“You thought your husband would fall for that?”
“I was sure he would.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s the way detective agencies work. I told you I had made a mistake in judging my husband’s character, and I didn’t mean to repeat it. What I planned to do was — after he had that picture of his wife living a rather lonely, well-chaperoned life — was to tell him I had grown tired of the separation and wanted to return to him. This would have led him to start a suit for divorce within twenty-four hours.”
“Hines impressed me as being something of a smalltime opportunist.”
“He was.”
“Perhaps not too ethical,” Mason suggested.
“Well?”
“There was the chance that he would not be as simple as he seemed.”
“Meaning precisely what, Mr. Mason?”
“Meaning that perhaps Hines may have gone through the motions of being very docile and working with you, but that all the time he was quietly making investigations of his own to find out exactly why you wanted to have someone impersonate you.”
Her face showed a quick flash of some emotion that might have been fear. But her tone was casual as she said, “I don’t think there was any cause for worry on that score. Hines was rather docile so long as he was getting money.”
Mason grinned. “You didn’t do that very well, Mrs. Reedley.”
“What do you mean?”
“That shot about Hines hit you right where you lived.”
“Not at all — I had considered that possibility before I hired him!”
“Then, of course,” Mason went on musingly, “having found the answer, the man certainly would not be above blackmail. That was a pretty big sum of cash money he had in his wallet, when you consider his rather small-time activities.”
“How much was it?” she asked.
“A little over three thousand dollars.”
“Bosh! I told you the man was a gambler, and gamblers keep their money where it is instantly available. I know several who habitually carry ten times that amount with them.”
Mason seemed to ignore her protest. “It’s an interesting thought,” he was saying. “Hines would start snooping around on this investigation of his own. And, knowing exactly where you were, he would be in a position to get information that the detectives wouldn’t readily uncover. Then he could either sell out to your husband or threaten you with a sell-out and see how much it was worth to you to buy his silence.”
“Mr. Mason, I wouldn’t have paid a dime to a blackmailer!”
“What would you do?”
“I’d... why, I’d... ”
“Exactly,” Mason said; “you’d kill him first.”
“Mr. Mason, are you insinuating that I shot Robert Hines?” she exclaimed indignantly.
“I’m verbally exploring certain very definite possibilities,” he replied. “You might say I’m prospecting.”
“That’s hardly the way to reciprocate my frankness.”
“I’m wondering just what prompted that frankness.”
“Surely, Mr. Mason, you can gauge character well enough to realize what prompted it. It was a tribute to your intelligence, the mental and moral pressure you exert on people, your ability to wear down resistance. You’ve already noticed that I’ll fight for a while, and then, when I yield, I yield suddenly and with good grace, and then come all the way, as though I had thought of some other scheme I intended to try.”
Mason nodded.
“But perhaps it’s a little more than that. I am intensely feminine, and there’s something about you — though it is subtler — that resembles the appeal my husband had for me. There is the same initial impact of a strong personality, the same steady insistent pressure to overcome obstacles and resistance. I admire that in a man. With my husband I held out for a while, then suddenly yielded. With you I have put all my cards on the table. I have been frank.”
“Disconcertingly so,” Mason said. “Did you have a gun in your purse when you called at my office yesterday?”
“Don’t be silly, Mr. Mason!”
“Did you?”
She started to say something, then looked him in the eyes. “Yes.”
“What caliber?”
She hesitated. “A .38.”
Mason laughed.
“You don’t believe me.”
“I think it was a .32,” Mason said. “What did you do with it?”
“I threw it away.”
“Where?”
“Where it will never be found.”
“Why?”
“For obvious reasons. A man was killed in my apartment. There was every possibility I would be questioned by the police. Surely, Mr. Mason, for a man of your intelligence I don’t need to fill in the details.”
Mason pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “Thanks,” he said, “for telling me what you did. I’m sorry I can’t give you something in return. However, I might offer you a tip.”
“What?”
“Ever been in your husband’s apartment?”
“No.”
“You know where it is?”
“Yes.”
Mason said, “It’s furnished in excellent taste. Only a person with very great artistic sense or a trained interior decorator could have done the job.”
“Well?”
“The windows have Venetian blinds. When Paul Drake and I called on your husband we gave him a rather difficult few minutes. He wanted, perhaps, some suggestions from a friend. I noticed he walked over to one of the windows that opened on the court, and under the pretense of looking out he adjusted the blinds so that it would be possible for anyone in an apartment on the other side of the court to see in. A few minutes later the telephone rang, and your husband had an enigmatical conversation.”
Her eyes were alert with interest now.
“I mentioned at the time to Paul Drake that your husband had a turbulent temperament — was constantly at war with himself. It would be strange if the decorations he had chosen for an apartment created the effect they did — of harmony, of colors perfectly combined.”
“Well?” she asked.
Mason made a little gesture with his shoulders. “As you yourself must know, a gambler doesn’t have to do much to give you a tip — sometimes merely the flicker of an eyelash.”
Mason nodded to Paul Drake, started for the door.
She rose and walked across the room to give him her hand. “Mr. Mason,” she said impulsively, “you are a very clever man and, I am afraid, a very dangerous adversary.”
“Why look on me as an adversary?”
She started to say something but caught herself in time and merely smiled as she said, “I don’t intend to. I was merely commenting on your potentialities. Thank you for calling, Mr. Mason. Good morning. And your friend Mr.—”
“Drake,” Paul said.
“Oh yes, thank you very much, Mr. Drake, for your cooperation.”
“Cooperation?” Drake asked.
She smiled. “You didn’t interrupt! Good morning.”
Chapter 14
Mason entered his private office, scaled his hat at the hat rack, and said to Della Street, “Get Harry Gulling on the line as soon as you can. Then tell me what else is new.”
She spun the telephone dial. “The mail came in. There are quite a few letters — two or three on top you should do something about at once.”
Mason picked up the top letters and glanced at them. “Okay, I’ll send a wire.”
She motioned toward the telephone.
Mason picked up the instrument and said, “Hello.”
Harry Gulling’s voice contained no more warmth than the sound of ice cubes clinking in a frosted glass. “Good morning, Mr. Mason,” he said. “I’m sorry you didn’t see fit to comply with my ultimatum.”