“I’ll say you don’t,” Mason said with a chuckle. “You don’t know what anyone’s talking about. That’s the trouble with you, Freel. You sit in on a game you don’t understand, and when someone tells you to stick your chips in the center of the table, you shove in the whole stack… Now it’s just too bad.”
“You can’t rattle me,” Freel said. “You did it once, but you can’t do it again.”
Mason said, “You’ll pardon me if I take a rather detached interest in the thing from the standpoint of legal technique. Personally, I think some shrewd lawyer figured the play.”
“You’re crazy,” Freel said.
Mason smiled. “Don’t say it so scornfully, Freel. Within thirty days, your only defense will be insanity. You’ll have a bunch of doctors calling on you, and you’ll be sweating blood, trying to make them think you’re crazy. So don’t mention insanity so lightly.
“You see, Freel, there are a flock of alibis in this case. Some of them are nice alibis. The alibis stay put, but the time of the murder doesn’t: it keeps jumping around.
“Now you’re a nice little guy, but you have too much of an appetite — for money. You’re money hungry, money crazy. You’re getting along in years and you can’t get jobs now — not the clerical jobs you’re fitted to handle. That bothered you. You wanted money so you could have security. That’s a laugh, Freel. Security — for you!”
Freel started twisting his fingers, worried eyes regarding Mason apprehensively, but he said nothing.
Mason smoked leisurely, regarding Freel as one might look at an interesting specimen in an aquarium. Over at the table, Della Street sat motionless, keeping herself in the background, effacing her presence from Freel’s consciousness.
“So,” Mason said, “you were offered money to swear that you’d seen the murder committed. You were told that Peltham was dead, that he could never deny your accusation. And so you agreed to take the money and swear that you’d seen Peltham, and seen him fire the shot. What you overlooked was the fact that the murderer never had any intention of really pinning that crime on Peltham. You haven’t got it yet, Freel. You probably won’t get it for about a week. But you’ve been elected to a reserved seat in the state’s lethal gas chamber, and it’s been done so nicely that the operation will be virtually painless.
“For about a week you’ll be the state’s star witness, then Peltham will show up with his alibi, and there you’ll be — right out in the open with your neck stuck way, way out. The district attorney will come down on you like a ton of brick.”
“Peltham’s dead,” Freel said sullenly.
Mason laughed and said, “You think he’s dead. That overcoat business was a gag. He was playing that in order to cover his escape. A woman he was sweet on was due to be put on the spot in connection with that murder, and he didn’t want to be examined. He took a powder so he wouldn’t have to testify concerning his relations with her. That’s all.”
Freel squirmed uneasily. “I haven’t said anything to anyone.”
Mason said, “Oh, yes, you have. You’ve made your crack to the D.A., and he’s given the newspapermen an interview on the strength of it. The D.A. isn’t going to back up on a thing like that.”
“You’re stringing me again,” Freel said.
“Think so?” Mason asked. “Well, think again. Get this, your poor dumb dope, and let it sink into that thick skull of yours. Albert Tidings was killed while he was sitting in his automobile sometime after it started to rain Monday night. He didn’t die instantly. He was found unconscious in his machine shortly after eleven o’clock. He was taken to Mrs. Tidings’ house, put into bed, and died almost instantly. There was a thirty-two caliber revolver in his hip pocket. He hadn’t fired that gun. Apparently, he’d made no effort to pull it. There was fresh lipstick on the handkerchief in his overcoat pocket.
“Tidings had learned about Peltham and his wife. If Peltham had approached the automobile in which Tidings was seated, Tidings would have pulled his gun. There wouldn’t have been any lipstick on his handkerchief. If you’ll just get the cobwebs out of your brain and try to concentrate for a minute on that lipstick, you’ll find out a lot. Who kissed him, his wife? She hated him. No, Freel, there was only one woman whom he would have kissed who would have kissed him. He kissed that woman and then got shot. Figure it out for yourself.”
Freel twisted his fingers in an agony of apprehension. His bony knuckles cracked and in the silence of the room the sound seemed distorted, magnified.
Mason stretched his arms above his head and yawned. “Oh, well,” he said, “it’s all in the game. We live our little lives and they seem important to us. Ho-hum… Guess I must be getting sleepy. The state will take your name away and give you a number. Then they’ll present you with a nice suit of clothes, slide you into the lethal gas chamber, and leave you for fifteen minutes. When you come out, you’ll have a tag pinned on the lapel of your coat and be delivered to the undertaker as part of the day’s routine. I suppose it seems important to us, Freel, but it really doesn’t make much difference. We’re just cogs in a machine.”
Freel licked his lips, tried twice to swallow. He said nothing.
“Well,” Mason said, “God knows you’re responsible for what happened, Freel. You know why Tidings didn’t shoot his gun along at the last. He shot the ammunition you’d given him instead. You’re really responsible for what happened and it is only fair you should pay the price.”
Mason looked at his watch, then brought his eyes to hard focus on Freel. “Three minutes from now,” he said, “I’m going to walk out of this room. When I close the door, it’ll be too late for you to do anything to save that neck of yours. I’m your only hope, Freel.”
Freel leaned forward and said, in the manner of one who is unduly anxious to impress his audience, “You can’t pin it on me, Mason, you can’t do it. I tell you I’m in the clear.”
Mason laughed. “In the clear… you… that’s a hot one. You damn fool, you have admitted that you were on the ground when the crime was committed.”
“Honestly, Mr. Mason, I…”
Mason, looking at his wrist watch, motioned Freel to silence.
Abruptly the door opened. A man who seemed to be all chest and jaw steam-rollered his way into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. He held up two lingers to Mason.
Mason jumped up from his chair, moved over to grasp the intruder’s hand cordially. “Well, well, Captain,” he said, “it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. I wasn’t expecting you. I thought Sergeant Holcomb of Homicide would show up to make the arrest. I see you decided to come yourself.”
“Yeah,” the visitor said in a deep, booming voice, “I came myself.”
Mason, talking rapidly, said, “Now listen, Captain, this little guy is a rabbit. He’s a rat. He’s a poor, shrivelled-up, chicken-feed blackmailer. But I don’t like to see this murder rap hung on him. I think he’s about ready to tell the truth. If he tells the truth, I’m going to try and save his neck. If he tells the whole truth, they won’t give him first-degree murder. It’s his only chance. There’s my secretary over there with her typewriter all ready to take down what he says. Captain, let’s do the square thing… let’s be human… let’s give this guy a break. Give him sixty seconds. Won’t you do that for me?”
The private detective blinked his eyes. In a deep, rumbling voice he said, “Sixty seconds — for you.”
Mason turned to Freel. “All right, sucker, make up your mind.”
Freel, who had evidently been thinking while Mason and the operative were talking, said in a high-pitched, whining voice, “All right, I’ll confess. And if I confess you’ll try to save my neck?”