Benedict reached inside of his coat.
“Bring it out slow,” Lt. Tragg warned, stepping forward. “Put it down on the desk with the butt toward me and the end of the barrel pointed toward you.”
Benedict placed the gun on the desk.
Lt. Tragg picked it up, snapped open the cylinder, looked at the shells, smelled the barrel, snapped the cylinder shut, put the gun in his pocket.
“All right, Benedict,” he said, “you and I are going to have a nice little talk, and since Mr. Mason isn’t your attorney and since he has a lot of work to do, we’ll just move on and let Mr. Mason get back to his work.”
“But I don’t have to go with you,” Benedict said, drawing himself up.
Lt. Tragg’s mouth clamped into a thin, firm line. “That’s what you think,” he said. “Come on.”
At the door Tragg turned and said over his shoulder to Mason, “I was prepared for Benedict here to offer himself as a sheep for the slaughter, but hardly prepared to have you drive him into the killing pen for us quite so soon.”
Mason sighed wearily. “I try to co-operate and that’s all the thanks I get.”
Tragg said thoughtfully, “When you co-operate you do it so willingly, so damned eagerly. And this guy might even go so far as to put on an act just to take the heat off his girl friend — with a little coaching from you, of course.”
Mason said angrily, “You might also ask him if he happens to own a .22 Colt automatic.”
“If you think we won’t, you’re crazy,” Tragg said, “but we might not believe all his answers. The D.A. gets suspicious of the Greeks when they bring gifts — of red herring!
“Come on, Benedict, you’re worth looking into, even if we are going to listen to any admissions you may make with skeptical ears.”
Tragg took Benedict firmly by the elbow and escorted him out into the corridor.
The automatic door check slowly closed the door and clicked it shut.
Mason and Della Street exchanged glances.
“Well,” Della Street said, “shall we go on with our dictation?”
Mason made an expression of distaste, looked at his wrist watch and said, “For your information, Miss Street, we are not going on with any dictation. This man, Benedict, has turned out to be a confusing element which raises the devil with my desire to concentrate on dictation. In order to show you my sincerity in determining not to work on any more details, I hereby invite you out for a cocktail and a nice steak dinner.”
“And afterward?” she asked.
“Afterward,” Mason said, “we might look around some of the nightspots and do a little dancing, if that appeals to you.”
“And the brief?” she asked.
“Under the circumstances,” Mason said, “I’ll go into court Monday morning, explain the emergency which arose over the week end and get a week’s extension.”
“Under those circumstances,” Della Street said, “my duty is perfectly obvious. Shall we stop by Paul Drake’s office and tell him to look up the San Francisco brass knuckles affair?”
Mason shook his head. “No,” he said, “there’s no use now. Tragg will shake Benedict down at police headquarters. Newspaper reporters will eagerly pounce on him as a sensational development in the Selkirk murder. Tragg will let them take pictures. They’ll call the San Francisco newspapers. The San Francisco papers will start ace reporters trying to cover the local angle of the case, and tomorrow morning’s paper will have the names of the men who were with Selkirk in the cocktail lounge. By that time, police will have interviewed both of the men and probably exerted considerable pressure to find out about the brass knuckles.
“There’s no use paying out our client’s money to get information we can read in the newspaper.”
“But is there any chance Paul Drake’s men could get to these men first, and—”
Mason smiled and shook his head. “Don’t underestimate the San Francisco newspaper reporters, Della — and while you’re about it, don’t underestimate the San Francisco police.
“Come on, let’s go get those cocktails.”
“Plural?” Della Street asked.
“Two,” Mason said, “and then dinner.”
Chapter Eight
Della Street, looking up from her plate, said “Oh-oh, I think we’re going to have company, Chief.”
Mason, who particularly detested having persons who recognized him in restaurants and night clubs come barging up with excuses to get acquainted or to present some legal problem, tightened his lips.
“Right behind you,” Della Street said, “walking very purposefully toward you. He chatted with the waiter for a minute and... oh-oh, here comes Fred, the manager.”
“Good for Fred,” Mason said.
“Fred’s intercepted him,” Della Street said. “Relax, he’ll be on his way out in a moment.”
Della Street cut off another piece of her steak, raised the bite halfway to her lips, then paused, frowning.
“What now?” Mason asked.
“He evidently has some influence,” Della Street said. “Fred’s coming over.”
A moment later the manager bent over Mason’s chair. “Mr. Mason, I know how you dislike to be disturbed. I dislike very much to do this, but—”
“Don’t do it then,” Mason snapped.
“It’s not that simple,” Fred said apologetically. “Mr. Selkirk, Horace Livermore Selkirk, the banker, insists that he’s going to talk with you. I headed him off. Then he suggested that I come and ask your permission but... well, you know how it is. We appreciate your patronage enormously, Mr. Mason, and we try to respect your desire for privacy but we’re hardly in a position to give Horace Selkirk the old heave ho.”
Mason hesitated for a moment. “I see your problem, Fred,” he said. “All right. Tell Mr. Selkirk that I’ll make an exception in his case.”
“Thanks a million, Mr. Mason!” the manager exclaimed in relief. “Gosh, Mr. Mason, you don’t know what a load you’ve taken off of my shoulders. I was afraid I was going to have to go back and... well, I have a loan with Mr. Selkirk’s bank. He put me in a very embarrassing position.”
“Does he know you have the loan?” Mason asked, grinning.
“He didn’t,” Fred said, grinning, “but he will very shortly after I go back to him.”
Mason laughed outright. “Go ahead, Fred, spread it on as thick as you want. I’ll see him but I don’t think the interview will be very satisfactory to him.”
“That’s not in my department,” the manager said. “Emily Post’s book on etiquette says that when you owe a bank twenty thousand dollars it’s not considered exactly proper to ask two waiters to escort the president of that bank to the door.”
The manager moved back to Selkirk, and Della Street, watching what was going on with keen interest, said, “I’ll bet Fred is spreading it on thick — well, here they come.”
Fred led Selkirk over to the table. “Mr. Mason,” he said, “I wish to present Horace Livermore Selkirk, the president of the bank with which I do business. I certainly will appreciate anything you can do for Mr. Selkirk as a personal favor and I do want to tell you, Mr. Mason, how very deeply I appreciate your granting me the personal favor of giving Mr. Selkirk an interview. I know your unfailing policy in regard to privacy.”
Mason shook hands with Horace Selkirk, said, “This is Miss Street, my secretary, Mr. Selkirk. Would you care to be seated?”
The manager deferentially held a chair and Selkirk dropped into it.
“A drink?” Mason asked.
“No, thanks.”
“You’ve dined?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Anything we can do for you?” the manager asked.
“Nothing,” Selkirk said crisply.