“You’re damn right it’s a pinch,” Bodfish told him.
“On what grounds, may I ask?” Mason inquired.
“On suspicion of murder.”
Mason raised his eyebrows.
“Accessory after the fact, I believe,” Inspector Bodfish announced.
“Kidnaping,” Borge added.
“That all?” Mason asked.
“That’s all so far. Perhaps we can add resisting an officer by the time we have you booked.”
“Got a warrant?” Mason inquired, lighting a cigarette.
“We don’t need one.”
“All right,” Mason said to Della Street, “you go up to the room and wait, Della. Paul can keep you company. I won’t be...”
“They’re coming right along,” Inspector Bodfish said.
“What grounds?”
“The same grounds.”
“All three of us?”
“All three of you.”
Mason yawned, “Let’s get it over with.”
Borge called a taxi. They drove silently, Mason, Della Street and Paul Drake in the back seat, Inspector Bodfish and Borge seated on the folded backs of the jump seats, facing the trio. The cab turned into Stockton Boulevard, ran several blocks, and stopped.
“The D.A. live here?” Mason inquired.
“You know damn well who lives here,” Borge remarked.
Mason said to Bodfish, “I’d like to have your unbiased opinion, Inspector. Do you think it’s necessary for an officer to ape this hard-boiled style in order to be efficient?”
“Shut up,” Bodfish ordered.
Mason nodded to Drake. “He does,” he told the detective.
Borge led the way up a flight of stairs, across’ a porch, rang a bell, received a buzzing signal, pushed the door open, and said, “Upstairs, you three.”
They climbed the stairs, with no word. Mason pushed past Della Street, so that he was the first up. Scudder, who had been standing by a window, walked across to meet Mason, and said, “Perhaps you can tell us what happened here.”
“Oh, did something happen here?”
“You know it did.”
“When?”
“When you were here.”
“And when was that?” Mason asked.
“Not very long ago.”
Mason looked at the powder which had been dusted over various objects, and said to Paul Drake and Della Street, “Don’t touch anything. Paul, stick your hands in your pockets and keep them there. They’ve been frisking the place for fingerprints. It looks like a frame-up.”
Scudder’s face flushed. “You’re not in Los Angeles now,” he said. “You can’t pull that stuff and get away with it.”
Mason shrugged his shoulders.
“A man by the name of Roger P. Cartman was here,” Scudder said. “You have him concealed somewhere. I want him.”
Mason said, “You’re crazy.”
“You were here earlier this evening. You and a man named Eves decided to hide him so he wouldn’t have to testify.”
“Have you,” Mason inquired solicitously, “looked under the bed?”
“Take his fingerprints,” Scudder ordered.
“This,” Mason remonstrated, “is a damned outrage!”
Borge slipped out of his overcoat, draped it across the back of a chair, wiped perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief. Inspector Bodfish moved in on the other side.
“Is this the way you do things in San Francisco?” Mason demanded.
Scudder said nothing.
Borge grabbed Mason’s right wrist. Mason jerked back.
Borge twisted Mason’s arm under his own, pivoted his body so that Mason was pulled up against the big man’s hip.
“Wrestler, eh?” Mason inquired.
Borge, saying nothing, twisted Mason’s arm so that the fingers were spread out. Bodfish put ink on Mason’s fingers and took a series of impressions. “Hold out your other hand,” Bodfish ordered. Mason held it out.
Silently, Inspector Bodfish took the fingerprints from the other two.
“Now then,” Scudder said, “we want to know when you last saw Mr. Cartman.”
Mason said hotly, “You started this party, now go ahead and run it. Tell your big bruiser to try and make me talk-or do you use a rubber hose in this jurisdiction?”
“You mean you’re not going to answer questions?” Scudder demanded.
“I mean I’m not even going to give you a pleasant look,” Mason said.
“Perhaps you’ll tell us something,” Scudder said, facing Della Street. “You’re mixed up in this thing deep enough already. Loyalty is an excellent thing in its place, but you’re carrying it too far...”
“Don’t answer a single question, Della,” Mason ordered.
“You remember a man by the name of Cartman who sailed on the ship from Honolulu with you?”
“Don’t answer, Della,” Mason warned her.
Della Street clamped her lips together.
“You’re not answering?”
She shook her head.
Scudder swung to Drake. “You,” he said, “are on a spot. In some ways, I don’t blame you — Mason’s a client of yours. He gives you all of his business. You naturally want to protect him. But you have a living to make. They revoke the licenses of detectives who...”
“You can save it, Scudder,” Mason said grimly. “Drake isn’t going to talk. If you’d gone at this thing in a decent manner, we’d have been glad to answer questions. As it is, you can go jump in the lake.”
Scudder regarded Mason with sullen hostility. “Mason,” he said, “you’re all finished. You have a reputation for pulling fast stuff and getting away with it. This time you can’t do it. Other times, district attorneys have been willing to let things drop when you blew their cases up. This time I’m going through to a finish. I have all the evidence I need, and I’m going to get more.”
Mason lit a cigarette, and said tauntingly, “I thought you were a better lawyer than that, Scudder. You can’t make a case against me.”
“What do you mean?” Scudder demanded.
Mason said, “I’m a practicing lawyer. District attorneys don’t like me, but I have a good reputation with the public. How the hell are you going to get a jury to convict me on the testimony of an ex-convict?”
Scudder’s face was a mask. “You’re kidding yourself,” he said.
Mason went on, “Furthermore, a man can’t be convicted on the uncorroborated testimony of an accomplice. Turn that over in your mind and see where it leaves you-if you want to get technical.”
Scudder’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Mason in thoughtful appraisal. “So your accomplice was an ex-convict,” he charged.
Mason, instantly wary, said, “Now, wait a minute. Let’s not have any misunderstandings about this. I haven’t admitted having an accomplice, I’ve merely quoted some law.”
Scudder said, “Let him go, boys.”
Inspector Bodfish said, “You mean book him on an open charge or...”
“I mean let him go. Let him walk out of here,” Scudder ordered. “Turn all three of them loose.”
Mason’s bow was sardonic.
“Do I,” he asked, “get my fingerprints back?”
Scudder said grimly, “Try and get them.”
Borge wiped his forehead, blinked through the thick-lensed glasses, and said, “We aren’t done with this guy.”
Scudder said, “Shut up, Borge. That’s all. Mason. Get out.”
Mason led the way down the long flight of stairs to the street.
En route to the hotel, Mason turned to Drake and said with a grin, “Well, Paul, that wasn’t so bad as you thought it would be, was it?”
“Your grammar’s all shot to hell,” Drake said mournfully. “You mean to say, ‘Well, Paul, this isn’t as bad as you think it will be, is it?”’
Mason said, “I think we’re in the clear now, Paul.”
“You mean the district attorney’s going to quit?” Della Street asked.