"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. Della Street came near, sliding her hand around his neck as she pressed her cheek up against his shoulder.
She gave a startled gasp as she read the telegram. Mason's exclamation was one of annoyance.
"But you're not going, dear!" Della Street protested.
Mason turned away from the counter, leaving the telegram unheeded. "Of course not," he said. "I wouldn't think of going… and yet…"
"Business has always interfered," she said, her voice seemingly perilously near to tears.
The clerk and bellboys watched the tableau.
"At any rate," Mason remarked, somewhat stiffly, to the clerk, "we'll go to our room."
He strode toward the elevator.
"But you didn't tell me what you wanted," the clerk said. "We have…"
"The best in the house," Mason snapped, "and make it snappy."
"Yes, Mr. Clammert," the clerk said, handing the key to one of the bellboys.
They stood waiting for the elevator. Della Street started to cry. "I know you're going," she sobbed into her handkerchief.
Mason stood very erect, frowning. His eyes dropped to his handbag. And old shoe dangled from the handle. "How the devil," he asked, "did…"
Della Street continued to sob into her handkerchief.
The elevator slid to a stop. The door opened. Mason and Della Street entered, followed by the bellboy. Five minutes later they were ensconced in a corner suite which looked over the calm blue waters.
"You little devil," Mason said as the door closed. "What was the idea of all the rice business and the old shoe?"
Her eyes were too innocent. "I thought you wanted to make it seem convincing," she said, "and I had to do something. After all, you weren't very much like a bridegroom. To my mind, you seemed to fall down on your acting. You seemed to play more the part of a business man or a busy lawyer than a bridegroom. You didn't show any affection whatever."
"Grooms don't kiss their brides in the hotel lobbies," he said… "Say, were you really crying? You sounded like it."
Della Street ignored his question. "You see I haven't been married before. All I know is what my friends have told me and what I've read. What are we supposed to do next? Do we stroll out hand in hand to watch the sunset?"
Mason grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "Snap out of it, you little devil, and quit your kidding. Do you remember the part you're to play?"
"Of course, I do."
Mason opened his suitcase, took out an onion. Gravely he cut it in two and handed it to her. "Smell," he said.
She made a grimace of distaste, held the onion under her eyes, moved it back and forth. Mason, standing by the telephone, watched the result of the onion application with a nod of approval. Della Street dropped the onion and reached for her handkerchief. Mason took down the receiver and said to the operator, "Get me the room clerk."