“According to Anders’ story, you sent him to his hotel and told him to stay there after Mae Farr had told you all about the shooting. Anders began to think things over and decided that he wanted to consult his own attorney, a friend of long standing who has an office in the county seat where Anders lives. He went down to the airport, chartered a plane, and flew north. He stated all of the facts to this attorney, who advised him to get in touch with the police without delay and make a clean breast of everything. The attorney seemed to—”
“Oh hell!” Sergeant Holcomb interrupted, spinning around from the window. “Why mince words? The attorney said that Mason had given Anders the worst possible advice that a lawyer could give a man.”
Mason said, “That’s nice.”
Sergeant Holcomb went on, “I always told you, Mason, that someday you were going to come a cropper. This is it.”
Mason said, “All right, let’s quit the schoolboy grandstand stuff and get down to brass tacks. I know you’re a smart detective. You should be promoted to a captaincy. You’ve predicted my downfall for a long time. Anders’ lawyer says I gave Anders bum advice. All right, what if he did? I don’t care. Anders goes ahead and has kittens. Just because this lawyer gave him the kind of advice you want, you think he’s right and I’m wrong. What do you want?”
Sergeant Holcomb said, “We want that gun.”
“What gun?”
“The gun that killed Penn Wentworth.”
“I haven’t got it.”
“That’s what you say.”
Mason’s face darkened. His eyes narrowed slightly. “That,” he announced with cold finality, “is what I say.”
“Okay,” Sergeant Holcomb said. “We wanted to give you an out. If we have to do it the hard way, we can do it the hard way.”
“Go ahead,” Mason said, “do it the hard way.”
Sergeant Holcomb said, “Just a minute. You stay here with him, Runcifer,” and strode across the floor, jerked open the door to the outer office, walked out to the reception room, picked up a small handbag, and returned.
Mason watched him calmly while he opened the handbag, reached inside, then stood for a moment as though setting the stage for a dramatic act.
“Go ahead,” Mason said, “pull out the rabbit.”
Sergeant Holcomb jerked out a pair of shoes. “Look at these,” he said. “Tell me if they’re yours, and remember that anything you say will be used against you.”
Mason looked at the muddy shoes, reached out, took one, examined it, and asked, “Where did you get these shoes?”
Holcomb said, “Don’t think you’re going to pull that kind of an act, Mason. I got them with a search warrant.”
“Who the hell gave you a warrant to search my apartment?”
“A judge,” Sergeant Holcomb said, “and that’s not answering the question, Mason. Are those your shoes?”
“Of course they’re my shoes. You got them in my apartment, didn’t you?”
“Were you wearing them last night?”
“I don’t remember.”
“The hell you don’t.”
Mason said, “You’re asking the questions. I’m answering them. Never mind the comments. You might get into trouble.”
Sergeant Holcomb said, “Don’t try bluffing me because it won’t work. If I drag you down to headquarters and book you on the charge of being an accessory after the fact, you’ll sing a different tune.”
“Not to any music you can play,” Mason said.
Runcifer said placatingly, “Now, let’s not lose our tempers, Mr. Mason. You must appreciate that the evidence is incriminating, to say the least. You must also realize that the minute we take any action, the newspapers will give you publicity which will be highly disadvantageous. Now we are here for the purpose of eliciting information in a courteous manner.”
“Why don’t you follow your charted course then?” Mason asked.
Runcifer said meaningly to Sergeant Holcomb, “I think we will. Sergeant, if you’ll pardon me, I’ll do the questioning.”
Sergeant Holcomb shrugged his shoulders and turned away contemptuously.
Runcifer said, “Mr. Mason, I am going to be frank with you. Anders has made a complete statement. He said that Miss Farr boarded the Pennwent, that he heard her scream and heard sounds of a struggle. He rushed to her rescue. In running across the float, he missed his footing and fell into the water. As nearly as he can judge, the shooting took place while he was in the water because he insists that he did not hear the sound of the revolver shot although he had heard Miss Farr’s cries for help quite plainly. Upon boarding the yacht, he ran to the open skylight and looked down into the main cabin. Miss Farr was arranging her clothes, which apparently had been badly disarrayed. She ran up on deck. Upon seeing him aboard the yacht, she became greatly confused and embarrassed, asked him what he was doing there, and when he told her that he came in response to her cries, asked him if he had a weapon with him. Upon being assured that he had, she rushed him off the yacht in the greatest haste.
“Later on, and as they were travelling toward the city in his car, she told him that Wentworth had been shot and that she wanted to rush him off the yacht because she was afraid that persons from neighbouring boats would be attracted by the shot and that Anders would be accused of the shooting. Anders thereupon, fearing that such might be the case, decided to get rid of his gun. He stopped the car near a hot dog stand which he describes perfectly and threw the gun off to the side of the road across the fence which borders the highway. Then they drove to town.
“Thereafter, Anders tells a story which I find it difficult to believe. He claims that—”
Sergeant Holcomb interrupted. “Are you going to tell him every single fact we have in our possession?”
“Absolutely,” Runcifer said, his tone reflecting the obstinacy of a man who lives in a world of books, who has acquired his knowledge from abstract study and looks upon the events taking place about him from an academic view-point.
“Show him all the trump cards you hold before he plays his,” Sergeant Holcomb said, “and he’ll know which ace to trump.”
“I think this is the only ethical way to handle the matter, Sergeant,” Runcifer said with cold finality. “Your methods resulted only in an argument which brought us no additional information and was personally distasteful to me.”
Sergeant Holcomb said, “Nuts.”
Mason said to Runcifer, “You were saying?”
“Let’s see,” Runcifer said, frowning. “Exactly what was I saying? Oh yes, about what Anders told us took place when he returned to the city. He said that he consulted the telephone directory to see if you had a resident telephone. He found there were two numbers for the office, one a day number, the other a night number. He called the night number, and your secretary, Miss Street, answered. He tried to tell her what had happened over the telephone, and she instructed him to come with Miss Farr to her apartment at once.”
Runcifer placed the tips of his fingers together and concentrated his gaze upon them, apparently more concerned lest his summing up of the case should miss some significant detail than in the reactions of Perry Mason.
Sergeant Holcomb stood glowering at the deputy district attorney, apparently of half a mind to step in and assume charge but hesitating because of orders to act under Runcifer’s direction.
“Now then,” Runcifer went on, in calm, academic tones, “comes the part of the story which seems utterly incredible to me. I cannot understand your actions in the matter, Mr. Mason. However, I will first outline what Anders said. He claimed that Miss Street called you, that you came to her apartment, that you advised both of them to refrain from notifying the authorities, and that you yourself accompanied Miss Farr to the yacht harbour for the purpose of finding some way of keeping her name from being brought into the case.