Mason raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Who?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “He wouldn’t give any name to Gertie, said that he simply must see you, and that he couldn’t wait in the reception room. She told him she’d have to have his name, and he pushed his way past her into the law library and told her to go peddle her papers. Gertie was peeved about it, but she said he seemed to be a rather high-class individual, and she didn’t want to have him thrown out.”
Mason said, “That, Della, will be Robert Peltham.”
He strode across the office, jerked open the door to the law library, and said, “Hello, Peltham. Come in.”
Peltham, who had been seated at the long table, nervously puffing a cigarette, jumped to his feet and walked rapidly across to where Mason was standing. “What the devil,” he asked, “has happened? How could anyone have got my overcoat, my car, and . . .”
Mason said, “It took you long enough to get here.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had to see you,” Mason said. “I tried to get you in here the easy way. That didn’t work. So I tried the hard way.”
Peltham stared at him. “You mean that you . . .” His voice trailed away into silence.
Mason said, “This is Della Street, my secretary. I don’t have any secrets from her. Come in and sit down. Why didn’t you let me talk with you?”
“I didn’t think it was wise.”
“Why didn’t you put your cards on the table the first time you came to the office?”
“I did.”
Mason said, sarcastically, “Yes, you certainly did. You and your masked friend. You and your mysterious allusions to what was going to happen. Why the devil didn’t you tell me Tidings was dead?”
“Because I didn’t know it.”
“Bunk,” Mason said. “And why didn’t you tell me that I was to represent Mrs. Tidings? Then I might have done a decent job of it instead of floundering around.”
“You’ve done nobly,” Peltham said.
“That’s what you think,” Mason told him. “Now you listen to me. Time is precious. I want you to do exactly as I tell you to do. . . . You’re dead, do you understand?”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I say. You’re dead. You’ve been murdered.”
Peltham said impatiently, “Mason, can’t you understand? I wanted you to protect Mrs. Tidings. I . . .”
“I am protecting her,” Mason said, and then added significantly, “now.”
“Weren’t you before?”
“How could I? I was chasing will-o’-the-wisps. Why the devil did you say it was okay for me to represent Byrl Gailord?”
“Because it was. I know all about her. Tidings was trustee handling her funds—and a sweet mess he made of it, too. You’ll probably find that there’s an enormous shortage in her trust accounts.”
“How does it happen you know all about her?” Mason asked.
“Through Mrs. Tump. Mrs. Tump has been sort of a godmother to her, rescued her from Russia, and brought her over here, and saw that she had a chance. . . . That is, she did her best. The child was spirited out of the welfare home where she was left for safekeeping and . . .”
“And you thought there wouldn’t be anything inconsistent in the representation of Byrl Gailord’s interests and of Mrs. Tidings’?”
“That’s right.”
“And you know Byrl Gailord personally?”
“No, I don’t. I only know of her through her godmother.”
“Then,” Mason said, “you didn’t know that Byrl Gailord was a social climber, that she was trying to crash the set that Adelle Hastings travels with, that she’s set her cap for a young man in whom Adelle Hastings is interested.”
“Byrl Gailord!” Peltham exclaimed.
Mason nodded.
“Why, I can’t believe such a thing is possible. Adelle Hastings has never said a word to me about it.”
“She,” Mason told him, “would be the last person on earth to say a word about it to anyone—particularly to you.”
“But your request to represent her was forwarded to me through Adelle.”
“All right,” Mason said. “We won’t argue about it. That’s done. That’s water that’s already gone under the bridge. What’s Nadine Tidings to you?”
“What do you think?”
“I’m not thinking,” Mason said. “I want to know.”
Peltham met his eyes and said tersely, “She’s everything in the world to me.”
“And Adelle Hastings?”
“What do you mean?”
“What’s she to you?”
“Why, nothing. Just a friend, that’s all. She’s a swell girl, and I’ve always admired her, but that’s all there is to it.”
“She knows about your feeling for Mrs. Tidings?”
“Certainly not. No one knows about that. I’ve gone to the greatest trouble to keep that entirely secret.”
“Why?” Mason asked.
“Because of what would have happened. Can’t you see? I was on a board of trustees with Tidings. Tidings distrusted me. There was a shortage. Tidings would have yelled ‘frame-up,’ that I wanted him in prison so I could marry his wife. Nadine wanted a divorce. Tidings had just enough on her so he could drag her name through the mud.”
Mason said, “And you were foolish enough to think that any such crazy scheme as the one you tried would protect Mrs. Tidings?”
“Of course it would. It has, hasn’t it?”
“No,” Mason said shortly, “it hasn’t. Police took Mrs. Tidings into custody an hour or so ago. They’re going to charge her with first-degree murder.”
Peltham said, “I didn’t see how they could connect Nadine with it. Her alibi should have held up.”
Mason said, “Let me show you where you made a whole flock of mistakes. . . . People found out about Tidings being dead and where he was. As each person made that discovery, he started protecting himself or herself by building up an alibi.”
“Well?” Peltham asked.
Mason said, “The district attorney has all of those alibis in front of him. They’re mathematical clues. No one except the murderer of Tidings knows exactly when he was killed. Each person thought that he was killed shortly before he or she made the discovery of the body. . . . Therefore, the district attorney only has to check back on the alibis to pick the ones that cover the longest periods, and he knows he’s getting warm. Mrs. Tidings started making her alibi date back from Monday afternoon. . . . You can figure what that means.”
Peltham frowned.
Mason said, “Here’s what the district attorney is going to say in front of a jury. You made love to Nadine Tidings underhandedly, surreptitiously. You had clandestine meetings. You took the name of Hushman and gave her the name of Mrs. Hushman. You . . .”
“Good God!” Peltham exclaimed. “Who knows that?”
“The district attorney,” Mason said. “What do you think he is, a damn fool?”
Peltham stared at him in speechless dismay.
Mason said, “Tidings found out about you. He . . .”
“No, he didn’t. I swear that he didn’t.”
“I’m telling you,” Mason said, “what the district attorney is going to say to a jury. You were having a secret rendezvous with Nadine Tidings in her house. Albert Tidings was still her lawful husband. You decided to kill him, thereby getting him out of the way as a husband, sealing his lips, protecting Nadine’s good name, and your good name, and leaving the way free to marry her.”
“I swear that’s not true. I swear by all . . .”
“Save it,” Mason said. “You don’t have to convince me.”
“But I want to convince you.”
“It won’t do any good,” Mason told him. “I bought this package. Whatever’s in it is mine. I hope Nadine Tidings isn’t guilty, but I’m going to represent her whether she’s guilty or innocent. It’s a bargain I’ve made, and I keep my bargains. . . . But afte
r this, if anyone ever gets me to go groping around in the dark, you can have me committed to an insane asylum. You baited a trap with a ten-thousand-dollar bill. You probably didn’t know it was a trap at the time, and I didn’t. But the trap has sprung. I’m caught, and you’re caught. Nadine Tidings is caught. . . . We’ve got to get out. The first thing is to let the district attorney believe that you’re dead—and let the murderer of Albert Tidings believe that you’re dead.”
“Why?”
“Can’t you see?”
“No.”
“All right,” Mason said. “You don’t have to see. I’ve got you dead, and all I want you to do is to stay dead.”
Mason turned to Della Street. “Della,” he said, “this man is dead. Take him out and bury him where I’ll know where he is.”
“Where,” she asked, “do you want him taken—and when?”
Mason said, “You’ve got to get him out of this office building. Once out, you can use your ingenuity. You . . .”
The telephone on Mason’s desk rang. Mason frowned irritably at the interruption, but Della Street picked the receiver off the hook, and said, “Don’t ring us, Gertie, unless it’s something . . . Oh, it is?”
She looked up at Mason. “Paul Drake on the line,” she said. “He says it’s important.”
Mason picked up the receiver.
Drake said, “I haven’t time to talk, Perry. This is a hot-tip. You’re getting the double cross.”
“How do you mean?”
“Your own clients,” Drake said, “are giving you the double cross. They’re going to drag all of us up to the D.A.’s office. They . . . Here they come now, Perry.”
Mason heard the receiver slam up at the other end on the line.
Mason whirled to Della Street. “They’re in the building. You’ll have to sneak Peltham out of this office while they’re getting me. . . . You and Peltham stand by that door to the corridor. When you hear the officers coming in, you slip out into the corridor. I’ll hold them here. Let’s hope they’re not watching the entrance to the building. They . . .”
Mason heard a commotion in the outer office, heard Gertie’s voice raised in shrill protest. “You can’t go in there. Mr. Mason can’t be disturbed. You . . .”
Mason nodded to Della Street. She grabbed Peltham’s arm, rushed him to the door of the corridor, and held it open.
The door leading to the outer office opened an inch and then was slammed closed. From the other side of the panels came the noise of a struggle.
Mason nodded to Della Street. “Now,” he said.
She and Peltham slipped out into the corridor. Della Street closed the door silently behind her.
The door from the reception room jerked open. Sergeant Holcomb said, “You little hell-cat, get away from there,” and wrestled Gertie’s ample figure away from the door. A plain-clothes man grabbed her shoulders, spun her around, and the two men pushed their way into the office.
Mason, sitting at his desk, apparently engrossed in studying a law book, looked up, frowning at the interruption. “What the devil’s the meaning of this?” he asked.
Sergeant Holcomb said triumphantly, “It means that you’ve skated on thin ice once too often. Now, you’ve broken through.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I have my instructions, Mason. You can either come with me to the district attorney’s office to answer questions now, or you can go to jail.”
“What sort of blackmail is that?” Mason asked, indignantly pushing back his chair and getting to his feet.
“There’s no blackmail about it,” Holcomb said. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m hoping you say ‘no.’ I want to arrest you and throw you into the can right now. The D.A. has you dead to rights, but just because you’re a lawyer, he says you’re going to have a chance to explain—if you want it.”
Mason paused, frowning at Sergeant Holcomb, making a mental calculation of the time it would take Della Street to get Robert Peltham down in the elevator and out through the back entrance to the alley.
“Have you,” he asked, “got a warrant?”
There was no mistaking the triumph on Sergeant Holcomb’s face. “That,” he said, “was exactly what I was hoping you’d say. . . . No, Mr. Mason, I haven’t a warrant, but I’m going to get one in just ten seconds. The skids are all greased.”
He strode across to the telephone, picked up the receiver, and said, “Get me the D.A.’s office.”
Mason shrugged his shoulders. “All right,” he said. “I’ll go with you to the district attorney’s office.”
“It’s too late for that now,” Sergeant Holcomb said.
Mason’s voice was cold. “I think not,” he said. “I have never refused to accompany you. I simply asked you if you had a warrant for my arrest.”
Sergeant Holcomb dropped the receiver. “All right, Mason,” he said. “Let’s get started.”
Mason delayed as long as he dared getting his hat and coat. Then he said, “I’ll have to call my receptionist and tell her I’m going to be out.”
Sergeant Holcomb said, “Make it snappy.”
Mason called Gertie to the private office. She was still panting from her struggles, and she glared with hostility at the officers.
“Gertie, I’m being taken to the office of the district attorney for questioning. I want you to make some notes on things that are to be done in cases that are pending.”
“Make it snappy,” Sergeant Holcomb said.
Mason said, “In the case of Smith versus Smith, arrange for the taking of a deposition.”
For a moment there was a frown of perplexity on Gertie’s forehead; then with the realization that Della Street was not in the office and the knowledge that the files held no case of Smith versus Smith, she said, with a flash of comprehension, “Yes, Mr. Mason. Is there anything else?”
“Yes. In the case of Jones versus Raglund, my time is up for the filing of an answer and cross-complaint tomorrow. In the event I don’t return and am unable to file the answer and cross-complaint, arrange to get a stipulation extending my time.”
“Yes, Mr. Mason. And suppose I can’t get a stipulation?”
“Then you’ll have to get a court order,” Mason said.
“Just how will I go about doing that?”
Sergeant Holcomb said, “Come on. You’ll have a chance to telephone her after the D.A. gets done with you.”
“This is an important matter,” Mason said. “I can’t let the case go by default.”
“Well, you can telephone her. Come on. We haven’t got all day. The D.A. is waiting.”
Mason said to Gertie, “Simply explain the circumstances to the presiding judge. Now in the case of Hortense versus Wiltfong, you’ll have to give back the retainer. Explain to Mr. Hortense that I’m going to be unable to handle his case. That’s not to be done unless I fail to return by five o’clock, or . . .”
Sergeant Holcomb moved toward Mason. “My God, you don’t have to dictate memoranda covering your whole practice. . . . Say, what are you doing, sparring for time?”
Mason said, “That’s all, Gertie. . . . Come on, gentlemen.”
13.
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 Burger, 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 Burger 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 Burger 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,” Burger 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.”
The Case of the Baited Hook Page 19
