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“Yes, I understand.”

“Therefore,” Tragg went on, “you’d have to take your medicine on that. Now, was the body in the garage when you were called there at six o’clock?”

Mason said, “I’ve told you, Lieutenant, I can’t tell you where I was at six o’clock.”

“And if this man Caffee was the fellow who hit Finchley’s car, how does it happen you strong-armed a settlement out of Stephen Argyle?”

“I didn’t.”

“He made a settlement last night with Finchley.”

“That’s right.”

“That is something I checked up on rather carefully,” Lieutenant Tragg said, “because naturally I was interested in accounting for his time during the afternoon and evening.”

“And you were able to do it?”

“Sure. He was out at his house. You came out there and accused him of a hit-and-run. Naturally, he doesn’t want to discuss the hit-and-run charge.”

“I daresay he doesn’t.”

“But immediately after you’d left him,” Tragg went on, “Argyle did some thinking and decided he’d better buy his way out. He rushed to your office. He had the chauffeur wait downstairs. Then, when it looked as though you weren’t going to be in for a while, and Argyle remembered it was Pitkin’s night out, he went back down to let the chauffeur go. He told him to take the car back to the house.”

“I see.”

“Argyle waited until around six o’clock, then telephoned the insurance people and told them where he was, and what he was doing. The insurance adjuster had kittens, told him to stay away from you and under no circumstances to talk with you. The adjuster said he was on his way up to the office just as quick as he could get there, so Argyle waited in the lobby. The man at the cigar counter remembers him distinctly. Argyle waited about five or ten minutes in the lobby, and then the insurance adjuster came up and took him in tow.”

Tragg studied Mason, added, “Of course, if Argyle’s car didn’t hit this guy, Argyle and the insurance company will naturally want a return of the money they paid.”

“I’m quite certain they will,” Mason said.

Tragg looked at him sharply. “You aren’t saying specifically you’re going to give it back?”

“That’s right. I didn’t say that. I’m not.”

“What!”

“I’m going to hang on to it.”

“Look,” Tragg said, “why don’t you take your hair down and come clean, Mason?”

“I don’t like to take my hair down. It might get in my eyes.”

“Well something’s in your eyes now. Look, Mason, this woman didn’t think you were her attorney when she came in here.”

“The deuce she didn’t!” Mason exclaimed apparently in surprise.

Tragg said, “If you come clean I’ll do everything I can to see that you get a square deal, not only with the press but at Headquarters.”

“And the district attorney?” Mason asked.

“And with the district attorney,” Tragg said, but his voice suddenly lacked conviction.

Mason grinned. “You know as well as I do, Tragg, that if you could get anything on me, the district attorney would welcome you with open arms. The case against Lucille Barton would pale into insignificance.”

“Well,” Tragg said, “what do you think he’s got against you now? He’s got enough to throw the book at you.”

“Let him throw,” Mason said. “Just so he throws it across the plate. And you can tell him for me I’ll knock it over the fence for a home run.”

“Not with that fingerprint on that gun you’re not going to,” Tragg said. “That gun was the one that killed Pitkin. I have a report from our expert in ballistics.”

“Indeed?”

Tragg got to his feet. “Well, I gave you your chance, Mason.”

“You sure did,” Mason said. “Pardon me if I don’t get up, Tragg. That man Goshen might come running in the door and put the finger on me. I don’t like to be identified in that way. I always prefer to have some sort of a line-up. At least the witness should have some choice.”

Tragg said, “Don’t be a fool, Mason. You can’t spend the next two weeks sitting down. We’ll identify you sometime and when we do it’s going to look like hell — the asinine way you tried to dodge.”

Tragg stalked through the door of Mason’s office out to the entrance room.

Mason exchanged glances with Della Street. “Good Lord, Della, that gun was the murder weapon!”

She nodded mutely.

“I’d felt certain that when they examined the fatal bullet they’d find it had been fired from another gun and... Della, where the devil did you get that topcoat?”

“It’s Paul Drake’s,” she said in a low voice. “Gertie heard them talking while they were waiting in the reception room. I slipped down to Drake’s office, borrowed his overcoat and left yours there with him.”

Mason grinned. “Did Drake know what you wanted it for?”

“He didn’t ask any questions — he was careful not to.”

Mason said, “Della, raise your salary a hundred dollars a month, and come over here by my desk. I can’t get up at the moment because Tragg may come busting in here again with that popeyed witness.”

Chapter 19

Mason spread out the newspaper on his desk, said, “Well, they certainly did a job, didn’t they, Della?”

Della Street nodded.

“Nice headlines,” Mason said, reading them: LAWYER’S FINGERPRINT FOUND ON MURDER WEAPON — ATTORNEY REFUSES TO STAND SO WITNESS CAN MAKE IDENTIFICATION... BEAUTIFUL DIVORCEE ARRESTED IN MYSTERIOUS MURDER... LAWYER POSSESSED KEY TO SUSPECT’S APARTMENT.

Mason looked up. “That sure is quite a smear, Della.”

“ ‘Smear’ is no word for it. Incidentally, I’ve been wondering, why did you tell Lieutenant Tragg about those letters and give him the keys?”

“It was the only way I could tip off Lucille Barton to what I wanted her to say.”

“I don’t get it.”

Mason said, “Suppose someone else had written both of those letters.”

“Well?”

“Sooner or later,” Mason said, “it was bound to come out that a key to the apartment had been sent to Paul Drake and that Paul Drake had turned that key over to me. Now then, if anyone else had sent that key and I used it to enter the apartment I was a lawbreaker. But if Lucille Barton herself had sent that key then I was entering the apartment with her permission.”

Della Street nodded. “I see now. I wonder if she did.”

“Once in the apartment with her permission,” Mason went on, “the situation was entirely different. So if I can get the idea across to her that someone else sent the key to the desk, and that the gun was kept in the desk, I’ve given Tragg something to worry about.”

“Suppose she had sense enough to get it?”

“Darned if I know,” Mason said, “but I wasn’t trying to give her an out. I was giving Tragg something to worry about, also Colson. I wonder if Colson...”

Mason was interrupted by Drake’s code knock on the door.

“Let Paul in, Della.”

Della Street opened the door.

Paul Drake, carrying an afternoon paper under his arm, said, “Did you see what they had to say in... Oh, I see you have one.”

“Sit down, Paul,” Mason said. “Quite a smear, isn’t it?”

“I’ll say it’s a smear.”