“Then how did you have the key?”
“It was given to me.”
“You wait right there,” Holcomb said.
Mason hung up the phone, said to Paul Drake, “Well, we may as well wait.”
The lawyer seated himself in one of the overstuffed, leather chairs.
Drake, after a moment, eased himself into an adjoining chair. He was obviously unhappy.
The clerk behind the desk eyed them thoughtfully.
Mason took a cigarette case from his pocket, extracted a cigarette, tapped the end, held flame to the end of the cigarette and inhaled a deep drag.
“What the devil am I going to tell them?” Drake asked.
“I’ll do the talking,” Mason told him.
They had waited less than a minute when the door opened, and a uniformed police officer hurried in. He went to the desk, talked briefly to the clerk.
The startled clerk pointed to Mason and Paul Drake. The officer came over to them.
“Are you the men who reported a body?” he asked.
“That’s right,” Mason told him.
“Where is it?”
“Room 729,” Mason said. “Do you want a key?”
The lawyer took the room key from his pocket, and handed it to the officer.
“Homicide says for you to wait here. I’m to seal up the room until they can get here.”
“Okay,” Mason told him. “We’re waiting.”
“You’re Perry Mason?”
“That’s right.”
“Who’s this?”
“Paul Drake, private detective.”
“How’d you happen to discover the body?”
“We opened the door and walked in,” Mason said. And then added, “Are you supposed to get our story now, or get up and see no one is in the room tampering with evidence?”
The officer said curtly, “Don’t go away!” He grabbed the key and hurried to the elevator.
The excited clerk was conferring with the girl at the hotel switchboard. A moment later she started making frantic calls.
Mason pinched out his cigarette in an ash tray.
“They’ll make us tell the whole story,” Drake said.
“Everything we know,” Mason said. “We’re not supposed to do any guessing for the police, only give them the evidence we have.”
“And the name of our client?”
“Not our client,” Mason said sharply. “My client. He’s nothing to you. I’m your client.”
Mason walked over to the hotel desk, took an envelope from the rack, addressed it to himself at his office, put a stamp on the envelope, moved over to the mailbox.
Drake came to stand beside him.
Mason took Conway’s check for a thousand dollars from his pocket, pushed it in the envelope, sealed the envelope, and dropped it in the mailbox.
“What’s that for?” Drake asked.
“Someone might book me for something and search me,” Mason said. “Even Sgt. Holcomb would connect up a thousand-dollar retainer with our visit to the Redfern Hotel.”
“I don’t like this,” Drake said.
“Who does?” Mason asked.
“Are we in the clear withholding Conway’s name?”
“Why not? Conway didn’t commit any murder.”
“How do you know he didn’t?”
“He says he didn’t.”
“He has the gun.”
“What gun?”
“The one with which the murder was committed!”
“How do you know it’s the gun?” Mason asked.
“It has to be,” Drake said.
“I told you,” Mason told him, “we’re not supposed to engage in any surmises or jump to any conclusions as far as the police are concerned. We’re supposed to tell them what we know, provided it isn’t a privileged communication.”
Drake said, “They’ll sweat it out of us.”
“Not out of me, they won’t,” Mason told him.
“They’ll find Conway in my office.”
Mason shook his head.
“So that’s it!” Drake said. “That was the first telephone call you made!”
Mason yawned, reached for his cigarette case, said, “You’re not supposed to deal in surmises when you’re talking with the police, Paul, only facts. That’s all they’re interested in.”
Drake cracked his knuckles nervously.
The clerk left the desk and came over to join them. “Did you two report a body in 729?” he asked.
“Sure,” Mason said, as though surprised at the question.
“How did it happen you did that?”
“Because we found a body,” Mason told him. “You’re supposed to report to the police on things like that.”
“I mean, how did you happen to find the body?”
“Because she was there.”
“Dead or passed out?” the clerk asked.
“She looked dead, but I’m not a doctor.”
“Mr. Boswell was with you when you found the body?” the clerk asked.
“Boswell?” Mason asked in surprise.
The clerk nodded toward Paul Drake.
“That’s not Boswell,” Mason said.
“He claimed he was Boswell,” the clerk said accusingly.
“No, he didn’t,” Mason said. “He asked if there were any messages for Mr. Boswell.”
“And I asked him to identify himself,” the clerk said indignantly.
“And he put the key to 729 on the counter,” Mason said. “You went and looked up the registration and found it was in the name of Boswell. You felt that was all the identification you needed. You didn’t ask him for a driving license. You didn’t ask him if his name was Boswell. You asked him for identification, and he put the key on the counter.”
The clerk said indignantly, “I was led to believe I was dealing with Mr. Boswell. The police aren’t going to like this.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Mason said, and then added, “for you.”
“I asked him for identification as Boswell.”
“No you didn’t. You asked him for some identification.”
“That’s a technicality, and you know it.”
“What’s a technicality?”
“I meant that I wanted to know who he was. I wanted to see his identification.”
“Then you should have asked him for it and insisted on seeing it,” Mason said. “Don’t try to hold us responsible for your mistakes.”
“The room is registered in the name of Gerald Boswell.”
“Uh-huh,” Mason said.
“And this is the man who claimed to be Boswell earlier in the evening. He got an envelope from me.”
“You’re sure?” Mason asked.
“Of course I’m sure.”
“You weren’t so sure a moment ago.”
“I was sure.”
“Then why did you ask him for identification?”
“I wanted to be certain he was the same man.”
“Then you weren’t certain.”
“I’m not going to let you cross-examine me.”
“That’s what you think,” Mason told him, grinning. “Before you get done, you’ll be on the witness stand. Then I’ll give you a real cross-examination.”
“Who are you?”
“The name’s Perry Mason.”
The clerk was nonplused. “The lawyer?”
“That’s right.”
Abruptly the door of the lobby pushed open, and Sgt. Holcomb, followed by two officers in plain clothes, came striding across toward the elevators, saw Mason, Drake and the clerk, and detoured over to them.
“Good evening, Sergeant,” Mason said cordially.
Sgt. Holcomb ignored the greeting.
He glared at Perry Mason. “How does it happen you’re in on this?”
“In the interests of my client, I went to 729 to look for some evidence,” Mason said.
“In the interests of whom?”
“A client.”