Homan said, “Sit still for a minute. I want to think that last one over.”
Mason sat motionless, watching Homan. The producer stared down at the top of his desk. There was no expression on his face, no motion save the nervous drumming of the fingers of his right hand.
Abruptly the drumming stopped. Homan looked up, said to Mason, “My story stands. I am telling the truth. There is nothing you can do about it. I have told the police the facts. I am sorry about the Claire girl. I am not certain she stole the automobile. I think somebody else stole it first. I don’t give a damn about you, Mason. I could get sympathetic about that girl if I put my mind on it. Lying there in the hospital, injured, scarred perhaps, no funds, no job, few friends, facing a trial when she gets well, newspaper notoriety. It is a tough break. I could see the human side of it, the drama, the tragedy. I can’t afford to think of it. Right now, my studio is paying me to concentrate on the problem of a man who has fallen in love with a woman who, unfortunately, is married to someone else. Her husband won’t let her go. He is hanging on. The intimacy develops, then suddenly the husband catches them. The cruel gloating, the malice, the... What I am concerned with, Mason, is what that would do to a woman’s character. Forcing her to live a lie. Forcing her to...”
Mason pushed back his chair. “And I am not interested in your problems. I am being paid to keep a girl out of jail, and I am damned apt to do it.”
“Yes, I see your problem. I think I am getting back into the mood for my script now. Good night, Mr. Mason. Try not to come again.”
Mason said, “One warning is all I ever give.”
“Should be enough. I get it all right.” Homan reached for the script, pulled it toward him.
Mason started for the door, then suddenly turned and stepped back toward Homan’s desk. “Just as a matter of curiosity,” he said, “would you mind telling me the name of the script you are working on? I would like to see it on the screen and see if my intrusion has left any perceptible...”
Homan absently picked up the title page, said, “It’s an adaptation from a novel the studio bought a couple of years ago. The title of the book is ‘Where the Chips Fall’ — you know, part of the old adage. ‘Hew to the line and let the chips fall where they will.’ It’s a lousy title. We will change it. All right for a book perhaps, but too deep for the theater-goer. He wants a title he can understand, something that appeals to him, something that is as dramatic as a newspaper headline, as filled with... Say, why the hell am I telling you all this?”
Mason said, “I wouldn’t know either,” and walked out, gently closing the door behind him.”
The white-coated Filipino boy was waiting, in well-trained silent deference, in the hallway, with Mason’s hat and coat.
Mason let the boy help him on with his coat, took the hat, then stood for a moment looking toward the massive radio in the living room. The dial was faintly outlined in light, and low strains of organ music reproduced with remarkable clarity, came from the speaking attachment.
Mason glanced from the radio to the Filipino. “Your master lets you turn on the radio?”
White, even teeth gleamed at Mason in a shameless smile. “No, sah. When he works, he hears nothing. I cheat a little bit. I have to wait for you to go out, and this my favorite program.”
Mason said, “Is that so?” and walked over toward the radio. “I am interested in this type of radio,” he said, and stood staring down at it.
The Filipino seemed vaguely uneasy. “Very nice radio,” he said. “Please do not turn up loud. Mastah become very angry.”
Mason stood in front of the radio listening.
Abruptly, the smooth harmony of deep-throated organ music was disrupted by a rasping rattle followed by a click. Six times this was repeated, the rattle varying in length as someone in the house, using an automatic telephone, dialed a number.
Mason turned at once to the door. “Thank you very much,” he said. “Good night.”
The Filipino boy stared after him thoughtfully. “I shall tell Mr. Homan, please,” he said.
“Tell him what?” Mason asked.
“That you wait to see if he uses telephone.”
Mason smiled. “Please do,” he said.
Mason was within a few inches of the door, conscious of the hostility of the Filipino boy who was about to turn the knob. Quick steps sounded just outside the door, as the Filipino boy swung it open. Mason, starting to go out, all but collided with a deeply bronzed young man who had sprinted up the steps and was about to insert a latchkey into the door.
“Hello,” the young man said. “Didn’t intend to make a flying tackle. I am sorry.”
Mason noticed deep-set, dark eyes, high ridged features, long sloping forehead, and a wavy profusion of black hair which swept back from the hatless head.
“I say, you didn’t come to see me, did you?”
“You are Horace Homan?”
“Yes.”
“I would like a word with you.”
“I am in a devil of a hurry. Could it keep?”
“No. I am Perry Mason, a lawyer. I am representing Stephane Claire.”
“Oh, my God, another breach-of-promise suit! All right, tell her if she takes it to court, I will say ‘yes’ and marry her. That will... Oh, wait a minute. Stephane Claire. Oh, I get you now.”
“The young woman who is accused of driving your brother’s car.”
“I get it.”
“I understand you were fishing at the time.”
“That’s right — out on a cruise.”
“I was just telling your brother that this is a serious matter, one which he couldn’t detour by simply telling a story to the police and then going back to work. He has got to go on the witness stand, and when he gets on the witness stand, I am going to ask him about anything which I think will clear the matter up.”
“Can’t blame you. I will bet Jules didn’t like that very much — that is, if he quit working long enough to listen.”
“He quit working, and he listened, but I am not certain his mind was on what I was saying.”
The younger brother grinned. “It probably wasn’t, at that. However, if you told him, you have done your duty. Don’t worry about Jules. He takes care of himself. You won’t catch him off first base.”
Mason said, “It seems rather foolish for a man to risk something which may mean a great deal to him simply to save himself a damage suit for the negligent operation of his car.”
Horace Homan looked at his wrist watch. “Listen, I am in a hell of a hurry, but I have got five minutes. Let us go talk. Felipe, get the hell out of here.”
“Yes, sah. I shall wait beyond earshot to show Mr. Mason out.”
“I will show him out.”
“I beg your pahdon, sah, but the Mastah orders, sah.”
“Okay, suit yourself, Felipe. I will call when we are ready. Want to sit down?” he asked Mason.
“Let us not waste any time. Let us just stand here and talk.”
“Okay.”
“What,” Mason asked conversationally, “do you know about Spinney?”
“Spinney?” Homan asked frowning. “Say, I think I have heard that name somewhere. Wait a minute. Spinney. No, I guess not. What else?”
“Or perhaps the woman in New Orleans?”
“New Orleans... I don’t see what that has got to do with it. Look here, you don’t look like the type that would just pick up women and throw them at Jules in order to get even with him.”
“I am not.”
“As I understand it, it is a question of who was driving the car.”
“That is right.”
“Boy, oh, boy, am I thanking my lucky stars I wasn’t behind the wheel. You know how it is, Mason. I make up my mind I will never drive when I am drunk. That is when I am sober. After I have been drinking, I think I am sober enough to drive, and when I am so tight that I can’t kid myself into thinking I am sober enough to drive, I am so tight that I say it is a short life and a merry one, and to hell with the consequences. Wish I could do something about it.”