“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.”
Chapter 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 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.”