Mason said, “I went out to Homer Garvin, Jr.’s place. I asked him if he had a gun. He gave me a gun. I discharged the gun so that the bullet ploughed a furrow in Garvin’s desk. I took Garvin, Jr. to Stephanie Falkner’s apartment. He gave her the gun. Now I’ve told you the truth. What are you going to do?”
“I know that you switched guns out there, and that because of that switch young Garvin acted as your cat’s-paw and took the murder weapon up to Stephanie Falkner.”
Mason turned to his client. “There you are, Homer,” he said. “That’s a pretty good indication of what his promises are worth. If you tell him something that doesn’t conform to his cockeyed theory of the case he says it can’t be the truth. He’ll only believe the things he wants to hear.”
Burger pushed back his chair, started to get to his feet, thought better of it, settled back again in the chair.
Tragg said, “May I ask a question, Mr. District Attorney?”
“Sure, go ahead. Ask all you want,” Burger said.
Tragg said, “Mason, do I have your personal assurance, man-to-man, that you did not substitute any gun out there at young Garvin’s place?”
“You have that assurance,” Mason told him.
Tragg turned back to Hamilton Burger. “I tell you, Burger, there’s something about this whole thing that is a lot deeper than we think at the present time. I personally can’t conceive of any reason why Mason would have substituted weapons. I personally want to carry on this investigation on the theory that a weapon wasn’t substituted, and that the gun Garvin, Jr., took out of his desk was the murder weapon.”
“It couldn’t have been,” Hamilton Burger said flatly.
Lt. Tragg snapped, “Don’t be silly!” then corrected himself quickly. “There are certain things about this case which don’t fit together. Mason would have had no possible incentive for—”
“That’ll do,” Burger interrupted. “Watch yourself, Lieutenant. We’re here to get information, not to give it. And I prefer to carry on our own arguments in privacy, not where Mr. Perry Mason can drink everything in with the idea that he can capitalize on the things we don’t know.”
Mason arose. “I take it then, the interview is at an end?” he said. “My client has refused to answer any more questions. I have answered your questions fully and frankly. I have given you every bit of information I could without violating my professional duty to safeguard the confidences of a client.”
Hamilton Burger jerked a contemptuous thumb. “There’s the door,” he said.
“How about Garvin?”
Burger jerked his thumb upward. “Your client,” he said, “is going to spend quite a little time in a hotel at the expense of the taxpayers.”
“Gentlemen,” Mason said, “I wish you a very good evening. Garvin, my instructions to you are to make no statement of any sort.”
Hamilton Burger picked up the telephone, said to someone at the other end of the line, “Okay, send in the newspaper reporters.”
Mason took the elevator down to the curb, caught a cab back to his office.
Della Street, waiting apprehensively, said, “How did it go, Chief?”
Mason shook his head. “There’s something in this case I don’t understand as yet.”
“How about the police?”
“There’s a lot in the case they don’t understand.”
“And what about Homer Garvin?”
“Garvin,” Mason said, “is going to be charged with being an accessory after the fact, and I’m afraid they’ve got the deadwood on him.”
“And what else?”
“And Stephanie Falkner is being charged with murder, first-degree murder.”
“And you?”
Mason grinned. “Garvin and I are being put on ice. The D.A. will get his murder firmly established and then he’ll claim we’re accessories.”
“And how are you going to combat a situation of that sort?”
Mason said, “We’re going to have to trust to a faith in human nature, a lot of mental agility and considerable ingenuity. Unless I’m greatly mistaken, the District Attorney will have the Grand Jury indict Stephanie Falkner for the murder of George Casselman by noon tomorrow. He’ll then hold Homer Garvin, Sr. as an accessory, and probably won’t make any very serious objection to letting him out on bail. He’ll hold that charge over him as a club hoping that sooner or later the pressure will build up to such an extent that Garvin will cave in and help him.”
“And in the meantime?” Della Street asked.
Mason grinned. “In the meantime, Della, we’d better get that dinner we were talking about. It may be the last good meal we’ll thoroughly enjoy together.”
“You mean they’ll arrest you?” she asked.
“I doubt it,” Mason said, “but somehow I have a feeling this may be the last meal we’ll really enjoy for quite some time. Let’s go!”
Chapter Sixteen
Paul Drake slid into his favorite position, sitting crosswise in the big, overstuffed, leather chair, the small of his back propped against one big, rounded arm, his knees propped over the other, the legs dangling.
“Well, you’ve got a bear by the tail in one hand, and a tiger by the tail in the other. Perry,” he said.
“Homer Garvin, Sr. was indicted for being an accessory in the murder of George Casselman. His bail was set at a hundred thousand dollars. He made bail almost immediately and will be out within an hour or two.
“Stephanie Falkner is held for first-degree murder, without bail. The Grand Jury indicted her about an hour ago. There’s an open trial date on the calendar and the District Attorney is yelling for an immediate trial, pointing out that defense attorneys are always trying for delay, delay, delay, and he’s making a great grandstand in the press.”
“What have you found out about Dawn Joyce?” Mason asked.
“It’s a little difficult to get a line on a girl like that,” Drake said, “particularly after she’s just married someone of family and means.
“You know how it is with any show girl or model. As a matter of fact, most models are steady-going, hard-working girls. A good many of them are married, have kids, make good mothers, and wonderful wives. But there’s a provincial attitude on the part of the public. The fact that a girl is photographed in bathing suits or does kicks in front of an audience causes lots of people to get funny ideas.
“Over in Las Vegas, you can pick up gossip on Dawn Joyce. She lived in an apartment by herself. She worked part of the time as a show girl in a chorus. She worked part of the time as scenery, one of the girls who puts on a tight-fitting bathing suit and drapes herself around the pools in the various hotels. Then she’d act as a shill on the side, dolling herself out in low-cut, strapless dresses, circulating around the gambling tables, being easy to get acquainted with, and helping the suckers who wanted to gamble to make a little bigger bets and stay with the wheel a little longer than would otherwise be the case.”
“Commission?” Mason asked.
“Apparently not,” Drake said. “She was on a salary and all this was part of the job. There was nothing crude, no attempt to strong-arm a guy into playing; but you know how it is; a man will stay with the game and buy two or three more stacks of chips if there’s an amiable, attractive, young woman standing alongside of him pouring chips across the board. He hates to have it appear that he’s a piker when some young woman is giving him an appreciative eye, and at the same time is apparently plunging with her own money.”
“And winning?” Mason said.
“Exactly,” Drake observed. “You don’t know just how they do it, but you watch them and they sure seem to win a lot more than the casual tourists. Of course, you can account for that in part, because they know the game. They know when to bet heavy and when to bet light. In the second place, it makes a lot of difference if you have an unlimited bank-roll. Of course, they never cash in on their chips, and they know there’s lots more where the last stack came from. Gamblers tell me that lots of people lose out at gambling because they don’t have the guts to pile it on heavy enough when they’re winning, or the prudence to tap it light when they’re losing. Gamblers say luck comes in waves. You’re hot and then you’re cold. When you’re hot you want to pour it on for all it’s worth, and when you’re cold you want to pull in your horns until you get hot again.