“I don’t care whether he’s dead or alive. He was—”
“He was your husband,” Mason interrupted. “You had differences of opinion with him. It had occurred to you for some time that you no longer cared for him; that you’d been tricked into marrying him, but you felt sorry for him. Understand that. Your attitude was one of sympathy and compassion. You realized that, while at times he was intensely disagreeable, it was because of his peculiar nervous temperament.”
“It was because he had a cold heart and a selfish, calculating disposition,” she said.
“And,” Mason went on, heedless of her comment, “it was a great shock to you when you learned he was dead, just as it would be a shock to hear that anyone who had been close to you had passed away. You weren’t overcome by grief because you realized you didn’t love him, but you were shocked, and deeply grieved. Hundreds of thousands of marriages go on the rocks every year, but that doesn’t mean that either or both parties to the divorce action are not ordinary likeable human beings. It simply means that emotions don’t remain static; that love, like any other fire, will burn itself out unless fresh fuel is added, and many people don’t understand the art of adding fresh fuel to romance, once the romance has culminated in marriage.”
She said, “You want me to say that?”
“Words to that effect,” he told her.
“On the witness stand?”
“You probably won’t be asked on the witness stand. But long before you get into court you’ll be interviewed by newspaper men and—”
“I’ve already been interviewed,” she said. “Plenty!”
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing. You told me to say nothing, and that’s exactly what I did.”
“All right,” he told her. “We’re going to change that now. You’re going to talk, and you’re going to talk freely. You just can’t believe that Rita could possibly have done any such thing, although you didn’t have an opportunity to discuss with Rita exactly what had happened after you left the house. Remember, you’re to tell all the newspaper people that you and Rita didn’t discuss what occurred while she was there in the house.”
Rosalind Prescott nodded.
“You’ll admit frankly that you love Jimmy Driscoll. In fact, you’ll spread that on rather thick. Remember, all the world loves a lover. But be sure that it’s romance and not the marital transgression of a restless woman. You had loved Jimmy; then you had quarreled. You had resolutely put Jimmy out of your life and endeavored by every means to make your marriage a success. Gradually the veneer had worn off. You came to see that you and Walter weren’t suited for each other. No matter how much he might have meant to others, he couldn’t fill your life. And he didn’t try. Your married life became sort of a cat-and-dog existence. You were desperately unhappy. During all of this time the thought of Jimmy Driscoll hadn’t come to your mind except as a friend. Then he wrote to you, not as a lover, but as a friend, a friend who had handled all your financial matters. He told you that it would be better to make the break and get it over with and not try to prolong a hopeless situation. Then, when Jimmy came to the house and you looked in his eyes, you suddenly realized that you loved him and always had loved him. But that was after you had realized that you could never continue living with Walter Prescott: after you had both agreed to split up and obtain a divorce. Do you understand that?”
“What do I say about the twelve thousand dollars?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Mason said, “other than that you gave Walter some money to invest. His untimely death prevented you two from having a financial accounting.”
“That’s what I say, but what about the twelve thousand dollars?” she demanded.
“It doesn’t make any difference now,” Mason told her. “You inherit whatever property there is. Now that the authorities have decided not to prosecute you on a murder charge, I’m filing application for letters of administration. Are there any relatives?”
“No. Otherwise he’d have willed everything to them. In any event, he—”
“Forget it,” Mason interrupted. “Remember that Walter was nervous. Walter was working too hard. Walter was a man who cared nothing for society or companionship, but only because he was too self-sufficient. The fact that you didn’t get along with him doesn’t mean there was anything wrong with his character.”
She said venomously, “I hate to lie. He embezzled my money. He was a—”
“Never mind what he was,” Mason said. “He’s dead. You remember what I told you about him. Keep that attitude whenever you speak of him. He left no relatives, and you as his wife inherit all of his property, whether it’s separate or community. You’ll get your twelve thousand back that way.”
The private telephone on his desk jangled into noise. Only three people had the number of that telephone. It was used only in the event of major emergencies.
Mason scooped the receiver to his ear and heard Drake’s voice saying, “Sorry to call you on this line, Perry, but this is important as hell. I think we’ve found Jason Braun, or Carl Packard, whichever you want to call him.”
“Where?” Mason asked.
“Out in the country. I’m having a man bring up a car.”
“Where are you now?”
“Just leaving the office. I’ll meet you at the elevator.”
Mason said, “Okay,” banged up the receiver, pushed back his chair, called over his shoulder to Rosalind Prescott, “Be back in an hour. In the meantime, remember what I told you. Change your attitude to the newspaper boys. Talk plenty, but don’t tell them anything.”
Della Street scooped her notebook and pencils into a handbag, said, “Do you want me, Chief?”
He shook his head and said, “Go over Mrs. Prescott’s story with her a little. Pretend you’re a newspaper woman. Ask her questions and get her answers. I’ll either be back in an hour or telephone you.”
He grabbed his hat, jerked open the corridor door, and strode down the flagged floor. Drake was waiting for him at the elevator.
“What is it?” Mason asked.
“It’s reported as an automobile accident,” Drake said. “It went in through the traffic department. I don’t think the police have taken a tumble yet.”
“What sort of an accident?”
“Car rolled over a grade out in the mountains between Santa Monica and Triumfo. It’s been down at the bottom of the canyon for a couple of days.”
“The man that drove it?” Mason asked.
“Under the car. Smashed flatter than a pancake.”
The elevator slid to a stop. Drake started to say something as they stepped into the cage, but Mason said, “Save it, Paul,” and glanced significantly at the elevator operator.
Not until they were speeding out Wilshire Boulevard in a car driven by one of Drake’s men did the detective give any details to the attorney. “This report came in to the Highway Department. I won’t bother you with details, Perry, but one of the possibilities I’d figured on was that this chap, Packard, had disappeared because something had happened to him. So I’d assigned men to look into every murder and accident case, as well as every automobile accident. As soon as a report came in, my man chased out to the scene of the accident. He found out this fellow’s hat had the imprint of a haberdashery store in Altaville in the band, and that the initials ‘C.P.’ had been stamped in the band. There seemed to have been no papers of identification in the pockets. From all I can understand, the corpse is pretty much of a mess. However, we can make an identification from finger-prints. The Board of Fire Underwriters had all of their men fingerprinted, and I managed to secure a copy of Jason Braun’s prints.”
Mason said, “Of course, Paul, if the man’s dead, it isn’t going to do us any good to discover him in advance of the police, unless there are some circumstances in connection with his death which would give us a clue. After all, the thing I want is to find out what this man saw in the window of the Prescott house which distracted his attention and sent him crashing into that van.”