“Okay,” Mason said. “I gather that the three o’clock call didn’t come through.”
“That’s right. I haven’t heard from him at all. I wanted you to know.”
Mason said, “Thanks. That means he’s been picked up. There’s nothing we can do until they book him. We’ll stay on the job. Thanks for calling.”
Mason hung up the phone, started studying the picture on the second page of the afternoon newspaper.
“Interesting?” Della Street asked.
“Very,” Mason said. “You can see there’s a man’s footprint here, a footprint which has been made with a bloody shoe and there’s a heel mark, the stamp of a fairly new rubber heel. Police have been able to make out the name: ‘The Spring-Eze.’ ”
Mason pushed back the paper and started pacing the floor.
At length he paused and regarded Della Street quizzically.
“It’s my contention, Della, that an attorney doesn’t have to sit back and wait until a witness gets on the stand and then test his recollection simply by asking him questions. If facts can be shuffled in such a way that it will confuse a witness who isn’t absolutely certain of his story, and if the attorney doesn’t suppress, conceal, or distort any of the actual evidence, I claim the attorney is within his rights.”
Della Street nodded.
“In this case,” Mason went on, “the facts keep shuffling themselves. Usually the police get the main suspect, but have difficulty finding the murder weapon. Here they have the murder weapon and have so many main suspects, they don’t know what to do.”
Della Street said, “In this case you’re one up on them. Knowing that you didn’t switch weapons you know the murder weapon was in Junior’s desk.”
Mason nodded. “The only trouble, Della, is that I don’t know who put it there, and I won’t know until I can talk with Garvin Senior.”
“And if he didn’t put it there?”
“Then the murderer did.
“We’re going to have to work late tonight. Police are holding Stephanie Falkner. Now they’ve also picked up Garvin Senior. He made the mistake of underestimating the police.
“We’ll get Paul’s men to check various job printing establishments and see if we can find where these billheads of the phony repair company were printed. How’s your headache?”
She looked at him, then slowly closed one eye. “Much better,” she said.
Chapter Fifteen
Mason and Della Street entered the dimly lit interior of the cocktail lounge.
“Well,” Della Street said with a sigh, “this is a welcome and relaxing atmosphere after the tense strain of working on a case.”
Mason nodded. “We’ll sit and relax, have a couple of cocktails, then get a nice steak dinner with baked potato and all the fixings. We can have a bottle of stout with the steak, and... However, Della, let’s just check before we sit down. I’ll give Paul Drake a ring to let him know where we are.”
Mason stepped into the telephone booth, dialed Paul Drake’s number, said, “Perry Mason talking. Put Paul on, will you?”
Paul Drake said hello, and Mason said, “we’re just letting you know where we are, Paul. We’re going to take time out for a couple of cocktails, a good dinner...”
“Hold it!” Paul Drake interrupted.
“Not yet,” Mason said. “A bottle of stout with the steak, perhaps a little garlic toast, and...”
“Hey! Whoa! Back up!” Drake shouted into the telephone. “You’re wasting precious time.”
“What is it?” Mason asked.
“Lt. Tragg of Homicide telephoned not over five minutes ago. They’re frantically trying to reach you.”
“Why?” Mason said.
“Homer Garvin, Sr. is being held for questioning in the office of the District Attorney. He refuses to make any statement unless you are present. The D.A. is going to call in newspaper reporters and let them know of developments unless you show up and unless Garvin quote satisfactorily explains unquote certain evidence against him.”
Mason hesitated for a moment.
“You there?” Drake asked.
“I’m here,” Mason said. “I’m thinking. All right,” he said, reaching a sudden decision, “where is Garvin now?”
“At the D.A.’s office.”
“Tell them to expect me,” Mason said. “I’m coming up.” He slammed up the telephone, jerked the door open.
“Oh-oh,” Delia Street said, “here goes a perfectly good dinner.”
“That’s right,” Mason told her. “It’s postponed. Garvin, Sr. is in custody. They have him at the D.A.’s office. He refuses to make any statement unless I’m present, and demands that they notify me as his attorney.”
“And they did?”
“They did.”
“That means they’re laying a trap for you too,” Delia Street warned.
“I know it,” Mason told her. “However, I’m going to walk into it. Take my car, go to the office and wait. I’ll get back there just as soon as I can and then we’ll go to dinner. I’ll take a taxi to the D.A.’s office. Okay, Delia, be seeing you.”
Mason thrust the keys to the car into her hand, dashed to the door, jumped into a waiting taxi and said, “You know where the District Attorney’s office is? I’m in something of a hurry.”
The lawyer sat on the edge of the seat while the taxi driver twisted and wormed his way through traffic.
As the cab came to a stop against the curb, Mason handed the driver a five-dollar bill, said, “A good ride, keep the change,” and sprinted for the elevators.
A uniformed officer sat at the reception desk in the District Attorney’s office.
Mason said, “I’m Mason. I think they’re expecting me.”
“Go on in,” the officer said. “He’s in Hamilton Burger’s office. Last on the left.”
Mason pushed open a swinging door, strode down a hallway flanked with officers, pushed open the door of an office marked “Hamilton Burger, District Attorney, Private,” and said, “Good evening, gentlemen.”
They were seated in shirtsleeves in a tight little group: Lt. Tragg of Homicide, a uniformed officer, a shorthand reporter, Homer Garvin, and Hamilton Burger, the barrel-chested, grizzly bear of a District Attorney.
The room was filled with a heavy aroma of cigarette smoke.
Hamilton Burger cleared his throat importantly, but first nodded to the shorthand reporter.
“Mr. Mason,” he said. “Mr. Perry Mason. Please come in and be seated. Let the records show that Mr. Perry Mason has arrived. Now Mr. Garvin, you have stated that you would explain matters only when your attorney was present. I am now asking you to explain the bloodstained shoe, and the print of that bloodstained shoe in the apartment of George Casselman, who was murdered last Tuesday night.”
Mason said, “Just a moment, gentlemen, if my client is going to make any statement, I want to talk with him first.”
“We’ve waited long enough already,” Hamilton Burger said.
“If I am denied an opportunity to confer with my client before this conference goes on,” Mason said, “I will simply advise him not to answer any questions and you can keep right on waiting.”
“In that event, we will not try to protect him as far as publicity is concerned,” Hamilton Burger warned. “Mr. Garvin is a responsible businessman. I have explained to him that we don’t want to work any injustice, that we don’t want to drag his name into this case so that there will be any unfavorable publicity.”
Mason said, “Let the record show that I have demanded an opportunity to confer with my client before the interrogation proceeds further, that I have been answered with a threat by the District Attorney to call in reporters and crucify my client with publicity.”