“And then?” Mason asked.
“Then,” she said, “I looked up and saw Mrs. Snoops had been watching. Lord knows how long she’d been watching — probably she’d seen everything. I told Jimmy to leave. He started to go and ran into some officers from a radio prowl car, who took his name and address from his driving license. Then I knew we were sunk.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Mason said. “Did Jimmy come back into the house after the officers took his name and address?”
“Yes.”
“And then what happened?”
“We talked things over, and Jimmy had the idea of having Rita come over and put on my dress, catch the canary, finish clipping his claws, and take occasion to stand in the window where Mrs. Snoops could see her and recognize her plainly. You see, we look enough alike so Mrs. Snoops couldn’t have been absolutely certain, seeing through the lace curtains.”
“Go ahead,” Mason said.
“I rang up Rita. She knows the rest.”
“Where did you ring her up from?”
“The house, but I didn’t dare say much.”
“How long were you there after you telephoned?”
“No time at all. Telephoning her was the last thing I did in the house. I rushed to the airport, where I called Rita again and told her everything.”
“Did you come here in a regular plane, or a chartered plane?”
“No, I flew to San Francisco, and then took a plane to Reno.”
Mason jerked his head toward Jimmy Driscoll and said, “How about you?”
“He came too,” she said.
“On the same plane?”
Rosalind nodded.
“Now then,” Mason asked, “when did you first know your husband had been murdered?”
Her eyes grew wide and round. “Walter?” she said. “Murdered?”
Mason, watching her narrowly, said, “Yes. Murdered.”
“Watch out, Rosalind,” Driscoll warned. “It’s some sort of a trap. He hasn’t been murdered, or we’d have heard of it.”
Mason turned to stare at Rita Swaine. “You knew it, Rita,” he charged.
She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, unless it’s some sort of a stall to get a big fee out of Rossy.”
“Is that the truth?” Rosalind Prescott demanded. Has he been murdered, or is this some sort of a trap?”
Mason continued to regard Rita Swaine with thoughtful eyes. “How did you come here?” he asked. “By regular plane or chartered plane?”
“I chartered a plane and came directly here.”
“How soon after you left my office?”
“Within a very few minutes. I left the canary at the pet store I’d asked you about, then took a cab and went directly to the airport.”
“And you didn’t know Walter Prescott’s body was lying in the upstairs bedroom of that house?”
“You mean Rosalind’s house?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t, and I don’t think it was or is.”
Rosalind Prescott abruptly sat down, stared wide-eyed at the lawyer.
“You didn’t know it?” Mason asked her.
“No, of course not— it’s— it’s a shock to me. Not that I cared for him. I didn’t. I hated him. You’ve no idea how cold-blooded, how scheming, how utterly petty he was! There wasn’t a spark of affection in his make-up— Whether he’s dead or alive, I still hate him — but this is a shock, just the same.”
“Your husband,” Mason said, “was found in his bedroom upstairs. He was fully clothed, ready for the street. He had been shot three times with a .38 caliber revolver. The police found the gun in back of the drawer in the desk where you’d hidden it, and they figure, so far, it’s the fatal gun. If anything has turned up to change their opinion I haven’t heard of it.”
Mason turned to Jimmy Driscoll. “What was the gun you gave Rosalind?”
“A Smith & Wesson.”
“What caliber?”
Driscoll hesitated, then said, “A .38 — but that’s not an unusual caliber.”
“Any distinguishing marks on it?” Mason asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean — anything by which that gun can be identified, any marks or scratches?”
“Yes. A little V-shaped piece was broken out of one of the pearl handles right near the butt of the gun.”
“Was it blued-steel or nickel-plated?”
“Blued-steel.”
Mason said in a voice devoid of expression, “Let’s hear your side of this thing, Driscoll — no, wait a minute before you say anything. I’m Rosalind Prescott’s lawyer. Probably I’m representing Rita Swaine too. I don’t know about that. I’ll have to figure it out. I’m not representing you, and I’m not going to represent you.”
“I don’t want you to,” Driscoll said vehemently. “I have counsel of my own, in whom I have more confidence — a lawyer whose professional manner is far more dignified than yours.”
Mason appraised him judicially. “Yes, you would fall for a dignified manner, proper clothes, a big mahogany desk, and the usual background of hokum. All right, that’s settled. You have your lawyer. I’m Rosalind Prescott’s lawyer. Now, do you want to say anything?”
“Of course I want to say something.”
“Go ahead,” Mason told him. “Say it.”
“I want to corroborate Rosalind’s statement in every way.”
Mason stared at him with cold eyes. “Did you kill Walter Prescott?” he asked.
“Of course not. I didn’t know anything about it.”
“Did you see Walter Prescott while you were in the house?”
“No. I was with Rosalind all of the time.”
“All of the time?” Mason asked.
“Yes.”
“Every minute?”
“Yes.”
“You’re willing to swear to that?”
“Yes.”
“Now, don’t misunderstand me,” Mason said. “You’re going to swear that you were with Rosalind Prescott every minute, from the time you entered the house until you and Rosalind left together?”
“Yes.”
“How about when you went out to lift the man out of the coupe, and when you met the officers? You weren’t with her then.”
Driscoll said, in a calm tone which just missed being patronizing, “That’s while I was out of the house. I understood that your questions related to the time I was in the house.”
“And all the time you were in the house, you were with Rosalind every minute of the time?”
“I’ve already answered that two or three times.”
“Answer again, then. You were with her?”
“Yes.”
Rosalind started to say something, but checked herself as Driscoll frowned at her.
“All right,” Mason said, “then you were in the bedroom with her while she was changing her clothes.”
Driscoll started to make some quick rejoinder, changed his mind, closed his lips on his unspoken words, glanced hastily at Rosalind and said, “Well, of course, she— How about it, Rosalind?”
Rosalind said, “Of course he wasn’t with me while I was changing my clothes! He wasn’t with me while I was packing my overnight bag. He’s just trying to make an alibi for me.”