“Shut up, Rodney!” Dimmick said, without taking his eyes from Mason’s face. “What makes you say their interests aren’t identical, Mr. Mason?”
“Because I don’t think they are.”
“You mean you think Rosalind Prescott might have been guilty of some crime that James Driscoll isn’t guilty of? That’s impossible.”
“No,” Mason said, “I meant it the other way.”
Dimmick said, “This is embarrassing to me personally, Mr. Mason. Very embarrassing. I never thought my name would be connected with a criminal case. But the bank insists I must supervise the defense personally. I can get some attorney who specializes in that sort of thing to sit in with me if I want, but under the terms of the trust I suppose I’m obligated to take personal charge. You can see where that leaves me.”
Mason nodded.
“Now, then, we’re willing to co-operate with you,” Dimmick said insinuatingly.
Mason coughed loudly and Della Street, picking up a pen, casually slid around in her chair so that her right elbow was propped on the desk. Rodney Cuff said. “He signaled his secretary to take down what you’re saying, Mr. Dimmick.”
Dimmick shot his eyebrows down into a level line, shifted his eyes to glare ferociously at Della Street’s poised pen, then turned back to Mason and said, “I don’t give a damn if she does. Shut up, Rodney.”
There was a moment of tense silence. Then Abner Dimmick wrapped his hands more tightly about the head of the cane and said, “The bank telephoned me you were down there asking questions.”
Mason nodded.
“It might be a good plan to pool our information,” Dimmick said, “to work out a joint plan of campaign.”
“Thank you, I don’t think I’d care to do that,” Mason told him. “I want to be free to represent my client in whatever way seems best as the situation develops.”
“Can’t you see, Mr. Dimmick,” Rodney Cuff said impatiently, “he’s going to pin the whole thing on Driscoll if he has a chance.”
Dimmick continued to stare steadily at Perry Mason. “I’m not very good at this sort of thing, Mr. Mason,” he said. “I usually let the other man come to me. This time I’m coming to you. I know something of your skill in a courtroom. I know you’d be a valuable ally and a dangerous enemy. Now, if you could see your way clear to—”
“I’m sorry,” Mason told him, “but I can’t commit myself. I’m going to walk into that courtroom perfectly free to do anything which seems expedient. I’m not going to jeopardize the interests of my client by making any agreement with anyone.”
Cuff said, “Do you mean by that, Mr. Mason, that you’re going to try to pin the murder on Driscoll?”
“If I think Driscoll’s guilty, yes.”
“Do you think he’s guilty?”
“I don’t know.”
“If he’s guilty, your client is guilty.”
“Not necessarily,” Mason said.
Abner Dimmick brought the head of the cane close to the chair, pulled himself slowly to his feet. Rodney Cuff said ominously, “Don’t think we’re going to sit back and let you pin this thing on Driscoll, Mr. Mason.”
“I don’t,” Mason told him.
Dimmick said irritably, “Well, I’ll tell you frankly, I don’t like this sort of thing. I don’t like courtrooms. I don’t like juries. I don’t like criminal cases, and I’m too old a dog to learn new tricks. But Rodney likes it. Rodney’s father’s an old friend of mine. I promised him I’d take the boy in. He doesn’t like our practice. He’s a great admirer of yours, Mason. All he talks about is trying cases, how things will look to a jury. All right, Rodney, this is your chance to do your stuff”
Cuff drew himself up and said, “Please don’t think I’m completely inexperienced, Mr. Mason. I did quite a bit of trial work in one of the outlying counties. My father wanted me to get started in the city, and Mr. Dimmick promised to take me on. I think you’ll find I know my way around in a courtroom.”
“Glad to hear it,” Mason said. “Glad to have met you both.”
Dimmick started stamping toward the doorway, paused to wait for Rodney Cuff to open the door. “Well,” he said, “I don’t like it. What’s more, the doctor tells me I mustn’t get excited. Keep calm. Take it easy. Don’t get angry. Don’t get excited. That’s what they tell me. Bah! Here I am, seventy-one, thrown into a criminal case, and if I get excited, it may kill me. Come on, Rodney. No need to take up more of Mason’s time. Glad I met you, Mr. Mason. Good-by!”
He stormed out of the door, and the sound of his cane banging down the corridor was distinctly audible until he reached the elevator. Della Street looked at Perry Mason and burst out laughing. “Now that,” she said, “is a situation.”
“I’ll tell the world it’s a situation,” Mason said, grinning, “and one not very much to my liking.”
“Why didn’t you agree to play ball with them?”
“Because I’m not going to tie myself up to Jimmy Driscoll — not until I know a lot more about where he fits into the picture. He shows too much natural aptitude to hide behind a woman’s skirts to suit me.”
“Emil Scanlon, the coroner, telephoned and left a message,” she said. “The inquest is going to be held tonight at eight o’clock and Scanlon says he’ll give you an opportunity to ask an occasional question if you want. He says as far as he’s concerned, he’s going to throw the whole case wide open.”
Mason nodded thoughtfully.
“Won’t that irritate the district attorney’s office?” Della Street asked.
“Ordinarily it would,” Mason told her, “but I have an idea the district attorney may be back of the move this time. He’s in something of a spot. He must smell a rat, or he wouldn’t have grabbed the canary as evidence. If Rosalind took the gun instead of Rita, he’d hate to charge Rita with murder. If the evidence gets mixed up, and he prosecutes the wrong person, he’s going to have a hard time backing up and going after the right one. It would suit him just as well if we all started fighting.”
“Then you’re playing right into his hands?” she asked.
“Doing what?”
“Refusing to co-operate with Driscoll’s attorneys?”
“That,” he told her, “remains to be seen. I’m not going to let anyone tie my hands.”
“Well,” she said, “right now you have an appointment to go down and have your passport pictures taken. There’s a Mr. Smith over in the Federal Building who was on one of your juries once. He’ll rush through the application.”
Mason nodded, grinned, and said, “Okay, Della, I’m going down to have my picture taken and get my passport.”
“I’ll let you see my passport picture if you’ll let me see yours,” she promised.
“Maybe we should get enlargements and hang ’em side by side in the office so the clients could have a treat,” Mason suggested.
She shook her head. “You know how passport pictures are. We’d look like a couple of crooks.”
Mason paused with his hand on the knob of the door and grinned across at her. “Well,” he asked, “aren’t we?”
Chapter ten
The responsibilities of his office rested lightly on the shoulders of Emil Scanlon, the coroner. Tall, middle-aged, good-natured, he regarded the gruesome aftermaths of tragedies which flowed through his office with the detached interest of a scientist viewing guinea pigs. He was a sympathetic man, but he reserved his sympathies for the living, where they could do some good, rather than for the mangled remains upon which he was so frequently called to hold inquest.
He called the inquest to order in a good-natured, matter-of-fact voice, his keen eyes flitting over the crowded room.