“The man killed himself, fired by his own rage, trapped by circumstances which would almost seem to have been set in motion by some higher power. It was not murder. It was not even self-defense. She didn’t kill him, this poor, half-wakened woman. The heel killed himself!”
Lawton Keller’s eyes were wide and awestruck. “Cripes,” he said, “you’re doing it even better than... You don’t need to get out of this case!”
“The hell I don’t,” Mason told him angrily, “I need to get out of the case, and you need to get the hell out of this office, beginning now.”
Mason came down off the desk, crossed over to Keller’s chair with two swift strides, grabbed the man’s coat collar and jerked him up out of the chair.
“Say,” Keller demanded in surprise, “what the hell’s got into you? Look, maybe we can do business after all. I was just interested in the little girl because...”
Della Street glanced questioningly at Mason.
Mason nodded.
Della Street opened the door.
Mason straightened his arm, leaned his weight against Keller and gave him the bum’s rush out of the office.
The man fell flat as he hit the corridor. Mason dusted off his hands, stepped back in the room. Della Street, acting as though the whole thing had been carefully rehearsed, closed the door and locked it.
Perry Mason finished dusting his hands, said, “And I guess that calls for a drink.”
He walked over and opened a locked drawer in a filing cabinet, pulled out a bottle of whisky and glasses.
Paul Drake was watching him with admiration. “Cripes, Perry, I never saw it done neater.”
“You mean throwing a rat out of the office?” Mason asked uncorking a bottle.
“Christ no!” Drake said. “The old hokum about the aggrieved wife. Why the hell don’t you stay in the case and get her off, Perry?”
Mason quit pouring the whisky. “Do you want to go out in the corridor?” he asked pointedly.
Drake grinned. “Have it your own way, Perry,” he said dryly. “Keep on pouring the drink. But, for a guy that the district attorney claims is always cutting corners, you certainly are a babe in the woods. Make mine a double one, and then I’m going to ring up Ellen Lacey’s lawyer and see how much kale it’s going to take to let me wriggle off the hook.”
Chapter 22
Saturday morning Mason entered his office with his hat tilted back on his head, the old, carefree, boyish grin twisting his lips. “Hi Della, what’s new?”
She said, “The deposition of Ellen Cushing Lacey is set for ten o’clock, you remember?”
“Uh huh.”
“The court reporter will be here. There’s a notary public on this floor, who’s ready to come in and swear the witness any time we’re ready.”
“Heard anything from Paul Drake?”
“I’m afraid Paul had rather a bad night. He got hold of Attica on the phone, tried to sound the old shyster out about a figure for a compromise.”
“Get anywhere?”
“Attica said the compromise figure would be two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and slammed the phone up.”
Mason frowned. “Naturally he would. You can see what a sweet spot he’s in, now that he represents both Ellen Lacey in her suit and Marion Shelby in the murder case. He isn’t going to let anything adverse happen. One will now back up the other. He’ll go ahead with Ellen Lacey on Monday, making Scott Shelby out the biggest heel in the state.
“After all, Attica can now...”
The telephone rang. Della Street picked up the receiver, said, “It’s Paul. He just came in.”
Mason took the telephone, said, “Hi, Paul.”
“Don’t say ‘high’ to me. I was high last night. This morning I’m lower than an income tax exemption. I feel as though my plumbing had stopped up and somebody was running a pneumatic riveter inside my skull.”
“That bad?” Mason asked.
“Worse.”
Mason said, “Pursuant to stipulation we’re taking the deposition of Ellen Lacey this morning at ten.”
“That so?”
“You hadn’t forgotten about that case had you?”
“Forgotten about it?” Drake exclaimed. “That was the trouble. I kept on drinking just trying to forget about it. And not getting anywhere.”
Mason said, “Think about it some more, Paul. You have a couple of newspaper reporters who have been pretty friendly with you and given you some tips, haven’t you?”
“Yes, why?”
“Nothing,” Mason said, “only it occurs to me that this deposition of Ellen Cushing Lacey might be news. Some of the boys might like to get in on it.”
Drake said, “By gosh, Perry. You’re right at that! It’s a swell tip. Gosh, I’m glad you called me about it. I’d never have thought about it.”
“Well, give your friends a buzz,” Mason said. “We have room for only a couple of people. Get two of the boys who have been giving you tips. This will be your chance to do them a good turn.”
“Thanks, Perry. It starts at ten o’clock?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay, I’ll give them a ring. It’s short notice but I’ll get them on the phone right away.”
Mason hung up, was just turning to Della Street to say something when the door opened and Gertie, in the doorway, said, “Good morning, Mr. Mason. I didn’t want to ring the phone because I knew you were talking on the other phone but Mr. Attica of the firm of Attica, Hoxie and Meade is here on that deposition.”
“That’s not until ten o’clock,” Mason said.
“He said he came a few minutes early because he wanted to talk with you.”
Mason said, “Send him in.”
George Attica was a tall, somewhat stooped man with gray eyes that managed, somehow, to keep his thoughts pretty well concealed. He was in the fifties, had gray hair, a deep voice which he had carefully cultivated so that he had the booming delivery of an old-fashioned spellbinder; but his mind was alert enough and there were few tricks of the profession that he didn’t thoroughly understand.
He said, “I’m afraid I lost my temper with Mr. Paul Drake last night.”
“Apologies are always in order,” Mason told him. “Sit down.”
Attica sat down, glanced at Della Street, cleared his throat significantly.
“It’s okay,” Mason said, “she stays.”
Attica said, “I haven’t much time but there are some things I wanted to discuss with you before my witness appeared.”
“I don’t know what they can be.”
Attica said, “I am going to release Marion Shelby’s real story to make the Sunday newspapers. It’s an intensely dramatic story. A story that will tug at the heartstrings of every woman in the world.”
“That’s nice,” Mason commented.