In his private office, tilted back in the swivel chair, his feet resting on a corner of the desk, Mason grinned up at Sergeant Holcomb.
“This time,” Holcomb said grimly, “I have a warrant.”
“I don’t think the D.A. wants you to serve it, Sergeant.”
“Take another think.”
Mason said, “That was an interesting case, Sergeant. Two or three things about it were puzzling but after all it wasn’t as complicated as it seemed. The Clarion’s getting out an extra I understand. You’ll probably enjoy reading it.”
“Nuts,” Holcomb said.
Mason went on calmly, “Freel gave The Clarion a complete confession. Della Street delivered it personally and Freel along with it.”
Holcomb’s eyes showed both interest and suspicion. “What is this, a run-around?”
“Nope, the low-down. Better watch your step, Sergeant, or you’ll be pounding pavements.”
“I have a warrant,” Holcomb said.
“So you have.”
“Get your hat.”
Mason, holding his hands up in front of him as though holding an imaginary newspaper, pretended to read. “So rapidly did The Clarion work in breaking the case that the police were still baffled. Even after the Extra Edition hit the street, one of the more amusing sidelights was the spectacle of Sergeant Holcomb of the Homicide Squad, with the dogged persistence of an unimaginative police officer, serving a warrant on a well-known attorney just as Clarion newsboys were selling the extras which gave the true facts of the case. Sergeant Holcomb, however, dutifully plodding along in the line of duty, escorted the grinning Perry Mason into Headquarters, pushing aside as he did so newsboys who were shouting the name of the real murderer.”
Mason went through the pantomime of folding a newspaper and putting it down on the desk.
Sergeant Holcomb said, “You can’t stall along that way.”
“I’m not trying to stall, Sergeant. I’m trying to give you a break.”
“Yes, you always did like me.”
“No kidding, Holcomb, you’re not a bad sort… you’re obstinate and pig-headed and a little dumb, but you have the courage of your convictions, loyalty to your work and absolute honesty. Why don’t you get aboard the bandwagon?”
“Doing what, for instance?” Holcomb asked. “Not that you’re selling me anything, Mason.”
“The lipstick on Tidings’ face, for instance,” Mason commented. “That was an interesting angle, Sergeant. There were several women in the case but only one of them would have kissed Tidings. Only one of them could have approached Tidings out there on that lonely road without having him reach for his gun.”
“What do you mean, lonely road?” Sergeant Holcomb asked.
“You know what I mean. Tidings wanted to get something on his wile. He was waiting out there near her house. A car drove up. Tidings knew the people in that car. They had been following him. They stopped the car and got out. Tidings kissed the woman.”
Sergeant Holcomb was thinking with knitted brow and furrowed forehead. “Who?” he asked.
“Byrl Gailord,” Mason said.
“How do you figure?”
“Byrl Gailord wanted money. Mrs. Tump wanted money. Tidings liked Byrl: he hated Mrs. Tump. He wouldn’t see Byrl while Mrs. Tump was with her so Mrs. Tump waited and followed Tidings when he left the office. They followed him to Adelle Hastings’ apartment but didn’t have a chance to talk with him. They followed him out to where he was waiting for his wife and did have a chance.
“Byrl kissed him, made a fuss over him, and then Mrs. Tump came pushing up and made her demands, and threatened to bring him into court. Tidings laughed at her. He told her the minute she made a move he’d show that Byrl was the illegitimate daughter of Mrs. Tump’s daughter, that the Russian nobility business was a fake. And that was when Mrs. Tump shot him.”
“A nice bed-time story,” Sergeant Holcomb said.
“No, it’s logic,” Mason insisted. “I found a roll of money in the mattress of Freel’s bed. Freel hadn’t made that dough out of Mrs. Tump. She was too smart to pay in advance. The only other person who could have played Santa Claus was Tidings. I figured Freel had sold out to Tidings and I knew Tidings wouldn’t buy expensive ammunition without using it.
“I knew that Mrs. Tump would never hire a lawyer if she thought there was any possibility of getting a settlement without a lawyer. She didn’t hire me to negotiate a settlement but to give herself an alibi. One would hardly be expected to hire a lawyer to interview a dead man. It was a clever move but the trouble was I knew Mrs. Tump would never offer to pay a fee while there was any chance of chiseling a settlement without a fee.
“You police, incidentally, overlooked a bet. Your laboratory could analyze that lipstick and analyze the lipstick used by the women in the case.”
Sergeant Holcomb seemed thoughtful. “We could have done that — can do it yet — but that isn’t going to keep me from serving this warrant on you, no matter how much you talk.”
Mason got to his feet, stood broad-shouldered, eyes locking with those of Sergeant Holcomb. “Get this,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned I don’t give a damn what you do. If you’re foolish enough to drag me down to Headquarters while The Clarion is putting the news on the street, it won’t hurt me any. You’ll be the one who gets all the laughs. No, Sergeant, the reason I’m telling you this is because I’m trying to give you a break. Beat it up to The Clarion office, tell them you have doped the whole thing out, grab Freel as a material witness — and you’ll get your picture in the paper.”
Sergeant Holcomb said, “I am going to serve that warrant.”
“Go ahead. You’ll have your picture in the paper in any event. How would you prefer to have the caption read? Sergeant Holcomb Who Solves Murder Mystery in Clarion ’s Office, or Sergeant Holcomb Arresting Prominent Lawyer, While Clarion Newsboys, Seen in Lower Left-Hand Corner, Are Selling Newspapers Giving True Facts in Case to the Public?”
“How do I know this isn’t a stall so you can beat it?” Sergeant Holcomb asked.
Mason looked up at him and laughed. “I should run away from a law practice that keeps me in the high income-tax brackets. For another thing, figure it out for yourself. Somebody kissed him, somebody shot him — and beat it. Then Mrs. Tidings and Peltham came along, found him dying, took him up to Mrs. Tidings’ house, and started to telephone for an ambulance. Tidings died and they tried to cover up. It’s the only theory that…”
The door opened. Della Street came bustling into the office.
“Okay?” Mason asked.
“Okay,” she said. “It was just exactly as you figured. Mrs. Tump bribed him to pin the crime on Peltham. Freel had sold Tidings the information about Byrl Gailord just as you’d suspected.”
“Can he prove Mrs. Tump committed the crime?”
“No, only that Mrs. Tump bribed him to pin it on Peltham.”
Mason grinned across at Sergeant Holcomb. “Even better than I thought, Sergeant,” he said. “The Clarion won’t dare to accuse Mrs. Tump of the murder in so many words. They can only publish Freel’s confession and accuse her of bribery. You know if I were you, Sergeant, I think I’d go to work on Byrl Gailord. I doubt if she had any idea Mrs. Tump was going to shoot him, but after the crime was committed she agreed to stand by her grandmother. I think a shrewd officer who went to work fast, before The Clarion hit the streets, could…”
Sergeant Holcomb spun on his heel, took two quick steps toward the door, then stopped and came back. Abruptly he pushed a hand out at the surprised lawyer.
“All right, Mason,” he said, “I don’t like your methods. Some day I’m going to throw you in the can, but I do appreciate good detective work when I see it and I’m enough of a cop to pull for a guy who solves crimes, even if I don’t like the way he goes about it.”
Surprised, Mason shook hands.
Sergeant Holcomb said, “Don’t think for a minute this gives you any right to cut comers on your next case.”
“What does it give me?” Mason asked, his eyes twinkling.
“My thanks for handing me a tip on a silver platter and for bringing a murderer to justice. Any cop worth his salt will respect a man who can do that.”
Mason clapped Sergeant Holcomb on the shoulder. “Spoken like a man, Sergeant. Go to it.”
Once more Sergeant Holcomb strode across the office. Just before he jerked the door closed, he turned back to say to Mason, “I still don’t like your methods.”
“I understand,” Mason said.
Sergeant Holcomb’s glittering eyes held the lawyer. “And I don’t think,” he went on, “that I like you.”
The door slammed.
Mason turned to grin at Della Street. “That,” he announced, “is that.”’
“Why,” she asked, “did you give Holcomb a break like that?”
“Because I think he’s the one to corner Byrl Gailord and make her tell the truth.”
Della Street regarded him steadily. “And because you wanted to give him a break.”
“Well, perhaps,” Mason admitted.
“He hates your guts, Chief.”
“I know he does, but he’s a fighter and I like fighters. How are things going over at The Clarion?”
“Like a house afire. Sergeant Holcomb can’t see Freel — they have him sewed up.”
Mason grinned. “He can get a lot of advertising trying,” he said, “and they’ll put Freel back into circulation after the extra hits the streets.”
The telephone rang. Della Street picked up the receiver, said hello, and then, cupping her hand over the mouthpiece, turned to Perry Mason. “Adelle Hastings wants to know if there is anything she can do.”
Mason said, “Tell her to meet us at the Haystack Cocktail Lounge in fifteen minutes. I want to see her face when she reads that newspaper.”
With her hand still cupped over the receiver, Della Street in the manner of a secretary who has been trying to deal in details, said, “If we get there in fifteen minutes do you think we’ll still be there when The Clarion comes out?”
“The way I feel,” Mason said, grinning, “we’re going to be there all afternoon.”
Della Street removed her hand from the mouthpiece. “Hello, Miss Hastings,” she said.