“Just like I told you, he had on a light topcoat, tan- colored, and a gray hat.”
Tragg said to the officer, “There’s the coat closet there. Get out his coat and hat.”
Mason said, “Now, wait a minute, Tragg. You know you haven’t any right to do that. You can’t...”
“The hell I can’t,” Tragg said, and then, turning to Goshen said, “When this witness gets up to try and stop the officer, you notice particularly the way he walks, the way he moves...”
Mason said, “I’m telling you, Lieutenant, this is an invasion of my rights as a citizen.”
The officer opened the door of the coat closet, suddenly stopped, hesitated for a moment, then turned back to face Tragg.
“Go on,” Tragg said impatiently, “get out the coat and hat. We’ll put it on him, if we have to. He’s going to stand up and...”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but...”
“Get that coat out!” Tragg said.
The officer brought out the topcoat. It was a heavy black coat Mason had never seen before.
“Get out the tan one,” Tragg said.
“That’s the only one in here, Lieutenant.”
Mason flashed a glance at Della Street. She was cherubic in her innocence.
“That’s not the coat,” Goshen said, positively.
Tragg said suspiciously to Mason, “Where did you get that coat?”
“I didn’t get it. You did.”
“Well, then, where did you get that lead to Stephen Argyle? How did you know it was his car that was mixed up in the accident?”
Mason merely smiled and shook his head. “Lieutenant, you keep asking questions which are predicated on false premises. I’m sorry, but Argyle’s car really wasn’t mixed up in the accident.”
“I thought you...”
“I really thought it was,” Mason said, smiling, “but you know how it is, Lieutenant. Lots of times you’ll think you have all the evidence in a case and start making charges, accusations and wild assertions, and then suddenly find out, much to your chagrin, that the facts were entirely different, and...”
“Never mind all that,” Tragg said. “I want to know where you got the information, why you went out and told Argyle his car had been in the accident, how you knew it.”
Mason said, “As a matter of fact, Lieutenant, the man who was involved in the accident is a gentleman by the name of Caffee — Mr. Daniel Caffee, 1017 Beachnut Street, Apartment 22-B. I located him yesterday evening and I’m quite satisfied that it was purely a mistake on Mr. Caffee’s part. When Mr. Caffee learned that my client had been injured he was only too glad to make adjustments.”
“What do you mean — adjustments?”
“He paid off.”
“When?”
“This morning, after making a partial payment yesterday.”
“I’ll be damned,” Tragg blurted.
“Of course,” Mason told him, “I don’t care to have that information noised about, Lieutenant. I’m merely trying to help you clean up a case in which you seem to be interested. I understand that Mr. Pitkin committed suicide in Miss Barton’s garage.”
“He was murdered in Miss Barton’s garage.”
Mason made clicking noises with his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
Tragg said, “You weren’t in your office last night between five and six. Della Street showed up in a taxicab. Stephen Argyle was waiting here for you. His chauffeur was waiting down in front. Shortly after five o’clock, Argyle went down and told the chauffeur there was no need for him to wait. Argyle came back and waited here until almost six o’clock. Then he telephoned his insurance carrier and made an appointment to meet an adjuster in front of the building. He can account for every minute of his time, and he also knows that you weren’t here in your office.”
“I’m seldom in the office after five o’clock,” Mason said. “I try to close up and get out. Of course, occasionally I do night work but I don’t like to see clients after five o’clock. It establishes a bad precedent and...”
“And,” Tragg went on, “the reason you weren’t here is because you were with Lucille Barton. When Pitkin entered that garage, you were there. At any rate, you were there shortly after he entered. Now I’m willing to be fair about the thing, Mason. I think the evidence indicates that probably Pitkin was there for no good purpose. He may have attacked you or Miss Barton. One of you had a gun and pulled the trigger. That stopped the career of Mr. Hartwell L. Pitkin, and I’m perfectly willing to concede that it wasn’t the career of an exemplary citizen. It was the career of a blackmailer, an opportunist, and a crook. If he was waiting there in that garage, I’m satisfied he was waiting for no good purpose, but I’m only going to give you this one chance to come clean privately. After this it will have to be publicly. I’m going to tell you frankly that, if it was self-defense, I’m willing to make allowances for that, but I want to clean this case up fast.”
“Yes, I can understand that,” Mason said. “And I know you want to be fair.”
“Now, then,” Tragg went on, “Lucille Barton says she was with you.”
“She does?”
“That’s right. At first she said she was with Anita Jordon, and Anita Jordon was to give her an alibi for the entire evening, but when we started getting right down to brass tacks that alibi blew up.”
Lucille Barton said hurriedly, “I didn’t say I was with Mr. Mason at six o’clock. At first I said I was with him just before I met Anita and...”
“Now I’m doing the talking,” Tragg said.
“He doesn’t want you to talk,” Mason said meaningly to Lucille Barton. “Therefore, as your attorney, I would advise you to keep quiet.”
“None of that,” Tragg said to Mason. “I’m talking to you.”
“And I’m talking to my client, Lieutenant.”
“When were you with Mrs. Barton yesterday?”
“I told you I saw her sometime in the morning.”
“When did you see her after that?”
“I’m sure I can’t tell you the time, Lieutenant.”
“But you did see her after that?”
“Oh, yes.”
Tragg said, “All right, we’ll quit beating around the bush, Mason. I want to take your fingerprints.”
“Certainly,” Mason said, “go right ahead. I’ll be only too glad to co-operate in every way I can, Lieutenant; but of course you understand I can’t betray the confidences of a client.”
Tragg nodded to the officer, who produced a small fingerprint outfit from his pocket and approached the desk.
“Stand up,” Tragg said.
“Oh, I’ll do it sitting down,” Mason told him smiling, extending his hand to the officer.
Goshen suddenly said, “I don’t think that’s the man. The man that I saw was not quite so heavy and...”
“Just step outside for a minute,” Tragg said. “I want you to see this man with his overcoat on and I want you to see him standing up and walking. You can’t make any identification while he’s sitting down there behind the desk.”
Mason said, “And I warn you, Lieutenant, he can’t make an identification that’s worth a damn unless he picks me out of a line-up.”
Goshen arose, paused uncertainly, then walked out through the door to the reception room.
Tragg said. “You can be tough about it if you want to, Mason, but there’s an easy way of doing this and there’s a hard way. If I can’t do it the easy way, I’ll do it the hard way.”
“That’s very logical,” Mason said. “Now, where is it you want my prints, officer — on this piece of paper? Oh, yes, now I believe I’m supposed to roll each finger across the white paper.”
Lucille Barton was regarding Mason with fixed intensity. Arthur Colson glanced at Mason, then hastily averted his eyes.