“Oh-oh,” Conway said.
“So,” Mason told him, “if your nose is clean, and if you didn’t try to get smart by juggling weapons between the time you left Drake’s office and the time I took the number off that gun, I think we can get you out of it. I know we can put you in such a position that the district attorney won’t dare to proceed against you without more evidence.”
Conway drove for a while in silence, then said, “Mason, don’t underestimate Gifford Farrell. He is not a sound thinker, but he has a chain-lightning mind. He’ll completely dazzle you. He’ll reach some conclusion after seemingly brilliant thinking, and then, for some cockeyed reason or other, the conclusion will turn out to be unsound.”
“I know the type,” Mason said.
“Well, don’t underestimate him,” Conway pleaded. “He’s clever, he’s ingenious, and he’s utterly ruthless.”
Mason nodded.
“Now, what do I do at the district attorney’s office?” Conway asked.
“You tell them the truth,” Mason said. “Unless I stop you, keep on talking.”
“Tell them the entire truth?”
“The entire truth.”
“That might call for a little thought here and there.”
“It calls for nothing,” Mason said. “You have no guilty knowledge of the crime. You know what happened, and your job is to convince the officers. The minute you start getting cagey and trying to withhold something, or emphasizing one fact and minimizing another, trying to spread gilt paint over the truth, they’ll know exactly what you’re doing. They’ve had so much experience with liars, they can just about tell when a man starts lying.”
“All right,” Conway said, “I’ll tell them the truth. But I’m worried about that gun.”
“I was at first,” Mason told him, “but I’m not any longer. When it comes to a showdown, we can probably prove that Farrell took that gun out of the cashier’s desk, or at least had more opportunity than you did.”
Conway thought things over for several minutes, then said, “Mason, I’m afraid that you may be trying to oversimplify this thing.”
Mason lit a cigarette. “Just quit worrying, tell the truth, and leave the rest to me,” he said.
Chapter Nine
Promptly at nine o’clock Mason held the door of the district attorney’s office open for Jerry Conway.
“Perry Mason and Mr. Conway,” he told the secretary at the outer desk. “I told the police I would be here at nine o’clock with my client to answer questions. We’re here.”
The girl at the desk said, “Just a moment!”
She picked up the telephone, put through a call, then said, “You may go in, Mr. Mason. Right through those swinging doors and all the way down the corridor, the office on the far left.”
Mason and Conway walked down the long corridor, opened the last door on the left.
Hamilton Burger, the big, barrel-chested district attorney, sat behind the desk facing the door. He was flanked by Lt. Tragg, one of the most skilled investigators in the Homicide Department, a uniformed police officer, and Alexander Redfield, who did ballistics work for the authorities.
The spools of a tape recorder on the table were revolving slowly.
Hamilton Burger said, “Good morning, gentlemen. I have decided that this interview should be recorded. I trust there is no objection?”
“None whatever,” Mason told him.
“Thank you,” the district attorney said sarcastically. “I may also state for your information that there is a microphone in this office, and the conversation is also being monitored by a police shorthand reporter.”
“Quite all right,” Mason said. “This is my client, Gerald Conway, gentlemen.”
“Sit down,” Hamilton Burger invited. “What is your occupation, Mr. Conway?”
“I’m president of the California & Texas Global Development & Exploration Company.”
“As I understand it, you had occasion to consult Mr. Perry Mason sometime last night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you remember the time?”
“It was, I believe, shortly before seven o’clock.”
“And how did you get in touch with Mr. Mason?”
“I looked up a night number in the telephone exchange, called it, was directed to the Drake Detective Agency, and so managed to get in touch with Mr. Mason.”
“And what did you want Mr. Mason to do?”
“I wanted him to advise me in connection with a disturbing incident which had happened in the Redfern Hotel.”
Hamilton Burger glanced suspiciously at Mason. “You’re going to let him tell his full story?”
“I’m going to let him tell his full story,” Mason said.
“All right, go ahead,” Hamilton Burger said. “Go right ahead.”
Conway told about the mysterious telephone calls, about the offers to give him the list of stockholders who had given proxies to Gifford Farrell’s proxy committee. He told about his hesitancy, his final decision to have a meeting with the mysterious Rosalind.
He told about calling in his secretary to take down the conversation, about going out and following instructions to the letter, about the telephone call which had been received while he was waiting at the booth in the drugstore.
Conway then went on to tell about his trip to the Redfern Hotel.
Mason said, “Just a minute. I want to interrupt for a couple of questions.”
“Later,” Hamilton Burger said. “I want to get his story now.”
“I’m sorry,” Mason said, “but you have to know a couple of things in order to understand the full import of that story. About the time element, Mr. Conway, you had been told that the telephone would ring at six-fifteen?”
“That’s right.”
“When did the telephone ring?”
“It was a few minutes earlier than that.”
“What difference does that make?” Hamilton Burger asked.
“It makes a lot of difference, as I will be prepared to show later on,” Mason said. “Now, one other thing, Mr. Conway, when that call came in, that is, the one you received at the drugstore, it was a woman’s voice, was it not?”
“Yes.”
“Was it the same voice that you had heard earlier? In other words, was it the voice of the woman who had described herself as Rosalind?”
“That’s another point. I didn’t think it was at the time, and the more I think of it, the more certain I am that it wasn’t.”
Mason said, “I don’t think my client understands the full import of this, gentlemen. But the point is that the woman who described herself over the telephone as Rosalind was going to call Mr. Conway at six-fifteen and tell him to go to a certain place to get the information he wanted. When she called the pay station at six-fifteen, there was no answer. The reason was that Mr. Conway had already received his erroneous instructions and was then on his way to the Redfern Hotel.”
“Why would someone give him erroneous instructions?” Lt. Tragg asked.
“You be the judges of that,” Mason said. “Now, go on, Conway, and tell them what happened.”
Conway described his trip to the hotel, the envelope that he had received containing the key to Room 729. He told of going up to the room, knocking at the door, receiving no answer, then being tempted to retrace his steps, turn in the key, and call the whole thing off.
However, he pointed out, the prospect of getting the information which would be of the greatest value to him was too much of a temptation. He had used the key, had gone in. With dramatic simplicity he described in detail his adventure with the young woman who was clad only in the scantiest of apparel.
Then Conway described the panic which had gripped him when he realized the weapon he had taken from the young woman had been fired once, and recently. He decided he should consult Perry Mason.