doing anything right now for a Jane Smith?"
"I don't think so."
"She was in here this morning."
"I don't place her."
"How about a Maurine Milford?"
"That's different."
"Has she got a car here?"
"She's a customer. I can't tell you anything about her."
"Not her address?"
"Not her address."
"Could I look at the car?" Mason asked.
"Got anything for me to look at?"
"I could show you an engraving."
"Of what?"
"One of our past presidents."
"I like engravings. I used to collect them."
Mason took a bill from his wallet. The manager looked at it with calm appraisal.
Mason took another one from his billfold, placed it on top of the first, extended them both to the manager. "Rather nice work," he said.
"Yours?" the gage man asked.
"Have a little engraving press," Mason said. "I'm a great admirer of art, and I'm particularly fond of reproducing engravings of our former presidents."
"That's fine. Want to take a look at this car?"
Mason followed the garage man back through a door into another part of the shop. The manager motioned toward a new Lincoln.
"This it?"Mason asked.
"This is it."
"What's wrong with it?"
"Not much, now. There was a broken headlight, a bent fender and a few scratches."
"She run into something?"
"Naw. Her child is a precocious little youngster and ran plumb out of teething rings. She left him sitting in the car while she went in to see the doc about changing his food formula. When she got back the little chap had squirmed out of the car and chewed the hell out of the fender, then he bent it trying to get up and smash the headlight in."
"And this is Maurine Milford's car?"
"I didn't say that."
"I thought you did."
"The car," the garage man went on, "belongs to a friend of hers. She had it out driving. when the accident happened. She to have it all fixes up so that her friend won't know it's been in an accident. That's why it's a rush job. It'll be ready to roll out tonight, and the owner won't be able to tell it even had a scratch."
"Who's the owner?"
"Me," the garage man said, "I'm just dumb. You're looking over the car. Seems to me it has a license on it, and there's a state law, as I remember it, that says you have to have a certificate of registration attached to the steering post.
"No wonder Mrs. Allred is supposed to have gone overboard for him," Mason said.
"That's the way it looks," Drake said, "but this Mrs. Allred is quite a dish herself. She may be forty-two, but from all the dope I can get, she looks around thirty."
"Any pictures yet?"
"I've got one of her in a bathing suit that isn't too good as far as the face is concerned, but it's swell for the figure. And believe me, she's got one!"
"Have you been able to find Patricia yet?"
"No. She dusted out shortly after breakfast and hasn't been back since."
"Okay," Mason said, "keep plugging. I'll go see this Milford gal. Keep your man on the job until I get there, then he can go."
Chapter 7
Mason circled the block which contained the Westwick Apartment Hotel, a twelve-story, commodious building with wide, individual balconies and sun porches for the front apartments, a modern building streamlined in appearance and thoroughly in keeping with the quiet, aristocratic atmosphere of Las Olitas.
Mason kept on driving, his forehead creased in thought. He turned down Eighth Street, found the Central Garage & Machine Works and went in.
It was a big garage with more than a dozen mechanics working in busy efficiency.
A workman was buffing a fender with a portable wheel from which sparks were fanning out in a stream. Over in a corner a man with a paint gun was spraying a fog of paint over the side of a car. The sound of hammers kept up an intermittent tattoo.
Mason found the manager, said, "I'm trying to find a witness."
"Lots of people are. Mean anything for me?"
"It might."
"What's the name?"
"Jane Smith mean anything to you?"
"I'd have to look in the books. I don't recall a Jane Smith offhand."
"Doing anything right now for a Jane Smith?"
"I don't think so."
"She was in here this morning."
"I don't place her."
"How about a Maurine Milford?"
"That's different."
"Has she got a car here?"
"She's a customer. I can't tell you anything about her."
"Not her address?"
"Not her address."
"Could I look at the car?" Mason asked.
"Got anything for me to look at?"
"I could show you an engraving."
"Of what?"
"One of our past presidents."
"I like engravings. I used to collect them."
Mason took a bill from his wallet. The manager looked at it with calm appraisal.
Mason took another one from his billfold, placed it on top of the first, extended them both to the manager. "Rather nice work," he said.
"Yours?" the gage man asked.
"Have a little engraving press," Mason said. "I'm a great admirer of art, and I'm particularly fond of reproducing engravings of our former presidents."
"That's fine. Want to take a look at this car?"
Mason followed the garage man back through a door into another part of the shop. The manager motioned toward a new Lincoln.
"This it?"Mason asked.
"This is it."
"What's wrong with it?"
"Not much, now. There was a broken headlight, a bent fender and a few scratches."
"She run into something?"
"Naw. Her child is a precocious little youngster and ran plumb out of teething rings. She left him sitting in the car while she went in to see the doc about changing his food formula. When she got back the little chap had squirmed out of the car and chewed the hell out of the fender, then he bent it trying to get up and smash the headlight in."
"And this is Maurine Milford's car?"
"I didn't say that."
"I thought you did."
"The car," the garage man went on, "belongs to a friend of hers. She had it out driving. when the accident happened. She to have it all fixes up so that her friend won't know it's been in an accident. That's why it's a rush job. It'll be ready to roll out tonight, and the owner won't be able to tell it even had a scratch."
"Who's the owner?"
"Me," the garage man said, "I'm just dumb. You're looking over the car. Seems to me it has a license on it, and there's a state law, as I remember it, that says you have to have a certificate of registration attached to the steering post.
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