“You bought it?” Mason asked.
“Well,” she said, “I’m giving it serious consideration. I tried to telephone you to ask you what you thought about it, but there was something wrong with the line. I couldn’t seem to get a connection.”
Before Mason could say anything, Paul Drake’s code knock sounded on the door of the office.
“Let Paul in, Della,” Mason said.
Della Street opened the door.
“Hi, Della,” Drake said. “Well, Perry, you’d better get ready to receive official visitors.”
“Why?” Mason asked.
“Police are biting their fingernails, tearing their hair, and raising hell generally,” Drake said, “but I have one tip that may help you. That’s why I dashed in, to tip you off to something that may help.”
“What?”
“Police overlooked a bet. It didn’t occur to them to go down and dig the bullet out of the desk at young Garvin’s place until just a few minutes ago. Sgt. Holcomb went down there with the ballistic experts, and what do you think they found?”
“What?” Mason asked.
“Some souvenir hunter had made off with the bullet. It had struck the desk at an angle, glanced into the wall, and hit a steel girder. Somebody had made just a little hole in the plaster and lifted the bullet out as neatly as could be.”
Mason frowned for a moment, then whirled to face Della Street.
“Can you imagine that!” Della exclaimed. “Now who in the world could have done that, Paul?”
“Some souvenir hunter,” Drake said, and then added, “It may louse up the whole case.”
“I don’t see just how,” Della Street said, her manner demure, her eyes innocent.
“It makes one link in a chain of proof turn up missing,” Drake explained. “Police don’t like that. Also they’re mad because it will now appear they were caught napping.”
“How did you get the information, Paul?” Mason asked.
“It came in a roundabout way,” Drake said evasively.
“All right,” Mason said. “Give.”
“Well, this columnist Crowe ran that paragraph in his column, and naturally it attracted a lot of interest. So it was only natural that he’d want to keep in touch with things and get a follow-up if possible.”
Mason nodded.
“Well,” Drake went on, “he’s quite friendly with the head salesman at Junior Garvin’s place. So when the police came out there searching for the bullet and found that someone had beat them to it, this salesman learned about it and of course relayed the information on to Crowe. Crowe is running quite a paragraph on it tomorrow morning, although of course the police don’t know that. I have a confidential source of information in Crowe’s office. I’d advised this source of information that I was interested in any follow-up material and I received this tip on the phone just a few minutes ago.”
“All right,” Mason said, “thanks a lot, Paul. Keep on the job and let me know. Put out as many men as you need to give this case a thorough coverage.”
“Within reasonable limits?” Drake asked.
“Within no limits at all,” Mason said. “I want the facts.”
“Okay,” Drake said, “I’ll keep digging.”
“And thanks for that tip, Paul. It may be very, very important.”
“That’s okay,” Drake said, obviously pleased. “I’ll keep you posted, Perry.”
He left the office.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Mason turned to Della Street.
“All right, Della,” he said, “now let’s have the real story. You...”
The door from the outer office was pushed open and Sgt. Holcomb came in unannounced.
“Well,” he said, “a little conference, eh?”
“A little private conference,” Mason said.
“That’s all right,” Sgt. Holcomb grinned. “Go right on talking. I instructed Gertie out there not to announce me. I told her I’d just come right on in.”
“Nothing like making yourself at home,” Mason said.
“That’s right.” Holcomb agreed, standing by the door leaning his back against the wall. “I represent the majesty of the law. The law doesn’t sit outside and wait in anybody’s outer office. When we have to see somebody, we see them.”
“Don’t you even announce the fact that you are coming?” Mason asked.
“Some of the officers do,” Holcomb said. “I don’t. I don’t believe in tipping a man off. I like to watch his face during the first second or two after he sees me walk in.”
“And did you learn anything from my face?” Mason asked.
“I think I did. I know damn well you didn’t want to see me. That’s one thing.”
“Well, since you’re here, you may as well sit down. Take your hat off, and let’s see what we can do for you.”
“I’m comfortable the way I am,” Holcomb said.
“All right, what do you want?”
“You know what I want.”
“I’m not a mind reader, Sergeant, so I don’t intend to waste my time speculating on what it is you want. Previous experience has shown me you are quite able to express your ideas, your wants, your likes and your dislikes. Now start talking.”
“You’re the one to start talking,” Sgt. Holcomb said. “You went down to Homer Garvin’s used car lot and fired a gun into Garvin’s desk.”
“An accidental discharge of a firearm, my dear Sergeant,” Mason said. “I intend to reimburse Mr. Garvin for the desk. No one was hurt, and I fail to see why it should arouse any interest on the part of the police.”
“The interest on the part of the police,” Sgt. Holcomb said with elaborate sarcasm, “comes from what you doubtless consider purely a minor matter: the fact that this gun was the murder weapon which was used to kill George Casselman in the Ambrose Apartments the night before.”
“Are you certain?” Mason asked.
“Of course, I’m certain! Now then I want to know where you got that gun?”
“The gun,” Mason said, “was given to me by Homer Garvin, Jr. I asked him if he had a gun, and he said he did. He said that he had one that he used to protect himself against holdups. In the used car business they sometimes take in quite a bit of money in the form of cash. Garvin, I believe, has a permit to carry the weapon. He said that he did. That, however, is something which you are in a position to look up much more easily than I am.”
“So Garvin gave you that gun?” Holcomb asked.
“He handed me the gun, or rather he showed it to me. I reached out, picked it up, and tried the balance of it. I threw it down the way a man will in trying out the balance of a gun, and I guess in doing so I must have inadvertently pulled the trigger. In any event, Garvin didn’t tell me that it was loaded.”
“You thought he’d be protecting himself with an empty gun?” Sgt. Holcomb asked.
“I don’t know that I gave the matter any thought at all. I wouldn’t tell you that I actually did intend to snap the trigger, nor on the other hand would I go so far as to say that I didn’t intend to snap the trigger. I was testing the balance of the gun, and it went off.”
“And what happened after that?” Holcomb asked.
“Stephanie Falkner is a client of mine. She was, I felt, in some danger. Her father had been murdered, and the murderer is still at large as far as we know. I suggested to young Garvin it might be a good idea for him to take the gun and leave it with her for a short time. You see he and Stephanie Falkner had been quite good friends before his marriage.”
“So I understand,” Holcomb said drily. “Now then, Mason, you know damn well that the gun you got from Garvin wasn’t the murder weapon that killed George Casselman.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so, Sergeant. I didn’t think it was either. But since the police have so dogmatically asserted that it was the weapon, I didn’t feel in a position to contradict them.”