Perry Mason followed Sergeant Holcomb into the district attorney’s outer office. The plain-clothes officer brought up the rear.
Mason saw Paul Drake seated beside a man who was obviously a police detective.
“Hello, Paul,” Mason said, affecting surprise. “What’s the idea?”
Drake got to his feet. “So far no one’s told me.”
Sergeant Holcomb said, “Come on, Mason. The D.A.’s waiting.”
Drake shot forward his hand impulsively. “Perry,” he said, “no matter what they say, I want you to know that I’m for you. No one can ever make me believe there’s anything crooked about the way you do things.”
“Thanks,” Mason said, gripping Paul’s hand and feeling, as he did so, a folded piece of paper which Drake had surreptitiously slipped into his palm.
“Come on,” Holcomb said impatiently, standing in a double doorway which led to an inner suite of offices.
The detective who had been seated next to Drake intervened. “You two guys don’t need to go into a huddle,” he said. “Break away.”
Mason turned away, casually slipping his right hand into his trousers pocket.
“This way,” Holcomb said.
Beyond the double doorway, a long corridor stretched past doors bearing the names of deputies. At the far end of the corridor, a mahogany door was inscribed simply with the words, “Hamilton Berger, District Attorney.”
“He’s expecting us,” Sergeant Holcomb said, and opened the door to walk in. Mason followed, and the plain-clothes man, apparently having done his duty by having herded the lawyer thus far, turned to stand with his back to the wall near the doorway.
The automatic door check clicked the door shut.
Mason saw Hamilton Berger seated behind his desk, a barrel-chested, thick-necked individual who gave the impression of having great physical strength and a bulldog mental tenacity.
“How do you do, Mason,” he said. “Sit down over here in this chair.”
Mason nodded and glanced around at the office. A man, who was evidently a shorthand reporter, sat at a little table, a notebook opened in front of him. The page of the notebook which was visible was half filled with shorthand characters, evidently notes taken of a conversation with some other witness. Carl Mattern sat back against the wall looking very self-righteous. Mrs. Tump, seated beside him, glowered belligerently at Mason, and beside her, Byrl Gailord, who had evidently been crying, raised her eyes to regard Mason with hurt dignity. There were dark smudges where the mascara had been dissolved by her tears and smeared by her soggy handkerchief.
“All right,” Mason said. “What is it?”
Hamilton Berger said, “I have sufficient information to justify a warrant for your arrest. Because you are an attorney and so far have had what officially amounts to good standing, I’ve decided to give you an opportunity to explain your actions.”
“Thank you,” Mason said with acid politeness.
“I may say,” Berger went on, “that while you are in good standing at present, that has been due, in my opinion, largely to luck. I have long warned you that your methods would eventually get you into trouble.”
“I think we can dispense with any lectures,” Mason said. “My methods are my own, and my ethics are my own. I’m responsible for both. If you have anything to say, say it.”
Hamilton Berger said, “Sit down in this chair, Mason.”
Mason took the chair which was nearest to the district attorney’s desk, separated by only a few feet from that of the shorthand reporter.
“I warn you, Mason, that this interview is to be reported, and that anything you say may be used against you. You don’t need to make any statements unless you want to. If you do make them, they are to be deemed free and voluntary statements, made without coercion or promises.”
“Forget the formula,” Mason said. “Let’s get down to brass tracks. I know all the preliminaries.”
Berger nodded to Mattern. “Mr. Mattern,” he said, “I want you to tell Mr. Mason exactly what you’ve told me. You can condense it to simply hit the high spots.”
Mattern said, “What’s the use? He knows it all.”
“Nevertheless,” Berger said, “I want you to repeat it.”
Mattern raised his eyes to stare steadily at Mason, a stare of cold accusation. He said, in a strong, well-modulated voice, “I was Mr. Tidings’ secretary. Last Tuesday morning Mr. Mason called at my office.”
“What time?” Mason asked.
“Shortly before nine o’clock,” Mattern said.
Hamilton Berger said, “Kindly don’t interrupt the statement of the witness, Mr. Mason. Your opportunity for a defense will come later. I simply want you to be advised of the information which has been placed in my hands. This is not the time to cross-examine witnesses.”
“If you want to accuse me of anything,” Mason said, “and expect me to answer that accusation, I’m going to know the details. Go ahead, Mattern.”
Berger frowned with annoyance.
Mattern, still with his eyes fixed steadily on Mason, said in the same level voice, “Mr. Mason told me that Mr. Tidings had met with an accident. He didn’t say what sort of an accident. He said that Mr. Tidings, according to his information, was dead, that he was representing Byrl Gailord, that Byrl Gailord was the beneficiary under a trust which Mr. Tidings was administering, that he understood Tidings had intended to make a purchase of a large block of stock in the Western Prospecting Company, that it was very much to the advantage of his client to have the deal go through, that he thought the stock was a good investment for her, and that he was interested in having the amount involved — fifty thousand dollars — earmarked by having it appear that at least that much of Tidings’ funds were held in the Gailord trust.”
“Did he say anything about it being to the interests of other clients to have it appear that Tidings’ death should be assumed by the police to have occurred at a time subsequent to that at which the death had actually occurred?” Hamilton Berger asked.
“Not in so many words,” Mattern said, frowning as though searching his recollection. “I think I’ve already told you exactly what he said, as nearly as I can remember, Mr. Berger.”
“Well, tell it to me again,” Berger said.
“He said that there were reasons which he wouldn’t go into which would make it very much to the advantage of his clients to have it appear that the time of death did not occur until after noon on Tuesday.”
“Did he say client or clients?” Berger asked.
“Clients. I remember that very distinctly,” Mattern said.
“But he didn’t say specifically whether by clients he referred to Miss Gailord and some other client?”
“No, he didn’t. But I do remember that he used the word clients — in the plural.”
“Very well,” Berger said. “Go ahead.”
Mason faced the hostility of Mrs. Tump’s eyes, the silent accusation of Byrl Gailord, and casually took a cigarette case from his pocket. He selected a cigarette and made a search of his pockets for matches. In the course of the search, he managed to extract from his right-hand trousers pocket the folded note which Drake had given him. He snapped a match into flame, and lit the cigarette. As Mattern resumed his statement, Mason made a surreptitious study of the message Drake had slipped him. It had been printed in ink upon a narrow strip of paper. The words were simple and to the point: “Freel is registered in St. Germaine Hotel under name Herkimer Smith, Shreveport, Louisiana.”
Mason shifted the match to his left hand, dropped it into an ash tray; his right hand casually dropped into the side pocket of his coat and deposited Drake’s printed message.
Mattern went on steadily. “Mr. Mason told me that under the law of agency I would have no authority to conclude the deal if Tidings were dead, that his clients wanted the purchase consummated, that it would be better for all concerned to have it appear that the transaction had been completed before Tidings died. He said that if I’d co-operate with him, he’d give me ten thousand dollars when the purchase had been completed.”
“Did you agree to co-operate with him?” Berger asked.
“I objected at first,” Mattern said. “Naturally the information came as a shock to me, and I was astonished to think that a man in Mr. Mason’s position would make such a proposition to me.”
“And did you communicate your reluctance to Mr. Mason?”
“I did. I told him that I couldn’t do it.”
“And what did Mason say?”
“Mason pointed out to me that Tidings was dead, and there was nothing I could do that would restore him to life, that it would be much better for all concerned, particularly his clients…”
“And he used the word in that connection and in the plural?” Berger asked.
“That’s right, he did. Yes, sir.”
“Go ahead.”
“… that it would be much better for his clients if it was made to appear that Mr. Tidings had met his death after noon of that day. He asked me if it wasn’t true that Mr. Tidings had secured a cashier’s check in an amount of fifty thousand dollars which was to be delivered for the purchase price of the stock. I told him that this was true. So then Mr. Mason suggested that he would call me later on, on the telephone, that I was to tell his secretary that Mr. Tidings was available and would talk with Mr. Mason. Mason said that he’d come on the line, and I could carry on a conversation, and he would pretend that it was Tidings on the other end of the line, that I was also to advise any other person who called that Mr. Tidings was in his office but was engaged in a conference and couldn’t be disturbed, that I was to go ahead with the stock purchase just as though Tidings were there, and that I was to swear that Tidings had accompanied me down in the elevator; and then, to clinch matters after the purchase had been completed, I was to swear that Tidings had called up and asked me if everything had gone through according to schedule.”
“And he promised you ten thousand dollars for this?” Berger asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Was that ten thousand dollars paid?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How?”
“In fifty- and hundred-dollar bills.”
“What did you do with that money?”
“I deposited it in a bank.”
“The bank where you carry your regular account?”
“No, sir. It was another bank. I went to a bank where I wasn’t known. I told them that I wished to open an account and made the deposit under a fictitious name.”
“What name?”
“Anthony Blake.”
“Did you tell anyone about this?”
“No, sir… Not until I told you early this morning.” Berger glanced at Mason. “All right, Mason,” he said, “what have you to say to this?”
“I want to ask him a couple of questions,” Mason said.
“I don’t think this is the time or the place,” Berger said. “This isn’t a trial. I’m merely putting my cards on the table showing you the information which I have at hand.”
Mason ignored the comment and said to Mattern, “I suppose, Mattern, the district attorney found out about that fictitious account and asked you to explain it.”
“He did nothing of the sort,” Mattern said indignantly. “No one knew anything about that account. My conscience started bothering me, and I finally came to the district attorney and explained all the circumstances to him.”
Mason turned to Hamilton Berger. “You can see what happened,” he said. “Mattern knew that Tidings was dead. He confessed to me that he’d discovered that fact early Tuesday morning. Bolus, who’s president of the Western Prospecting Company, was planning on unloading his stock. He’d offered Mattern a ten-thousand-dollar bonus when the deal went through. I pointed out to Mattern that with the facilities at your command, you’d be able to trace that payment through the bank. He knew he was trapped, so he concocted this story.”
“That’s a lie,” Mattern said.
The district attorney said, “You can’t make anything like that stick, Mason. I’ve talked with Emery Bolus, the president of the Western Prospecting Company. It’s true that the sale was of private stock. I believe it was the stock held by Bolus, who wished to unload, but Bolus knows nothing whatever of any ten-thousand-dollar payment and had no inkling that Tidings was dead at the time the transaction was completed. You can’t escape the consequences of your act by trying to drag others into it.”
“And,” Mason went on calmly, “Bolus has consulted an attorney. Bolus learned that under the law of agency the sale would have been invalid in the event it appeared Tidings had died — unless it should appear that I had consented to the sale as attorney for Byrl Gailord, which would have made Mattern an agent for the beneficiary instead of the trustee. Under those circumstances, Bolus could insist that the sale was valid. This story has been concocted in order to bolster up that sale. The stock is probably valueless. Bolus has agreed to give Mattern another five or ten thousand to tell this story. It gives Mattern an out, accounts for his actions, and will leave Bolus still holding the money.”
“That,” Berger said coldly, “is an ingenious attempt to distort the facts, but unfortunately for you, the evidence doesn’t corroborate it.”
Mason said, “All right. I’ll go at it from another angle. How about you, Mrs. Tump? You are the one who employed me to represent the interests of Byrl Gailord. You know when you came to me. When was it?”
“I called on you,” she said, “on Tuesday morning. I guess it was around ten o’clock. But you knew that I was going to call on you and that you were going to represent Byrl.”
“How in Heaven’s name did I know that?” Mason asked. “I’m not a mind reader.”
“You knew it through Robert Peltham,” she said. “You’ve been in touch with Robert Peltham ever since this case started. Do you deny that Robert Peltham called on you and employed you to represent his interests Monday night?”
“What makes you think that happened?” Mason asked.
“He told me…”
“Don’t answer that question,” Berger interrupted. “We’re not here to give Mr. Mason an unlimited opportunity to fish for information and then work out a story which will hold water.”
“What is the purpose of this interview?” Mason asked.
“Simply to give you an outline of the circumstances which make me feel that it’s my duty to have a warrant issued for your arrest on a charge of criminal conspiracy and on a charge of being an accessory after the fact.”
“Accessory to what?” Mason asked.
“To the murder of Albert Tidings.”
“I see,” Mason commented calmly, “and whom am I supposed to be aiding and abetting?”
“Robert Peltham.”
“Oh,” Mason said, “so he’s the murderer now, is he?”
“You know he is.”
“And how do I know it?”
“He told you so shortly after midnight on Monday night — or to be exact, the time was Tuesday morning. You met him at your office, and he retained you. You arranged for an alibi for Peltham and his mistress. In order to make that alibi good, you wanted it to appear that Tidings was still alive on Tuesday morning, that he met his death sometime after noon on Tuesday. Everything that you have done, Mason, supports that conclusion. The circumstantial evidence is strongly against you, and in view of the statement of Mattern, who is a direct witness, I feel it my duty to institute criminal proceedings against you unless you can convince me that you are innocent.”
“And how can I convince you?” Mason asked. “I can’t ask questions of the witnesses. I can’t even find out what evidence you hold. My hands are tied.”
“Not if you’re innocent,” Berger said. “You don’t need to cross-examine witnesses in order to find out what cards I hold in my hand. You can make a simple, direct statement of your connection with the case.”
“I can’t do that,” Mason said.
“Why not?”
“Because it would betray the confidences of a client.”
“Do you deny that Robert Peltham called on you sometime between midnight and one o’clock on Tuesday morning?”
Mason said, “I’m not going to give you any information whatever concerning the activities of any client.”
“Under the circumstances,” Berger said, “I consider the interview closed. I have evidence which proves conclusively that Peltham was in love with Tidings’ wife, that Tidings refused to grant a divorce, and that while the affair had been kept successfully from his knowledge for some little time, he had finally learned about it and sought to trap the participants. It was while he was so engaged that he met his death.”
“When?”
“At eleven-fifteen Monday night.”
Mason spent several seconds staring at the smoke which eddied upward from the tip of his half-smoked cigarette. “At eleven-fifteen,” he said musingly.
“That’s right.”
“Someone hear the shot?” Mason asked.
For a moment it seemed as though Berger was about to reply to the question, then he picked up the telephone on his desk and inquired, “Is Miss Adelle Hastings in the office?… Very well. I want to see her next… And Paul Drake… Very well, have him wait. I’ll see Miss Hastings next.”
Mason said musingly, “Eleven-fifteen… That isn’t the way I understand it. That time of death doesn’t coincide with the facts as I’ve worked them out.”
“What time,” Berger asked, “do you consider that death took place?”
“About nine-thirty,” Mason said without hesitation.
“On Monday night?”
“That’s right.”
Berger said, “I am not committing myself finally on that point as yet, Mr. Mason. There’s one more witness whom I must interview personally before I make a definite commitment.”
“That witness heard the shot?” Mason asked.
“That witness,” Berger said with cold finality, “saw the deed committed. He recognized Robert Peltham as the murderer. He actually saw the murder. I’ve talked with him over the telephone. I haven’t his signed statement as yet.”
Mason stretched forth his long legs, crossed the ankles, and stared down at the toes of his shoes. “Well,” he said, “there’s nothing I can add.”
“You might tell me how you fix the time of death as being around nine-thirty.”
Mason shook his head.
“Very well,” Berger announced in the voice of one terminating an interview, “I shall instruct my men to issue a complaint on which a warrant for arrest will be issued, Mason. I’m sorry, but I’ve repeatedly warned you that your methods were going to get you into trouble.”
“I’ll be eligible for bail?” Mason asked.
“I shall charge you with being an accessory after the fact on first-degree murder.”
Mason said, “You haven’t that complaint ready now?”
“It will be ready within the next hour.”
“Until that time I’m not under arrest?”
Berger said, “I don’t intend to arrest you without a warrant.”
Mason arose from the chair, tossed his cigarette into the ash tray, and said, “Thank you very much for your consideration in giving me an opportunity to present my side of the case.”
“I’m sorry that you couldn’t make a more satisfactory explanation.”
“So am I,” Mason said.
Mrs. Tump said bitterly, “Well, I don’t know where that leaves us. You certainly can’t hold Byrl to any such bargain as that. She doesn’t want that stock.”
“I’m afraid that will have to be thrashed out in a civil court, Mrs. Tump,” Berger said.
Mrs. Tump glared at Mason. “To think that I accepted you as an honest lawyer,” she said scornfully.
Mason bowed. “My regrets, Mrs. Tump.”
Byrl Gailord said sobbingly, “It seems as though everyone were conspiring against me. Now my money is put into a worthless stock — as much of it as hasn’t been embezzled.”
“Are you certain the stock is worthless?” Mason asked.
“Of course it is,” she said.
Mason said, “Well, I have matters to wind up.”
Without so much as a backward glance, he walked to the door and out into the corridor.
Carl Mattern watched him go, his eyes steady, his face expressionless.