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."
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.