The telegram read:
LONG DISTANCE TELEPHONE CONVERSATION WITH YOUR NEW YORK ASSOCIATES ADVISES INDUSTRY THREATENED WITH NEW CODE CONTAINING REGULATION AFFECTING YOUR PROPOSED CONSOLIDATION DISASTROUSLY STOP ABSOLUTELY IMPERATIVE YOU BE ON GROUND AT EARLIEST POSSIBLE MOMENT STOP PLEASE CHARTER AIRPLANE FROM SANTA BARBARA FLY TO LOS ANGELES AND CATCH FIRST TRANSCONTINENTAL PLANE EAST STOP ADVISABLE KEEP THIS MOVE CONCEALED FROM OPPOSITION THEREFORE HAVE PURCHASED TICKET FOR YOU UNDER ASSUMED NAME AND WILL HOLD HERE AWAITING YOUR ARRIVAL
Mason unhesitatingly signed the partnership name of the leading law firm in the city, a law firm of financial and political prestige, which specialized only in the most remunerative of corporate and probate business.
He paid for the telegram and saw that it was dispatched.
He consulted his wristwatch, stretched, yawned, and then, with a chuckle, proceeded to the telephone booth. He looked up the number of Hamilton Burger's residential telephone, together with the address, then called the telephone company and said, "I want to send a telegram, please."
After a moment, a young woman's voice said, "To whom is your message going?"
" Thelma Pixley, 3824 East Washington Street ."
"And what is the message?" the feminine voice asked.
"Greatly impressed by your personality appearance and ability," Mason dictated slowly. "In view of what has recently happened you will probably be out of a job. I would like very much to have you work for me. I am a bachelor and will pay you good wages. I will treat you with every consideration. Please come to my office at your earliest convenience bringing this telegram with you and we can discuss wages."
"By whom is the telegram to be signed?" asked the businesslike feminine voice.
" Hamilton Burger."
"It's to be charged to your telephone, Mr. Burger?"
"Yes."
"What's the number, please?"
"Exposition 96949."
"And the address?"
"3297 West Lakeside."
"Thank you, Mr. Burger," the voice said.
Mason hung up, left the telephone booth, and stood by the main entrance to the depot smoking cigarettes until Della Street swung his car in close to the curb, then Mason nodded to the redcap porter. The porter piled Mason's baggage into the rumble seat, having some difficulty to find room for it.
"Now then," Mason said, "I want to buy a new Buick sedan, but I want to stop at one of the outlying agencies. First we'd better stop by the bank and pick up some money."
Della Street was all crisp business efficiency. There was no reference, by word or look, to the manner in which she had played the part of a bride when she had first driven away from the station.
"Okay Chief," she said.
Mason smiled slightly, but said nothing.
She ran the car through the snarl of traffic, stopped at the bank. Mason, consulting his watch to see that he had time before the bank closed, said, "Park in front of the fire plug, Della; I'll only be gone long enough to cash a check."
He entered the bank, secured three thousand dollars in cash, thrust it into his pocket, returned to the car and said, "We want a Buick agency away from the business district. I have a list of them. Let's see, here's one in Franklin that should be just about what we want."
Mason sat back and smoked. Della Street drove the car with silent skill. "This the place?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Do I come in?"
"No. You stay out here with this car. I'll drive the other one away."
Mason entered the car agency. A suave salesman came toward him smiling. "Interested in the new models?" he asked.
"I wish to buy a new sedan. What's the price, fully equipped?"
The salesman took a notebook from his pocket, mentioned the amount. "Now if you'd like a demonstration," he said, "we can arrange to…"
He broke off in gasping surprise as Mason pulled a wallet from his pocket and started counting out bills.
"I'd prefer to purchase a demonstrator, if you have one in that model," Mason said.
The salesman gasped, then adjusted himself to the situation.
"Ah, yes, I'll fix up the papers at once. What's the name please?"
"Clammert, Clammert, Watson Clammert," Mason said. "I'm in a hurry. I want to get a certificate of ownership, or whatever it is I need."
Fifteen minutes later, Mason, impatient at the delay, drove a spotless demonstrator from the side door of the agency. He gave an almost imperceptible gesture to Della Street and she followed him around the corner. A block away, Mason stopped and transferred the baggage from the convertible coupe to the sedan. "Now," he told her, "we stop at the first storage garage we come to and store the convertible. You drive the Buick. I'll drive the coupe. I'll take the lead. When I turn in to a garage, you stop out in front."
"When does the honeymoon start?" she asked.
"Just as soon as I emerge from the garage," Mason told her, grinning.
"And you want to make a real honeymoon of it?"
He looked at her sharply.
"I mean," she said, with wideeyed innocence, "do you want it to look like a real honeymoon?"
"Of course."
She nodded and chuckled.
Mason drove down the street some halfdozen blocks, then turned into a storage garage. A few minutes later he came out sliding the storage check into his pocket.
"The next move in our honeymoon," he said, "is the Biltmore in Santa Barbara. You are now Mrs. Watson Clammert. I'll give you more detailed instructions on the way up. And, incidentally, this car is supposed to have plenty of speed under the hood. Have you ever been pinched for speeding?"
"Not this year."
"It might, then, be advisable to take a chance."
He settled back against the cushions.
"Yes, dear," Della Street said demurely and slammed her neatly shod foot against the accelerator with such violence that the resulting forward leap of the automobile all but jerked Mason's head off.
Chapter 16
Swiftmoving bellboys deftly removed the baggage from the new Buick. The western sun, slanting into the Pacific Ocean, silhouetted the fronds of the palm trees, etching them blackly brilliant against the gold of the ocean and the deep blue of the sky. The luxurious hotel, with its exotic setting, seemed to radiate the calm tranquillity of the days of the Spaniards.
"An ideal place for a honeymoon," Mason said, escorting Della Street through the door.
Mason approached the desk. The clerk handed him a registration card and a fountain pen.
Mason wrote the name, "Watson Clammert," and then heard a startled feminine exclamation from behind him, followed by a titter.
He turned. Della Street, shaking out her coat, had cascaded a shower of rice to the floor. The clerk smiled. Mason looked completely nonplused, then sighed as he caught the roguish twinkle in Della Street 's eyes.
"I'm sorry, dear," she said.
Mason turned to the smiling clerk.
The clerk turned the card to look at the name, then reached into a compartment below the desk. "A telegram for you, Mr. Clammert," he said.
Mason frowned, opened the telegram, and spread it on the counter.