Mason gave his card to a sallow-faced woman in the late forties, who said, without even attempting a smile, “If you haven’t an appointment with Mr. Dimmick I doubt if he’ll see you. But be seated and I’ll inquire.”
Mason said, “Thanks,” and remained standing.
She vanished through a door marked, “ABNER DIMMICK, Private ” and was gone for some thirty seconds. When she returned, she stood on the threshold, an angular figure, attired in a heavy woolen suit, deep-set, black eyes staring in lackluster scrutiny from behind horn-rimmed spectacles.
“Mr. Dimmick will see you,” she said, and stood to one side for Mason to pass.
Mason closed the door behind him. Dimmick, seated back of a desk piled high with leather-backed law books, said, “How d’ye do, Counselor. Excuse me for not getting up. My rheumatism, you know. Sit down. What can I do for you — no, wait a minute.”
He flipped up a lever on an inter-office loud-speaker and said to some person whose identity was not disclosed, “Tell Rodney Cuff to come in here right away.”
Without waiting for any comment, he snapped the lever back into position, turned to Mason and said, “I want young Cuff to be here when we talk. He’s handling this case.”
Mason nodded, dropped into a chair, crossed his long legs in front of him and lit a cigarette. Dimmick regarded him through the haze of blue smoke and said, “How’s your case coming?”
“So-so.”
“I understand the police are holding back some evidence.”
“That so?” Mason asked, raising his eyebrows.
Dimmick raised his bushy eyebrows, then lowered them into level lines of shrewd scrutiny, as he stared at Mason. “Damnedest thing I ever heard of,” he said, “Dimmick, Gray & Peabody getting mixed up in a murder case! Can’t seem to get accustomed to it. Wake up in the mornings with a start, feeling a sense of impending disaster, then realize it’s just that damn murder case. I suppose you get accustomed to them.”
“I do,” Mason said.
“Going to have a fight on your hands to save Rita Swaine,” Dimmick said. “Personally, I think it’s a shame. Walter Prescott needed killing.”
A door burst explosively open. Rodney Cuff, hurrying into the room, saw Mason, nodded, smiled, slowly closed the door behind him, and then, with every appearance of casual indifference, crossed over to the desk and said to Abner Dimmick, “You wanted me, Mr. Dimmick?”
“Yes. Sit down. Mr. Mason wants to say something. I thought he’d better talk with you, since you’re handling the case.”
“What I have to say,” Mason said, taking the cigarette from his mouth and staring at the smoke which spiraled upward, “has to do with the Second Fidelity Savings & Loan.”
“Indeed!” Dimmick said, raising his bushy eyebrows.
“You’re attorneys for that institution,” Mason said. “Walter Prescott kept an account there. I can’t find out what’s in that account, when the deposits were made, nor in what form they were made. In fact, I can’t get a damn bit of information out of the bank.”
Dimmick made clucking noises with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I asked you if you wanted to cooperate,” he said at length. “You told me you didn’t.”
Cuff said, “Most embarrassing.”
“It’s going to be embarrassing for someone,” Mason warned.
“Let’s see,” Cuff inquired, “has Mrs. Prescott been appointed administratrix?”
“She’s filed a petition.”
“Evidently she won’t be charged with being an accessory,” Cuff observed.
Mason said, “You’re advising the bank. I want to know the facts about that account. I’m satisfied they’re being withheld from me on the advice of counsel.”
Dimmick started to get to his feet, fell back in his chair with a groan, said, “Now, Rodney, remember what the doctor said about my getting excited. Don’t let me get excited!”
Cuff said, “Aren’t you jumping to conclusions, Mr. Mason?”
“I think not,” Mason told him, without taking his eyes from Dimmick.
“Well, after all,” Dimmick said, “I haven’t taken the time to look it up, but as I remember the law, until some person is actually appointed as executor or administrator, the bank doesn’t have to answer questions.”
“I’m not talking about what the law says right now,” Mason said, “I’m telling you what I want.”
“Of course,” Dimmick pointed out, “we have to take the law into consideration in advising the bank.”
Mason got to his feet. “You know my position,” he said. “I’ll expect to hear from the bank within an hour.”
Dimmick pounded the floor with his cane. “You can’t get anything from us until Mrs. Prescott has been vindicated or until she’s been appointed by the court as administratrix—”
Mason crossed the room to stand by the comer of the older man’s desk, looking down at him. “Dimmick,” he said slowly, “you live in an academic atmosphere of legal abstraction. Your idea of rights and liabilities come from reading the statutes. Now then, you’ve been dealt cards in another sort of game entirely. You’re not playing auction bridge now, you’re playing no-limit poker. Now, you can co-operate with me, or not, just as you damn please. If you don’t co-operate with me on this matter, I’m going to raise hell. I’ll expect to hear from you within an hour.”
Dimmick struggled to his feet. “You look here,” he shouted, “you can’t bulldoze us! You’re not doing business with some cheap firm of shysters! Dimmick, Gray & Peabody represent the—”
Mason said, “Don’t forget what the doctor told you, Mr. Dimmick. You mustn’t get excited.”
He strode toward the exit door, opened it, turned to Cuff and said, “How about the wallet you took from Packard’s coat pocket, Cuff?”
“The wallet!” Cuff said, his eyes widening.
Mason nodded.
“There wasn’t any wallet.”
“There isn’t any,” Mason said. “That’s no sign there wasn’t any.”
“But I don’t understand you,” Cuff said. “You—”
“I understand him,” Dimmick said. “He’s going to claim that you wrongfully removed a wallet from Packard’s pocket.”
Mason said, “I’m not going to claim anything of the sort, gentlemen. I am going to point out to the press that it’s most unusual for a man to be driving a car without a driving license. When Dr. Wallace treated Packard at the hospital, Packard had a driving license showing his name and his Altaville residence. That driving license was in a wallet. The wallet and the driving license were returned to him. What became of them?”
“How should I know?” Cuff asked.
“What were you doing, going through the man’s pockets?”
“I was trying to identify him.”
Mason nodded and said, “That’s what you say. You’re representing James Driscoll. Don’t forget Prescott was killed with Driscoll’s gun. Don’t forget Carl Packard saw something in the window of Prescott’s house just about the time Prescott was being killed. Don’t forget that Packard was murdered to keep him from talking, and don’t forget that James Driscoll knew that the body was that of Packard just as soon as the wreck was found. Perhaps the ultra-respectable firm of Dimmick, Gray & Peabody will have some embarrassing questions to answer before I get finished.”
Cuff came striding toward Mason, his face indignant. “You can’t pull that stuff,” he said. “That’s—”
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Mason said, stepping into the corridor. “You have half an hour.” He slammed the door shut behind him.