Nervous, almost hysterical knuckles tapped on the hall door of Mason’s private office.
Mason glanced at Della Street. “That probably will be Sylvia,” he said. “If it is, let her in.”
Della Street opened the door a crack, then pulled it all the way open, stood to one side and said, “Come in, Mrs. Atwood.”
Sylvia Atwood’s eyes showed that she had been crying. She was almost hysterical as she said, “Oh, thank heavens I’ve found you here, Mr. Mason. Thank heavens. I rang and rang the phone and no one answered—”
“The switchboard is disconnected after the office closes at five,” Mason explained.
“They wouldn’t give me any other number. They said it was unlisted. Oh, Mr. Mason, I’ve done the most awful thing, the most terrible thing!”
“All right,” Mason said, “tell me just how bad it is.”
“I guess I must have been mistaken about one thing, Mr. Mason. It could have been Hattie who went up there to Brogan’s apartment. If it was Hattie then she was wearing Dad’s overcoat. When that person came down in the elevator and I was waiting on the stairs and looked to see who it was—well, I’m satisfied it was a woman.”
“Still wearing an overcoat?”
“No, the overcoat was over her arm at that time.”
“So then you went on upstairs?”
“Went on upstairs and waited in front of Brogan’s apartment.”
“For how long?”
“For a little while. Just like I told you. Then I was satisfied that—well, I thought the figure that went out must have been Dad. Please understand me, Mr. Mason, I really and truly thought I was trailing Dad all the time.”
“Well,” Mason said, “the first thing we have to do is to get Hattie’s story.”
Sylvia shook her head. “I’m afraid we can’t, not until after we’ve determined our strategy.”
“Why not?”
“The police have her.”
“The police!” Mason exclaimed. “Why, the doctor said—”
“They wakened her, put her under arrest and bundled her off before the poor girl knew what was happening.”
“She’d been drugged,” Mason said. “They had no right doing that. Who did it?”
“Sergeant Holcomb.”
“Go on,” Mason said.
“They—they found the ice pick.”
“What ice pick?”
“The one that murdered Fritch.”
“Where?”
“In the drawer in Hattie’ dresser, underneath her hand-kerchiefs—the same drawer where I’d concealed the spool of tape, only this was under the handkerchiefs. I’d put the tape on top of them.”
“Well now, isn’t that interesting,” Mason said dryly.
Sylvia said, “I know what you must think of me, Mr. Mason. Probably you think I’m the worst little scatter-brained idiot in the world, but—well, we’re into it now, and we’re going to have to hang together on this thing.”
She opened her purse, took out her checkbook. She said, “I gave you one check for five hundred dollars as a retainer. I’m going to give you fifteen hundred dollars more, Mr. Mason. I want you to—to represent Hattie.”
Mason watched her filling out the check.
“And please, Mr. Mason,” she went on, “please do what I told you. Remember what I said—I don’t want to do anything that would be a black spot on Dad’s memory, but, after all, Fritch was a blackmailer and he deserved to die. UnderDad’s moral code he would have been perfectly entitled to kill him.
“If this thing had happened years ago in Texas, Dad wouldn’t have thought anything about pulling a gun and killing J.J. on sight and no jury would have done anything to him.”
“This didn’t happen years ago and it isn’t in Texas,” Mason said. “And the ideas you had about your father’s killing Fritch have all turned out to be demonstrable fallacies.”
“I know, but—well, Dad’s gone now. They can’t do anything to punish him, and it’s better to have a black spot on his memory than to have one of us girls, I mean, Hattie, in a pack of trouble.
“I’m trying to tell you, Mr. Mason, that since I’ve already said what I did about Dad—well, no one knows all the details.
“Jarrett has, of course, messed things up. But if someone would fake a wire to him telling him of a new archaeological discovery in the jungle, Jarrett would go rushing off without waiting for anything. The funeral wouldn’t stop him. He’s seen so much of dead civilizations, he looks on individual death as just a—”
“Now look,” Mason interrupted, “you’ve messed things up enough. Don’t go sending Jarrett any fake wires.”
“Why, Mr. Mason! I wouldn’t do that. I want you to handle things now.”
Mason said, “Just what do you want me to do? What’s this check for?”
“I want you to defend Hattie.”
Mason said to Della Street, “Endorse on the back of that check that it is for the purpose of defending Hattie Bain, and that I have a free hand to handle the case in my own way, and if I have an opportunity I am at liberty to expose the murderer, whoever that murderer may be. Underscore ‘whoever that murderer may be.’”
Mason looked up at Sylvia Atwood. “Is that satisfactory?” he asked.
Her green eyes met his steadily. “Why, of course, Mr. Mason,” she said. “Why shouldn’t it be?”
Mason held her eyes. “We’re all in a mess now,” he said. “Some of it is due to your desire to be, to quote your brother, little Miss Fix-It. Now try not to send any fake wire or do anything else that will complicate the situation.”
“But, Mr. Mason, I think you’re terribly conservative. If Jarrett weren’t here to testify about seeing Dad they couldn’t prove it wasn’t Dad who went to that apartment. I can swear in all honesty and in all good faith I was trailing Dad.”
Mason grinned. “Well, thank you for the compliment.”
“What compliment?”
“Thinking I’m too conservative. Tell that to the police some time, will you?”
“You’re making fun of me now.”
“It’s not fun. You’re dangerous. I want one thing out of you. Keep your mouth shut and keep your fingers out of the pie.”
“I think you’re horrid. You’ve been listening to Jarrett. Before this case is over you’ll have reason to thank me for thinking ahead and doing the things your stuffy sense of professional ethics keeps you from even thinking of, much less doing!”
And she walked from the office, head high, shoulders squared.
“Heaven deliver us if she tries anything else!” Mason said.
“Want to bet?” Della asked.
“Good Lord, no!” Mason groaned.