“I can readily understand,” Mason said breezily. “Think nothing of it.”
Halder turned to the newspaper reporters. “Now I ‘m sorry to disappoint you boys, but I don’t want you to stand here and throw questions at Mr. Mason. I’d like to conduct the inquiry in my own way. After that I’ll issue a statement to the press, or the reporters can be called in—unless Mr. Mason has some objection.”
“I never have any objection to the press,” Mason said, smiling genially. “I share all of my information with them—except, of course, that which is confidential or which for strategic reasons I feel cannot be divulged.”
“Well, that’s fine,” Halder said, “and we certainly appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Mason. I can’t begin to tell you how much we appreciate it. Now if you and Miss Street will just get right in the car. And please, boys, no questions until after the interview at my office.”
Mason said, “Just a minute. I may have a wire I want to send.”
He pulled a billfold from his breast pocket, opened it, studied the interior for a moment, then dropped his right hand to his side pocket, brought out the folded slip of paper the newspaper reporter had placed in his hand, and managed to spread that slip over the interior of the billfold so that he could read the message which had been typed on the paper. It read:
I am Pete Ingram, reporter for The Oroville Mercury. Mabel Norge, secretary to Ed Davenport, is missing. I’ve been unable to find her all day. No one knows where she is. Yesterday afternoon she drew out nearly all the money in Davenport’s account in the Paradise bank. Don’t ask me how I know because it’s a confidential tip. I’m slipping this to you because I’m hoping the information may be of some value to you. You can reciprocate by giving me a break.
Mason folded the billfold, tucking the message inside, put it back in his pocket, and looked over the heads of the little group of men until he encountered the questioning eyes of Pete Ingram.
Mason gave an all but imperceptible nod.
“Well, if you want to send a telegram,” Halder said, “we can—”
“Oh, I guess it can wait,” Mason told him. “After all, we won’t be here very long I take it.”
“I hope not,” Halder said fervently.
Mason and Della Street entered the automobile. The sheriff sat up front with Halder, who did the driving. The deputy district attorney, whose name was Oscar Glencoe, an older man than Halder, sat quietly, uncommunicative, on the left rear seat. Della Street occupied the center, and Mason sat on the right.
The county car roared into speed and Halder drove directly to the courthouse.
“If you don’t mind,” he told Mason, “we’ll hold the interview in the sheriff’s private office.”
“Anyplace suits me,” Mason said cheerfully.
They disembarked and the sheriff led the way into his private office where chairs had been carefully arranged around the desk. Mason, looking the place over, felt certain that there was a concealed microphone and a tape recorder.
“Well, sit down,” the sheriff invited. “Jon, do you want to sit there at the desk and ask the questions?”
“Thank you,” Jonathan Halder said and seated himself in the swivel chair at the desk.
The others seated themselves and Halder carefully waited for the last noise of the scraping chairs before asking the first question—further indication that the interview was being recorded.
Halder cleared his throat, took a folded document from his pocket, spread it on the table in front of him, said, “Mr. Mason, you and your secretary, Miss Street, were at Paradise yesterday evening.”
“Let’s see,” Mason said, thinking. “Was it only yesterday? I guess that’s right, Counselor. So much has been happening it seems as though it must have been the day before. No, I guess it was yesterday. That was the twelfth—Monday. That’s right.”
“And you entered the house of Edward Davenport on Crestview Drive?”
“Well, now,” Mason said, smiling affably, “I notice you’re reading those questions, Mr. Halder. I take it then that this is somewhat in the nature of a formal interrogation.”
“Does that make any difference?” Halder asked pleasantly.
“Oh, a lot of difference,” Mason said. “If we’re just chatting informally that’s one thing, but if you’re asking formal questions from a list which you have carefully prepared I’ll have to be careful in thinking of my answers.”
“Why?” Halder asked, instantly suspicious. “Isn’t the truth the same in any event?”
“Why certainly,” Mason told him, “but take, for instance, this last question of yours. You asked me if I entered the house of Edward Davenport.”
“And that, of course, can be answered yes or no,” Halder said, his manner watchful.
“No,” Mason said. “It’s not that easy.”
“Why not?”
“Let’s put it this way. If this is going to be a formal interview, I’ll have to be very careful to make my statements one hundred per cent accurate.”
“Well, that’s what I want, and I assume that’s what you want too.”
“Therefore,” Mason said, “I would have to state that I entered a house which belonged to Mrs. Edward Davenport.”
“Now wait a minute,” Halder said. “That house was where Ed Davenport was carrying on his business and—”
“That’s just the point,” Mason interrupted. “That’s the point I’m trying to make.”
“I don’t get you.”
“Don’t you see? If you were talking informally and asked me if I entered Ed Davenport’s place up there why I’d say casually and offhand, ‘Sure I did,’ but if this is a formal interview and you ask me if I entered the house belonging to Ed Davenport then I have to stop and think. I have a lot of things to take into consideration. I have to say to myself, ‘Now I am representing Myrna Davenport, who is the widow of Edward Davenport. If the house was community property she actually gained complete title to it at the moment Ed Davenport died. If the house was separate property but a will left everything to Myrna Davenport then my client acquired title instantly upon Ed Davenport’s death, subject only to probate administration. Therefore if I should say in a formal interview that I had entered a house belonging to Ed Davenport, it might be considered as an admission I knew about a will but doubted the validity of the will or that I was willing to concede as Mrs. Davenport’s attorney that it was not community property. See my point. Counselor?”
Halder seemed perplexed. “I see your point, Mr. Mason, but, good Lord, you’re splitting a lot of legal hairs.”
“Well, if you’re going to draw a hairline distinction with formal questions,” Mason said, “I see nothing else for me to do except split the hairs when I think they are divisible.”
Mason’s smile was completely disarming.
Halder said, “I’d like to have you answer the questions informally, Mr. Mason.”
“Well, now,” Mason said, “that poses a problem. After all, I’m Mrs. Davenport’s attorney. I don’t know yet whether there’s going to be a criminal action against her. I understand there may be. In that event I’m an attorney representing her in a criminal action. I am also her attorney representing her interest in probating the estate of her husband. Presumably that includes community property and perhaps some separate property. There is the relationship of husband and wife and there may be the relationship under a will. It is quite possible that if you ask me questions from a written list at this time so that your questions can be recalled at any subsequent date and repeated in their exact phraseology, some of my answers might jeopardize the interests of my client. I might, for instance, run up against the question of whether she murdered her husband, Ed Davenport. That, I take it, is conceivable under the circumstances, isn’t it, Counselor?”