“What?” Drake asked.
“Mr. and Mrs. Roland Burr!”
“I don’t get you.”
“Get this,” Mason said. “Burr met Witherspoon. Apparently that meeting was fortuitous. Actually, it could have been arranged very nicely.
“Apparently all you have to do is to run across Witherspoon in El Templo, be interested in fly-fishing or color photography, and Witherspoon starts talking. A clever man could make a very favorable impression and... yes, by George, that’s it. That must be it. Burr, or his wife, must have picked up something. They could have tipped off the scandal sheet — or they may be planning to shake Witherspoon down, and this column was the means they used to soften him up.”
Drake pursed his lips, gave a low whistle.
Mason said, “Make a note, Paul, to find out something about Mr. and Mrs. Roland Burr.”
Chapter 14
It was shortly before noon when Della Street came hurrying into the office. She said, “Mrs. George L. Dangerfield is waiting out there, says she simply has to see you on a matter which she can’t even discuss with anyone else.”
Mason frowned. “I thought Allgood was going to telephone and tip me off before she came down here.”
“Want me to get him on the phone?” Della asked.
Mason nodded.
A few moments later, when Allgood came on the line, his voice sounded distinctly worried. “Your secretary said you wanted to talk with me, Mr. Mason.”
“Yes, about that leak out of your office. You’ve heard about Milter?”
“Yes. Most unfortunate... When the police telephoned me, they tipped me off that he was dead, so I could cover up a lot of stuff.”
“I was there,” Mason said. “It was a swell job. Did you know that your secretary listened in on our conversation and went down to see Milter last night?”
“Yes. She finally told me everything. I could see something was on her mind this morning. She kept worrying about it, and about half an hour ago she came in and said she wanted to talk with me. She told me the whole story. I was just on the point of ringing up to ask you if I could get in touch with you. I didn’t want to call you from the office.”
Mason said, “You were going to let me know before Mrs. Dangerfield came down.”
“Yes, I will.”
“She’s here now.”
“What? The devil she is!”
“Waiting in my outer office.”
“I don’t know how she got any information about you. It certainly didn’t come through my office.”
“Nor through your receptionist?” Mason asked.
“No. I feel quite certain. That young woman made rather a complete confession. I don’t want to tell you the details over the phone. I’d like to come down to your office.”
“Come ahead,” Mason said. “Can you start right away?”
“Yes. It will take me about twenty-five or thirty minutes to get there.”
“All right, come along.”
Mason hung up the phone, said to Della Street, “Allgood says she didn’t get the tip through him. Let’s get her in here and see what she has to say. What does she look like, Della?”
“Well, she’s pretty well preserved. She’s taken care of herself. As I remember it, she was about thirty-three at the time of the trial. That would make her over fifty now. She doesn’t look it by ten years.”
“Heavy? Dumpy?” Mason asked.
“No. She’s slender and — flexible. Her skin’s in good shape. She’s taken good care of herself. I’m giving you the points a woman would notice. The externals, the style.”
“Blonde or brunette?”
“Decidedly brunette. She has large, dark eyes.”
“Glasses?”
“I think she has to wear them in order to see well, but she carries them in her purse. She was just putting the spectacle case away when I went out to talk with her. She uses her eyes to advantage.”
Mason said, “Tell me something about women, Della. Could she have let herself go to seed, and then brought herself back this way?”
“Definitely not,” Della Street said. “Not at the age of fifty-odd. She’s a woman who has taken care of herself all her life. She has eyes, and legs and hips, and she knows it — and uses them.”
“Interesting,” Mason said. “Let’s have a look at her.”
Della Street nodded, withdrew to escort Mrs. Dangerfield into the office.
The woman came directly toward Mason, walking with smooth, even rhythm. When she gave the lawyer her hand, it was with warmth and friendliness, and she raised long, dark lashes, and let him have the full benefit of her eyes. “I can’t begin to tell you how much I thank you for seeing me. I know you’re a very busy lawyer and that you see people by appointment only, but my business is particularly important, and,” she said, glancing at Della Street, “highly confidential.”
Mason said casually, “Sit down, Mrs. Dangerfield. I have no secrets from my secretary. She takes notes on conversations and keeps my records straight for me. I seldom trust anything to memory that can be put in writing. Make notes of what Mrs. Dangerfield has to say, Della.”
Mrs. Dangerfield took the rebuff with good grace. For a moment she stiffened; then she was smiling at Mason once more. “Of course! How stupid of me,” she said. “I should have known that a lawyer who handles as much work as you do, must systematize these matters. The reason I was concerned is because what I have to say is so very, very confidential. The happiness of others depends on it.”
Mason asked, “Did you wish to retain me to do something for you, Mrs. Dangerfield? Because if you did...”
“No, not at all. I wanted to talk with you about something you’re handling for someone else.”
“Sit down,” Mason invited. “A cigarette?”
“Thank you, I will.”
Mason gave her a cigarette, took one himself, and lit first one, then the other.
Mrs. Dangerfield sat down in the big chair, studied Mason for a moment in sidelong appraisal through the first puffs of her cigarette smoke, then said abruptly, “Mr. Mason, you’re doing some work for Mr. John L. Witherspoon.”
“What leads you to make that statement?” Mason asked.
“Aren’t you?”
Mason smiled. “You made an assertion. I’m asking a question.”
She laughed. “Well, I’ll change my assertion into a question.”
“Then I’ll still answer it with a question.”
She moved her long, well-manicured fingers in a nervous, drumming motion on the arm of the chair, took a deep drag from the cigarette, looked at Mason, and laughed. “I see I’m not going to get anywhere sparring with a lawyer,” she said. “I’ll put my cards on the table.”
Mason bowed.
She said, “My name is Mrs. George L. Dangerfield, just as I told your secretary. But my name has not always been Mrs. Dangerfield.”
Mason’s silence was a courteous invitation to proceed.
With the manner of one dropping an unexpected bit of information which will have explosive repercussions, she said, “I was formerly Mrs. David Latwell.”
Mason didn’t change expression. “Go ahead,” he said.
“That information doesn’t seem to surprise you,” she announced, her voice showing disappointment.
“A lawyer can seldom seem to be surprised — even when he is surprised,” Mason announced.
“You’re a very baffling individual,” she said, with just a trace of irritation in her voice.
“I’m sorry, but you said you wanted to put cards on the table.” Mason made a little gesture at the desk. “There’s the table.”
“Very well,” she surrendered. “I was Mrs. David Latwell. My husband was murdered by Horace Adams. Horace and David were in partnership in Winterburg City.”