Della Street came and leaned against his shoulder. Her sobs were plainly audible.

When Mason heard the voice of the room clerk, he said, "This is Watson Clammert. I want to charter a plane at once. Will you make the necessary arrangements and get me transportation to the airport? I'm leaving my wife here and she'll keep my car. She isn't going with me to the airport."

"Very well," the clerk said. "Incidentally, Mr. Clammert, you left your telegram here on the counter. I'm having a bellboy bring it up."

"Okay," Mason said. "The boy can take my baggage down with him. I want to leave within ten minutes. Can you arrange it?"

"I can try," the clerk promised.

Della Street rubbed her tearreddened eyes.

"The honeymoon is over," she sobbed. "I knew you'd go busting away on business. You ddddon't llllove me."

Mason grinned at her. "Save it for the lobby," he said.

"How do you know I'm not ssssincere?" she sobbed.

A puzzled look came over his face. He strode to her, stood for a moment staring down at the slender sobbing figure.

"The devil," he said, and pulled her hand from her face.

She looked up at him with a grin, but there were tears on her cheeks.

Mason's stare showed puzzled perplexity.

"Onion tears," she said, grinning.

There was a knock on the door. Mason crossed to the door and opened it. A bellboy handed him the folded telegram and said, "You had some baggage?"

Mason indicated his bags. The boy picked them up. Mason and Della Street followed him to the lobby. Della Street managed to convey the impression of a young woman who has been crying, who is very much hurt, somewhat angry, and defies the public to do its damnedest in the line of speculating.

She glanced with haughty defiance at the clerk. The clerk averted his gaze from her tearreddened eyes. She turned to a bellboy, and the boy's incipient smile faded into expressionless servility.

"Remember, dear," Perry Mason said, "about that automobile. Now you're inclined to drive too fast. That's a new automobile and it isn't broken in yet. Don't drive it too fast, and change the oil just as the instruction book says."

"Yes, dear," Della Street said.

"And remember, if anyone should ring up, don't tell them I'm not here. Tell them that I can't come to the telephone, tell them that I'm down with influenza; tell them I'm out playing polo; tell them anything, but don't let on that I'm not here."

"Yes, dear."

"And I'll come back just as soon as I can make the round trip. I won't need to be in New York more than two hours."

Della Street turned away and said nothing.

A taxi driver entered the hotel. The clerk nodded to Perry Mason. "Your arrangements are all made, Mr. Clammert."

"That," Mason grunted, "is what I call service."

He nodded to the bellboy, started for the door, then stopped, turned awkwardly to Della Street.

"Goodby, darling," he said.

She flashed across the distance between them, a bundle of flying clothes and outflung arms. She clasped her arms around his neck, drew his head down to her savagely, clung against him while her lips sought his, found them, and held them in a long, close embrace.

There was something of startled surprise in Perry Mason's face as she released him. He took a quick step toward her. "Della," he said, "you…"

She pushed him away.

"Hurry, Watson Clammert," she said, "and get that airplane. You know how vitally important it is for you to get to New York."

For a moment Mason stood uncertainly, then turned and strode from the hotel lobby.

Della Street placed her handkerchief to her eyes, walked unsteadily toward the elevator.

The hotel clerk shrugged his shoulders and turned away. After all, it was none of his business. He was there to give service. A guest had demanded an airplane at ten minutes' notice, and the clerk had seen that he was accommodated.

Chapter 17

Della Street came running into the lobby of the hotel. "Oh!" she screamed. "Oh."

The clerk gave one glance at her face, then moved swiftly from behind the counter, and came to her solicitously. "What is it, Mrs. Clammert?… Not the plane? It couldn't be the plane!"

She held her knuckles to her lips, shook her head at him, her eyes wide and startled. Twice she tried to talk, and both times managed only to give a little gasp.

The clerk was solicitous, as became his position. Nor was he unaware of the beauty of this fragile and disappointed bride, whose husband had been called away from her side at the very inception of the honeymoon. His hand patted her shoulder comfortingly. "My dear young woman," he said, "what is it?"

"The car!" she gasped.

"The car?"

"Yes. Watson's new Buick. Oh, he thinks the world of it."

"I've seen it," the clerk said, "it's a beauty. What's happened to it?"

"It's been stolen."

"Stolen? From the grounds here? Impossible!"

"Not from the grounds," she said, shaking her head. "I drove up the road for a ways, parked the car, and went down to sit on the beach. I guess I was careless and left my ignition keys in it. I came back and it was gone."

"Well, we can get it," the clerk said grimly. "It doesn't stand much chance of getting out of the county without being caught. What's the license number?"

Della Street shook her head helplessly. Then seized with a sudden inspiration, said, "Oh, I know. Call up the International Automotive Indemnity Exchange. Call them at my expense. We had the car insured a few days ago. They can look up the insurance records. My husband has the policy and I don't know where it is. But you can explain to them the car has been stolen, and they'll give you the license number and the engine number and all of that data you require."

The clerk was already in motion. He said to the telephone operator, "Get me the International Automotive Indemnity Exchange on long distance, and get me the sheriff's office at the court house. Better get the insurance company first."

Her fingers flew over the switchboard with swift skill.

"I'm afraid I'm making a lot of trouble," Della Street said.

"Not at all, Mrs. Clammert. I'm only sorry something like this should happen to mar the pleasure of your stay."

Then the clerk, suddenly realizing that the pleasure of her stay had been marred by much more than the loss of an automobile, became silent and embarrassed.

The girl at the switchboard said, "Do you want your call in a booth, Mr. Maxwell?"

"Perhaps I'd better."

"Booth one," she said.

The clerk stepped into the booth, and a few moments later emerged holding a slip of paper upon which he had penciled numbers.

"Now then," he said to the operator, "the sheriff's office."

"They're already waiting on the line," she told him. The clerk stepped into the booth once more, then came out, smiling.

"You may rest assured that the car will be recovered, Mrs. Clammert. The sheriff's office is notifying the state motorcycle officers and the sheriff's office in Ventura, in Los Angeles, in San Luis Obispo, Bakersfield, and Salinas. They'll have the roads completely sewed up. What's more, they'll have a radio broadcast giving the numbers, and wires are going out to the Division of Motor Vehicles and to the border patrol stations on the highways into Arizona, Mexico and Oregon."

"Thank you so much," she said. "Oh, I'm so completely desolated. I think I'll pack up and go to Los Angeles, and then return after my husband comes back. I don't want to stay here without him."

"We should be very sorry to lose you," the clerk said, "but I understand how you feel, Mrs. Clammert."

Della Street nodded her head with quick determination.

"Yes," she said, "I'm going to Los Angeles."