“Your man must have left Santa del Barra even before nine o’clock.”
“Probably considerably before,” Mason said. “If I had been interested in the gun, and right at the present time I’m not prepared to admit that I was, Lieutenant, it would have been because of its importance as evidence in a civil matter. And I, of course, had no inkling that it had been used in a murder.”
“Oh, certainly not,” Tragg said, sarcastically, “but just what was your interest in the gun?”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I can’t tell you that.”
Tragg’s face showed concern. “This is a lot more serious than you think it is, Mason. I’ve got a whole fist full of cards that aren’t on the table yet. It’ll be a lot better if you come clean.”
“Well, I’ll answer any question I can,” Mason said.
“When did you first become acquainted with Lucille Barton?”
“Yesterday,” Mason said instantly.
“Did she get in touch with you, or did you get in touch with her?”
Mason said, “I’m glad you’re now asking me something I can answer. Della, where’s that issue of the Blade? The one I had the ad in?”
Della Street arose, silently went to the files, opened one of the drawers, took out a folder, and handed Mason a copy of the ad in the Blade.
“Take it over to Lieutenant Tragg,” Mason said.
Tragg regarded the ad, frowned and said, “What’s that got to do with it?”
“Get that letter out of the file, Della,” Mason said. “The one that came to the Drake Detective Agency, the one that had a key in it.”
“A key?” Tragg said.
“A key!” Lucille Barton exclaimed.
“A key,” Mason repeated, smilingly. “A key — one you open doors with, you know.”
Della Street brought the letter from the safe.
“Give it to the Lieutenant, Della.”
Lieutenant Tragg took the letter, read it and frowned.
“We may just as well give it to Miss Barton,” Mason said. “She wrote it you know, Lieutenant.”
“The hell she did,” Tragg said, chewing on his cigar.
Della Street handed the letter to Lucille Barton, who read it, then passed it across to Arthur Colson.
“And what did you do about that letter?” Tragg said. “You waited until the hour mentioned when she was out of her apartment and then went to...”
“Don’t be silly, Lieutenant,” Mason interrupted. “You don’t think I’d use a key to open the door of a person’s apartment without permission, do you? I immediately went to Miss Barton’s apartment. I knocked on the door, rang the doorbell, and found that I’d caught her at rather an inopportune moment. However, she invited me to come in and make myself at home while she retired to the bedroom and finished dressing. Then she came out and we had a delightful talk and that,” Mason said, glancing meaningly at Lucille Barton, “was where the relationship of attorney and client began. She requested me to represent her in a certain matter.”
“Oh,” Lucille Barton said.
“So you’re representing Mrs. Barton?”
“Oh, yes,” Mason said. “I believe she prefers to go under the name Miss Barton,’ Lieutenant.”
“So you’re representing her,” Tragg said.
“Why, yes.”
“And what are you doing for her?”
Mason smiled and shook his head.
Tragg said, “Your activities yesterday, Mason, were rather peculiar.”
“Why, I didn’t think so, Lieutenant.”
“You had a busy day, didn’t you?”
“Fairly so. I usually keep pretty busy.”
“You went out to 938 West Casino Boulevard. You met Stephen Argyle, and accused him of driving a car in a hit-and-run accident, didn’t you?”
“I believe I suggested to him that his car might have been involved in an accident, yes.”
“And while you were there you met Hartwell L. Pitkin?”
“Are you referring to Mr. Argyle’s chauffeur?”
“Yes.”
“He was there,” Mason said.
“Now then,” Tragg said, “when did you first see that gun — that Smith and Wesson Number S65088, and why did you become interested, in tracing it?”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. We were getting along fine, but now you’re asking something I can’t tell you about.”
“Why not?”
“A privileged communication.”
“Now then,” Tragg went on, “the numbers on this gun had been ground off with a nice little emery wheel. One number had been overlooked, but it took a screw driver to get at it. The grinding of the metal looks like a very fresh job.”
“Indeed?” Mason said courteously.
“Now when you became interested in this gun, how did you know the number?”
Mason smiled and shook his head.
“Was it before the numbers had been ground off, or afterwards?”
“I’m sorry,” Mason said, smiling affably.
“It must have been before they were ground off, Mason, because that screw hadn’t been loosened since the gun left the factory. I’m wondering if perhaps you weren’t the one who removed the numbers.”
Mason merely smiled, then stifled a yawn behind his hand.
Tragg nodded to the officer, said, “All right, bring that witness.”
The officer pushed through the door toward Mason’s reception room.
Tragg said, “I’m going to put it right on the line with you, Mason. I think that at six o’clock you were out in front of Mrs. Barton’s garage at 719 South Gondola. I think a shooting took place there in that garage and I think you’re trying to cover up that shooting. I think I have a witness who can identify you.”
Mason tapped ashes from the end of his cigarette. “I feel quite certain you haven’t any such witness, Lieutenant.”
“This witness positively identifies Lucille Barton here.”
Before Mason could say anything, the door was jerked open. The plainclothes officer stood to one side and a tall man with a high forehead, high cheekbones, thin lips, and a long neck, entered the office in an apologetic manner as though ashamed of the intrusion.
Tragg pointed to Perry Mason, and said, “Is that the man?”
“I... I don’t know until he stands up,” the man said. “You see, I never saw his face real clear.”
Mason smiled at him and said, “I’m Perry Mason. What’s your name?”
“Goshen-G-O-S-H-E-N,” the man said, “Carl Ebert Goshen. I live next door to the place where the murder was committed and...”
“Never mind,” Tragg said, “I just want to know whether that’s the man.”
“I can’t tell until he stands and walks around. I can tell you then.”
“Stand up,” Tragg said to Mason.
Mason grinned. “That’s a hell of a way to make an identification, Lieutenant. You’d better have some sort of line-up if you want to have an identification that’s worth anything.”
“I can’t get you in a line-up without arresting you,” Tragg said. “I don’t particularly care about doing that until I’m certain of my ground. If this witness identifies you, then I’m certain of my ground.”
“That’s not only getting the cart before the horse,” Mason said, “but it’s putting him in circular shafts and letting him chase the tailboard.”
“Shut up,” Tragg said. “I’m doing this.”
“Indeed you are,” Mason said.
“Get up,” Tragg insisted. “If you’re innocent you have nothing to fear.”
Mason tilted back in his swivel chair, smiling at Tragg.
“How was he dressed?” Tragg asked Ghoshen.