“Okay, I’ll see what I can do and let you know. I think I know someone who can give me the real low-down on that.”
Mason said, “I can promise you one thing. If Milter sold that information to the scandal sheet, the whole thing is cockeyed. It just doesn’t add up to give the correct answer.”
Drake stood frowning down at the special-delivery envelope. “By gosh,” he admitted, “it doesn’t!”
Chapter 8
Mason jingled the bell on the huge iron gate. The deep-throated barking of big dogs drowned out the sound of the bell. A moment later, the dogs were at the gate, fangs bared, eyes gleaming yellow reflections of car headlights.
A light clicked on the porch. A Mexican came hurrying across the flagged walk, said, “Who is it, please?” and then recognized Mason and Della Street.
“Oh, yes. Uno momento. Wait, please.”
He turned and darted back into the house.
The dogs withdrew some four or five feet, watchful yellow eyes staring at the pair.
Witherspoon himself came hurrying out of the house. “Well, well, I’m glad to see you. I certainly am! Get back, King. Get back, Prince. Tie them up, Manuel.”
“We haven’t time for that,” Mason said. “Just open the gate. They know we’re all right.”
Witherspoon looked at the dogs dubiously.
“They won’t hurt us,” Mason insisted. “Open up.”
Witherspoon nodded to the Mexican, who fitted a big key to the huge iron lock in the gate, shot back the bolt, and pulled the gate open.
The dogs came rushing forward.
Mason pushed through the gate, calmly ignoring the dogs, and shook hands with Witherspoon.
The dogs meanwhile moved back to sniff stiffly at Della Street. She extended the tips of her fingers with careless unconcern.
Witherspoon was nervously apprehensive. “Come on,” he said. “Come on in. Let’s not stay out here. These dogs are savage.”
They started toward the house, the dogs falling in behind.
Witherspoon held the door open. “Damnedest thing I ever saw,” he said.
“What?”
“The dogs. They should have chewed you up. They don’t make friends that quickly.”
“They have sense,” Mason said. “Let’s go where we can talk — privately.”
Witherspoon led the way into the house.
“Our suitcases are in the car,” Mason said.
“Manuel will bring them in. You’ll have the same rooms you had yesterday.”
Witherspoon led the way into the northeast wing, opened the door of Mason’s sitting room, and stood to one side.
Mason followed Della Street in. Witherspoon came in after them, and Mason kicked the door shut.
Witherspoon said, “I’m certainly glad you showed up. There’s an important...”
Mason said, “Forget it. Sit down in that chair and give me the low-down on this detective. Talk fast.”
“What detective?”
“Leslie Milter, the one who’s been blackmailing you.”
“Milter blackmailing me!” Witherspoon exclaimed incredulously. “Mason, you’re crazy!”
“You know him, don’t you?”
“Why, yes. He’s the detective who made the investigation of the murder. He works for Allgood.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“Yes. He made a report to me in person once; but that was after he had completed his investigations in the East.”
“You were in touch with him by long distance during the time he was making that investigation?”
“Yes. He telephoned me every night.”
Mason stared down at Witherspoon and said, “Either you’re lying to me, or everything is cockeyed.”
“I’m not lying,” Witherspoon said with cold dignity, “and I’m not accustomed to be accused of lying.”
Mason said, “Milter is in El Templo.”
“Is that so? I haven’t seen him since that one time when he made his report.”
“And haven’t heard from him?” Mason asked.
“Not within the last ten days. Not since he completed his investigations.”
Mason took from his pocket the special-delivery envelope which he had received that afternoon. “Does this mean anything to you?” he asked.
Witherspoon regarded the envelope with an air of detached curiosity. “No.”
Mason said, “Open it and read what’s inside.”
Witherspoon pressed the edges of the envelope together and looked inside. “Seems to be nothing in it except a newspaper clipping,” he said.
“Read it,” Mason ordered.
Witherspoon scissored two fingers of his right hand so as to draw out the clipping. He held it so the light struck it, but before starting to read, said, “I think we can dispense with a lot of this, Mr. Mason. Something developed this evening that...”
“Read it,” Mason interrupted.
Witherspoon flushed. For a moment he seemed on the point of throwing both envelope and clipping to the floor; then under the steady pressure of Mason’s eyes, he started reading.
Mason watched his face.
Apparently it took the first few lines to get Witherspoon’s interest sufficiently aroused so that he was conscious of what he was reading. A few words more and the full import of the words struck him. His face twisted into a black scowl. His eyes, moving rapidly back and forth, finished the printed words. He looked up at Mason with a face gone grim and hard. “The swine! The dirty swine! To think that any man could stoop so low as to publish a thing like that. How did you get it?”
“In that envelope,” Mason said. “Sent special delivery. Do you know anything about it?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Have you any idea who sent it?”
“Certainly not.”
“Know where it was published?”
“No. Where?”
“In a Hollywood scandal sheet.”
Witherspoon said, “I’ve tried to be fair. That’s where I’ve made my biggest mistake. I should have stopped this thing instantly. As soon as I found out about that murder.”
“Do you mean,” Mason asked, “that you wish now you had gone to your daughter with all this? Do you mean you would have wrecked her happiness and stirred up all this old scandal, without first making any investigation to find out whether Horace Adams’ conviction was justified?”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Witherspoon said. “I should have realized that the verdict of that jury was conclusive.”
“You have more confidence in juries than I have,” Mason retorted. “And I have a lot more confidence in juries than I have in judges. Human beings are always fallible. However, let’s forget that for the moment and talk about blackmail.”
Witherspoon said solemnly, “No man on earth could blackmail me.”
“Not even if he had something on you?”
Witherspoon shook his head. “I wouldn’t ever place myself in such a position. Can’t you see? That’s one reason why this whole proposed marriage is absolutely impossible.”
Mason seemed trying to control a growing impatience. “Let’s get this straight,” he said. “You employed the Allgood Detective Agency to check up on this murder case. Leslie L. Milter was their representative. Apparently he’s in El Templo right at this moment, living at eleven sixty-two Cinder Butte Avenue. He’s logically the one who gave the information to the columnist who spewed out this scandal column. The Allgood Agency kicked him out for talking. That means he must have talked to someone. The columnist sounds like the most logical bet.”
“I’m distressed and annoyed to find that he wasn’t trustworthy,” Witherspoon said with dignity. “He seemed very efficient.”
“Distressed!” Mason all but shouted. “Annoyed! Dammit, the man’s a blackmailer! He’s down here for the purposes of blackmail! Who’s he blackmailing? Who would he be blackmailing, if not you?”