The Case of the Cautious Coquette

Chapter 18

It was eleven o’clock when Mason returned to the office building.

“Good morning, Mr. Mason,” he said. “How’s everything this morning?”

Mason glanced sharply at him, said, “Okay. You’re one of Drake’s men, aren’t you?”

“That’s right. Just going up to report.”

Mason felt the man’s hand brush against his and a card was deftly inserted between the lawyer’s thumb and forefinger.

Mason pocketed the card, then said, “Hang it, there was a telephone number I was supposed to call. What the deuce did I do with it?”

He made a show of searching his pockets, then finally drew out the card which Drake’s operative had just given him. He said, “Here it is,” and held it in his hand so that he could read the message which had been written on it.

The card was in Della Street’s handwriting and said, C.B. CAME IN. GOT CHECK $100. LOTS OF VISITORS-OFFICIAL-WAITING.

“Oh, well,” Mason said, “I guess it’s not too late. I’ll call as soon as I get to my office.”

The elevator stopped at his floor. Drake’s detective entered the office of the Drake Detective Agency without a word, and Mason walked down the corridor and fitted his key to the lock of the door to his private office.

“Well, Della,” he said, “I guess we’ve... hello,” he exclaimed abruptly, as he saw the office was filled with people.

Lieutenant Tragg removed a cigar from his mouth, said, “Hello, Mason.”

“Well, well, hello, Lieutenant! How are you? You seem to have quite a gathering here.”

“Yes,” Tragg said, “I think you know Lucille Barton and Arthur Colson. This is one of my plain-clothes men here. Come in and sit down, Mason. We want to talk with you.”

“Fine,” Mason said. “How have you been, Tragg?”

“Sit down,” Tragg said. “Make yourself comfortable. This may be a long session. I’m going to warn you, Mason, that you’re not going to like this.”

Mason smiled at Lucille Barton, who looked as though she hadn’t slept all night. “How are you, Lucille? I see by the morning papers that you’ve had quite a shock.”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes avoiding Mason.

“How are you today?” Mason said to Arthur Colson.

“Fine,” Arthur Colson said, keeping his eyes concentrated on the carpet.

“Where were you about six o’clock last night, Mason?” Tragg asked.

“Well, start thinking.”

“All right.”

“Keep thinking.”

“How long do you want me to keep thinking?” Mason asked.

“Until you think of the answer.”

Mason frowned, settled himself behind his office desk, noticed Della Street’s apprehensive eyes.

“Well?” Tragg said, after some two minutes.

“Haven’t thought of it yet,” Mason grinned.

Tragg’s face showed concern. “Look, Mason, I like you. I want to give you the breaks, but I’m going to tell you something. This is murder, and you’re in a different position than you usually occupy in a murder case.”

“Indeed,” Mason said. “Well, I’ll have a cigarette. I notice you’re smoking, Tragg. How about you people, want a cigarette?”

Two heads shook in silent unison.

“How about you?” Mason asked the plain-clothes officer.

“No, thanks.”

Mason lit up, settled back once more in his chair.

“All right,” Tragg said, “if you’re going to take time to think, we’ll make a record of how long you think.” He took his watch out from his pocket, said, “Now then, Mason, I’m going to ask you for the second time. Where were you about six o’clock last night?”

Mason watched Tragg’s eyes glued to the face of the watch, said, “I can’t tell you, Tragg.”

“Keep thinking,” Tragg said.

“I know now where I was,” Mason said, “but I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“It would be violating a professional confidence.”

“Having to do with what clients?”

Mason smilingly shook his head, “After all, Lieutenant, there are some things we can’t discuss, you know. A lawyer has a certain obligation to his client.”

Tragg, with a gesture of exasperation, put the watch away, said, “You were interested last night in a gun. A Smith and Wesson having the number S65088.”

“Was I?” Mason asked.

“You know you were. You had a detective from Santa del Barra get in touch with Roscoe Hansom who runs the Rushing Creek Mercantile Company and inquire about the sale of that gun.”

“Well,” Mason said, “if you want to make positive statements like that, Lieutenant, I certainly don’t want to contradict you.”

Tragg said, “I became interested in that same gun a short time later. I roused the telephone operator at Rushing Creek out of bed and got her to get Roscoe Hansom out of his bed. Your man had just left about half an hour before with the information.”

“Indeed.”

“Why were you interested in that gun?”

“I wanted to find out who had purchased it.”

“Why?”

“For various reasons.”

Tragg said, “That gun was involved in a murder. The murder was committed around six o’clock. The body wasn’t found until around ten-thirty. Now then, Mason, how did you know the gun was going to figure in a murder case as early as nine o’clock?”

“I didn’t,” Mason said, his voice and manner showing complete surprise.

“Your man must have left Santa del Barra even before nine o’clock.”

“Probably considerably before,” Mason said. “If I had been interested in the gun, and right at the present time I’m not prepared to admit that I was, Lieutenant, it would have been because of its importance as evidence in a civil matter. And I, of course, had no inkling that it had been used in a murder.”

“Oh, certainly not,” Tragg said, sarcastically, “but just what was your interest in the gun?”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I can’t tell you that.”

Tragg’s face showed concern. “This is a lot more serious than you think it is, Mason. I’ve got a whole fist full of cards that aren’t on the table yet. It’ll be a lot better if you come clean.”

“Well, I’ll answer any question I can,” Mason said.

“When did you first become acquainted with Lucille Barton?”

“Yesterday,” Mason said instantly.

“Did she get in touch with you, or did you get in touch with her?”

Mason said, “I’m glad you’re now asking me something I can answer. Della, where’s that issue of the Blade? The one I had the ad in?”

Della Street arose, silently went to the files, opened one of the drawers, took out a folder, and handed Mason a copy of the ad in the Blade.

“Take it over to Lieutenant Tragg,” Mason said.

Tragg regarded the ad, frowned and said, “What’s that got to do with it?”

“Get that letter out of the file, Della,” Mason said. “The one that came to the Drake Detective Agency, the one that had a key in it.”

“A key?” Tragg said.

“A key!” Lucille Barton exclaimed.

“A key,” Mason repeated, smilingly. “A key — one you open doors with, you know.”

Della Street brought the letter from the safe.

“Give it to the Lieutenant, Della.”

Lieutenant Tragg took the letter, read it and frowned.

“We may just as well give it to Miss Barton,” Mason said. “She wrote it you know, Lieutenant.”

“The hell she did,” Tragg said, chewing on his cigar.

Della Street handed the letter to Lucille Barton, who read it, then passed it across to Arthur Colson.

“And what did you do about that letter?” Tragg said. “You waited until the hour mentioned when she was out of her apartment and then went to...”

“Don’t be silly, Lieutenant,” Mason interrupted. “You don’t think I’d use a key to open the door of a person’s apartment without permission, do you? I immediately went to Miss Barton’s apartment. I knocked on the door, rang the doorbell, and found that I’d caught her at rather an inopportune moment. However, she invited me to come in and make myself at home while she retired to the bedroom and finished dressing. Then she came out and we had a delightful talk and that,” Mason said, glancing meaningly at Lucille Barton, “was where the relationship of attorney and client began. She requested me to represent her in a certain matter.”

“Oh,” Lucille Barton said.

“So you’re representing Mrs. Barton?”

“Oh, yes,” Mason said. “I believe she prefers to go under the name Miss Barton,’ Lieutenant.”

“So you’re representing her,” Tragg said.

“Why, yes.”

“And what are you doing for her?”

Mason smiled and shook his head.

Tragg said, “Your activities yesterday, Mason, were rather peculiar.”

“Why, I didn’t think so, Lieutenant.”

“You had a busy day, didn’t you?”

“Fairly so. I usually keep pretty busy.”

“You went out to 938 West Casino Boulevard. You met Stephen Argyle, and accused him of driving a car in a hit-and-run accident, didn’t you?”

“I believe I suggested to him that his car might have been involved in an accident, yes.”

“And while you were there you met Hartwell L. Pitkin?”

“Are you referring to Mr. Argyle’s chauffeur?”

“Yes.”

“He was there,” Mason said.

“Now then,” Tragg said, “when did you first see that gun — that Smith and Wesson Number S65088, and why did you become interested, in tracing it?”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. We were getting along fine, but now you’re asking something I can’t tell you about.”

“Why not?”

“A privileged communication.”

“Now then,” Tragg went on, “the numbers on this gun had been ground off with a nice little emery wheel. One number had been overlooked, but it took a screw driver to get at it. The grinding of the metal looks like a very fresh job.”

“Indeed?” Mason said courteously.

“Now when you became interested in this gun, how did you know the number?”

Mason smiled and shook his head.

“Was it before the numbers had been ground off, or afterwards?”

“I’m sorry,” Mason said, smiling affably.

“It must have been before they were ground off, Mason, because that screw hadn’t been loosened since the gun left the factory. I’m wondering if perhaps you weren’t the one who removed the numbers.”

Mason merely smiled, then stifled a yawn behind his hand.

Tragg nodded to the officer, said, “All right, bring that witness.”

The officer pushed through the door toward Mason’s reception room.

Tragg said, “I’m going to put it right on the line with you, Mason. I think that at six o’clock you were out in front of Mrs. Barton’s garage at 719 South Gondola. I think a shooting took place there in that garage and I think you’re trying to cover up that shooting. I think I have a witness who can identify you.”

Mason tapped ashes from the end of his cigarette. “I feel quite certain you haven’t any such witness, Lieutenant.”

“This witness positively identifies Lucille Barton here.”

Before Mason could say anything, the door was jerked open. The plainclothes officer stood to one side and a tall man with a high forehead, high cheekbones, thin lips, and a long neck, entered the office in an apologetic manner as though ashamed of the intrusion.

Tragg pointed to Perry Mason, and said, “Is that the man?”

“I... I don’t know until he stands up,” the man said. “You see, I never saw his face real clear.”

Mason smiled at him and said, “I’m Perry Mason. What’s your name?”

“Goshen-G-O-S-H-E-N,” the man said, “Carl Ebert Goshen. I live next door to the place where the murder was committed and...”

“Never mind,” Tragg said, “I just want to know whether that’s the man.”

“I can’t tell until he stands and walks around. I can tell you then.”

“Stand up,” Tragg said to Mason.

Mason grinned. “That’s a hell of a way to make an identification, Lieutenant. You’d better have some sort of line-up if you want to have an identification that’s worth anything.”

“I can’t get you in a line-up without arresting you,” Tragg said. “I don’t particularly care about doing that until I’m certain of my ground. If this witness identifies you, then I’m certain of my ground.”

“That’s not only getting the cart before the horse,” Mason said, “but it’s putting him in circular shafts and letting him chase the tailboard.”

“Shut up,” Tragg said. “I’m doing this.”

“Indeed you are,” Mason said.

“Get up,” Tragg insisted. “If you’re innocent you have nothing to fear.”

Mason tilted back in his swivel chair, smiling at Tragg.

“How was he dressed?” Tragg asked Ghoshen.

“Just like I told you, he had on a light topcoat, tan- colored, and a gray hat.”

Tragg said to the officer, “There’s the coat closet there. Get out his coat and hat.”

Mason said, “Now, wait a minute, Tragg. You know you haven’t any right to do that. You can’t...”

“The hell I can’t,” Tragg said, and then, turning to Goshen said, “When this witness gets up to try and stop the officer, you notice particularly the way he walks, the way he moves...”

Mason said, “I’m telling you, Lieutenant, this is an invasion of my rights as a citizen.”

The officer opened the door of the coat closet, suddenly stopped, hesitated for a moment, then turned back to face Tragg.

“Go on,” Tragg said impatiently, “get out the coat and hat. We’ll put it on him, if we have to. He’s going to stand up and...”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but...”

“Get that coat out!” Tragg said.

The officer brought out the topcoat. It was a heavy black coat Mason had never seen before.

“Get out the tan one,” Tragg said.

“That’s the only one in here, Lieutenant.”

Mason flashed a glance at Della Street. She was cherubic in her innocence.

“That’s not the coat,” Goshen said, positively.

Tragg said suspiciously to Mason, “Where did you get that coat?”

“I didn’t get it. You did.”

“Well, then, where did you get that lead to Stephen Argyle? How did you know it was his car that was mixed up in the accident?”

Mason merely smiled and shook his head. “Lieutenant, you keep asking questions which are predicated on false premises. I’m sorry, but Argyle’s car really wasn’t mixed up in the accident.”

“I thought you...”

“I really thought it was,” Mason said, smiling, “but you know how it is, Lieutenant. Lots of times you’ll think you have all the evidence in a case and start making charges, accusations and wild assertions, and then suddenly find out, much to your chagrin, that the facts were entirely different, and...”

“Never mind all that,” Tragg said. “I want to know where you got the information, why you went out and told Argyle his car had been in the accident, how you knew it.”

Mason said, “As a matter of fact, Lieutenant, the man who was involved in the accident is a gentleman by the name of Caffee — Mr. Daniel Caffee, 1017 Beachnut Street, Apartment 22-B. I located him yesterday evening and I’m quite satisfied that it was purely a mistake on Mr. Caffee’s part. When Mr. Caffee learned that my client had been injured he was only too glad to make adjustments.”

“What do you mean — adjustments?”

“He paid off.”

“When?”

“This morning, after making a partial payment yesterday.”

“I’ll be damned,” Tragg blurted.

“Of course,” Mason told him, “I don’t care to have that information noised about, Lieutenant. I’m merely trying to help you clean up a case in which you seem to be interested. I understand that Mr. Pitkin committed suicide in Miss Barton’s garage.”

“He was murdered in Miss Barton’s garage.”

Mason made clicking noises with his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

Tragg said, “You weren’t in your office last night between five and six. Della Street showed up in a taxicab. Stephen Argyle was waiting here for you. His chauffeur was waiting down in front. Shortly after five o’clock, Argyle went down and told the chauffeur there was no need for him to wait. Argyle came back and waited here until almost six o’clock. Then he telephoned his insurance carrier and made an appointment to meet an adjuster in front of the building. He can account for every minute of his time, and he also knows that you weren’t here in your office.”

“I’m seldom in the office after five o’clock,” Mason said. “I try to close up and get out. Of course, occasionally I do night work but I don’t like to see clients after five o’clock. It establishes a bad precedent and...”

“And,” Tragg went on, “the reason you weren’t here is because you were with Lucille Barton. When Pitkin entered that garage, you were there. At any rate, you were there shortly after he entered. Now I’m willing to be fair about the thing, Mason. I think the evidence indicates that probably Pitkin was there for no good purpose. He may have attacked you or Miss Barton. One of you had a gun and pulled the trigger. That stopped the career of Mr. Hartwell L. Pitkin, and I’m perfectly willing to concede that it wasn’t the career of an exemplary citizen. It was the career of a blackmailer, an opportunist, and a crook. If he was waiting there in that garage, I’m satisfied he was waiting for no good purpose, but I’m only going to give you this one chance to come clean privately. After this it will have to be publicly. I’m going to tell you frankly that, if it was self-defense, I’m willing to make allowances for that, but I want to clean this case up fast.”

“Yes, I can understand that,” Mason said. “And I know you want to be fair.”

“Now, then,” Tragg went on, “Lucille Barton says she was with you.”

“She does?”

“That’s right. At first she said she was with Anita Jordon, and Anita Jordon was to give her an alibi for the entire evening, but when we started getting right down to brass tacks that alibi blew up.”

Lucille Barton said hurriedly, “I didn’t say I was with Mr. Mason at six o’clock. At first I said I was with him just before I met Anita and...”

“Now I’m doing the talking,” Tragg said.

“He doesn’t want you to talk,” Mason said meaningly to Lucille Barton. “Therefore, as your attorney, I would advise you to keep quiet.”

“None of that,” Tragg said to Mason. “I’m talking to you.”

“And I’m talking to my client, Lieutenant.”

“When were you with Mrs. Barton yesterday?”

“I told you I saw her sometime in the morning.”

“When did you see her after that?”

“I’m sure I can’t tell you the time, Lieutenant.”

“But you did see her after that?”

“Oh, yes.”

Tragg said, “All right, we’ll quit beating around the bush, Mason. I want to take your fingerprints.”

“Certainly,” Mason said, “go right ahead. I’ll be only too glad to co-operate in every way I can, Lieutenant; but of course you understand I can’t betray the confidences of a client.”

Tragg nodded to the officer, who produced a small fingerprint outfit from his pocket and approached the desk.

“Stand up,” Tragg said.

“Oh, I’ll do it sitting down,” Mason told him smiling, extending his hand to the officer.

Goshen suddenly said, “I don’t think that’s the man. The man that I saw was not quite so heavy and...”

“Just step outside for a minute,” Tragg said. “I want you to see this man with his overcoat on and I want you to see him standing up and walking. You can’t make any identification while he’s sitting down there behind the desk.”

Mason said, “And I warn you, Lieutenant, he can’t make an identification that’s worth a damn unless he picks me out of a line-up.”

Goshen arose, paused uncertainly, then walked out through the door to the reception room.

Tragg said. “You can be tough about it if you want to, Mason, but there’s an easy way of doing this and there’s a hard way. If I can’t do it the easy way, I’ll do it the hard way.”

“That’s very logical,” Mason said. “Now, where is it you want my prints, officer — on this piece of paper? Oh, yes, now I believe I’m supposed to roll each finger across the white paper.”

Lucille Barton was regarding Mason with fixed intensity. Arthur Colson glanced at Mason, then hastily averted his eyes.

Silently, the officer took Mason’s fingerprints.

“You can get up and wash the ink off your hands now,” Tragg said.

Mason grinned. “No, thanks. Your witness might come popping in. Della, I think you have some cleaning tissues in your desk. You might bring them to me and I’ll wipe the ink off my hands with those. No need to get the washbowl all smeared with ink.”

Tragg said, “Try sitting there if you want to, but you can’t stay there forever. You’re going to have to leave this office sometime. I’ll have the witness watch you walk through the foyer. I’ll have him watch you at various places and if this fingerprint evidence comes out the way I think it’s going to I may have him watch you in a shadow box.”

Della Street handed Mason a box of cleaning tissue, and some cleansing cream. “Put the cream on your fingers, chief,” she said. “Rub it in. That will clean off the ink.”

“Thanks,” Mason said.

The officer handed Tragg the fingerprints. Tragg took a photograph from his pocket, compared the fingerprints one at a time, then suddenly gave an exclamation of satisfaction. He whipped a magnifying glass from his pocket and began examining the prints more closely, comparing one of them with the print on the photograph.

Suddenly he said, “Mason, that’s your fingerprint on that murder weapon!”

“Is it indeed?” Mason said.

“What have you to say to that?”

“Nothing.”

“Mason, I’m going to tell you officially that gun was used to murder Hartwell L. Pitkin. I can now establish definitely that gun has your fingerprint on it. Now, then, in the face of that evidence, what have you to say?”

“Nothing,” Mason told him. “I’m protecting the confidence of a client.”

“You can’t protect the confidence of a client to the extent of failing to explain your fingerprint on a murder weapon.”

“There seems to be a difference of opinion about that,” Mason said. “By the way, Della, Lieutenant Tragg didn’t ask about that second letter. Miss Barton didn’t tell him anything about that because she didn’t know anything about it. She wrote the first letter to me, but that second letter must have been written by someone else without her knowledge.”

“What letter are you referring to?” Tragg asked.

“Get that second letter, Della. The one that enclosed the key to the desk in her apartment.”

Della Street once more went to the files, brought out the second letter, and handed it to Lieutenant Tragg.

“This letter came by special messenger,” Mason explained.

Tragg read the letter, asked ominously, “There was a key in it?”

“Oh, yes,” Mason said, “a key to the desk.”

“Where is it?”

Mason said, “I have both keys right here, Lieutenant. Would you like them?”

Tragg took the keys which Mason handed across the desk, regarded them in frowning concentration.

“So you see,” Mason said, “I quite naturally felt that Miss Barton wanted me to get the evidence, but didn’t want to take the responsibility of being the one who gave it to me. So when she and Arthur Colson over there came to my office yesterday afternoon I took advantage of her presence here to slip down to her apartment and open the desk. Sure enough, the key fitted the desk and in the upper right-hand pigeonhole was a notebook and a gun. Now, Lieutenant, if you can find the person who wrote that second letter, you can go a long ways toward discovering the murderer of this man Pitkin, in the event your premise is correct and the man was murdered.”

Mason interrupted sharply, “Come, come, Lieutenant. Once more you’re getting your cart and your horse all mixed up. I didn’t enter the apartment without permission. Lucille Barton wrote that first letter and sent me the key. That certainly gave me permission to enter her apartment by using the key, which she had so conveniently placed at my disposal. But that second letter, that must have been a trap, Lieutenant. That...”

“You opened that desk,” Tragg said. “Was that gun in there?”

“I will go so far as to say this, Lieutenant — a gun was in there. Now you can see what that means. The desk was kept locked. Someone had a key to that desk, a duplicate key. Someone sent me that key. Now, quite obviously, Lieutenant, since Miss Barton was here at the office at that time, and the gun was there in the desk at that time, Miss Barton couldn’t have been carrying that gun. And if you didn’t find her fingerprints on the gun you can’t prove that she ever had it. But I really can’t tell you anything more, Lieutenant. I’ve given you some hints. In fact, I think I’ve stretched a point in giving you some hints.”

Lieutenant Tragg said suddenly to the officer, “Take Colson and this Barton woman out of here. He isn’t talking to me. He’s using me as a sounding board to tell these two what he wants them to say.”

The officer rose abruptly. “Come on,” he said to the others.

Mason said, “My advice to you, Miss Barton, under the circumstances, is to say absolutely nothing. In view of the hostile attitude of the police I suggest you refuse to answer any questions on the advice of counsel.”

“On the advice of counsel!” Tragg said. “Wait a minute. Are you going to represent her in this murder case?”

“Is she accused of murder?”

“She may be.”

“Well, as I pointed out to you,” Mason said, “when I went to call on her at her apartment yesterday, she retained me to act as her attorney.”

“For what?”

“That I can’t tell you.”

Tragg turned to Lucille Barton and said, “You didn’t tell me that.”

“You didn’t ask me specifically,” she answered evasively.

“Well, what was it you wanted him to do?”

“Tut, tut, Lucille,” Mason said, wagging a warning finger. “Not a word, remember now, not a word.”

She turned to Tragg. He face showed relief. “You heard what my lawyer just told me,” she said.

Tragg said to the officer, “Get them out of here,” and then chewed angrily on his cigar while the officer herded the pair out into the reception office.

Tragg scraped a match into flame on the sole of his shoe, lit his cigar once more, turned to Mason, said, “Mason, I don’t want to drag you into this unless I have to.”

“Thanks.”

“But the way you’re doing things, I’m afraid I’m going to have to.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“You know what it will look like in the newspaper — LAWYER’S fingerprint found on murder weapon.”

“You feel you should release that information to the newspapers?”

“I’ll have to.”

“Yes,” Mason said, “that certainly will make headlines.”

“Then there’ll be another headline, LAWYER REFUSES TO EXPLAIN.”

“Yes, I can see where that will make sensational newspaper reading.”

“Hang it, Mason,” Tragg said, “you and I are on opposite sides of the fence, but I don’t want to crucify you. I’m not certain that you were the one who was with her when Goshen looked across there at the garage. If you were with her, I think it was because she’d got hold of you and dragged you out there to show you something and you didn’t have any idea what it was. If you can explain that, for heaven’s sake go ahead and explain it.”

Mason said, “Let’s follow that thought a little farther, Lieutenant. Suppose that’s what did happen. Would that relieve me of responsibility?”

Tragg said, “I’m not prepared to give you a definite and final answer on that.”

“Well, give me an indefinite and temporary answer.”

Tragg said, “The time of death is particularly important. We can fix the time of death within an hour or so the way things are now, but if we’d been notified, say at six o’clock, we could have fixed the time of death almost to the minute. You had a duty to notify police.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Therefore,” Tragg went on, “you’d have to take your medicine on that. Now, was the body in the garage when you were called there at six o’clock?”

Mason said, “I’ve told you, Lieutenant, I can’t tell you where I was at six o’clock.”

“And if this man Caffee was the fellow who hit Finchley’s car, how does it happen you strong-armed a settlement out of Stephen Argyle?”

“I didn’t.”

“He made a settlement last night with Finchley.”

“That’s right.”

“That is something I checked up on rather carefully,” Lieutenant Tragg said, “because naturally I was interested in accounting for his time during the afternoon and evening.”

“And you were able to do it?”

“Sure. He was out at his house. You came out there and accused him of a hit-and-run. Naturally, he doesn’t want to discuss the hit-and-run charge.”

“I daresay he doesn’t.”

“But immediately after you’d left him,” Tragg went on, “Argyle did some thinking and decided he’d better buy his way out. He rushed to your office. He had the chauffeur wait downstairs. Then, when it looked as though you weren’t going to be in for a while, and Argyle remembered it was Pitkin’s night out, he went back down to let the chauffeur go. He told him to take the car back to the house.”

“I see.”

“Argyle waited until around six o’clock, then telephoned the insurance people and told them where he was, and what he was doing. The insurance adjuster had kittens, told him to stay away from you and under no circumstances to talk with you. The adjuster said he was on his way up to the office just as quick as he could get there, so Argyle waited in the lobby. The man at the cigar counter remembers him distinctly. Argyle waited about five or ten minutes in the lobby, and then the insurance adjuster came up and took him in tow.”

Tragg studied Mason, added, “Of course, if Argyle’s car didn’t hit this guy, Argyle and the insurance company will naturally want a return of the money they paid.”

“I’m quite certain they will,” Mason said.

Tragg looked at him sharply. “You aren’t saying specifically you’re going to give it back?”

“That’s right. I didn’t say that. I’m not.”

“What!”

“I’m going to hang on to it.”

“Look,” Tragg said, “why don’t you take your hair down and come clean, Mason?”

“I don’t like to take my hair down. It might get in my eyes.”

“Well something’s in your eyes now. Look, Mason, this woman didn’t think you were her attorney when she came in here.”

“The deuce she didn’t!” Mason exclaimed apparently in surprise.

Tragg said, “If you come clean I’ll do everything I can to see that you get a square deal, not only with the press but at Headquarters.”

“And the district attorney?” Mason asked.

“And with the district attorney,” Tragg said, but his voice suddenly lacked conviction.

Mason grinned. “You know as well as I do, Tragg, that if you could get anything on me, the district attorney would welcome you with open arms. The case against Lucille Barton would pale into insignificance.”

“Well,” Tragg said, “what do you think he’s got against you now? He’s got enough to throw the book at you.”

“Let him throw,” Mason said. “Just so he throws it across the plate. And you can tell him for me I’ll knock it over the fence for a home run.”

“Not with that fingerprint on that gun you’re not going to,” Tragg said. “That gun was the one that killed Pitkin. I have a report from our expert in ballistics.”

“Indeed?”

Tragg got to his feet. “Well, I gave you your chance, Mason.”

“You sure did,” Mason said. “Pardon me if I don’t get up, Tragg. That man Goshen might come running in the door and put the finger on me. I don’t like to be identified in that way. I always prefer to have some sort of a line-up. At least the witness should have some choice.”

Tragg said, “Don’t be a fool, Mason. You can’t spend the next two weeks sitting down. We’ll identify you sometime and when we do it’s going to look like hell — the asinine way you tried to dodge.”

Tragg stalked through the door of Mason’s office out to the entrance room.

Mason exchanged glances with Della Street. “Good Lord, Della, that gun was the murder weapon!”

She nodded mutely.

“I’d felt certain that when they examined the fatal bullet they’d find it had been fired from another gun and... Della, where the devil did you get that topcoat?”

“It’s Paul Drake’s,” she said in a low voice. “Gertie heard them talking while they were waiting in the reception room. I slipped down to Drake’s office, borrowed his overcoat and left yours there with him.”

Mason grinned. “Did Drake know what you wanted it for?”

“He didn’t ask any questions — he was careful not to.”

Mason said, “Della, raise your salary a hundred dollars a month, and come over here by my desk. I can’t get up at the moment because Tragg may come busting in here again with that popeyed witness.”