“If she’s accused of crime, taken before a grand jury, interrogated by the district attorney, or even hounded by newspaper reporters, she’s not going to make it.”
“Make what?”
“She’ll kick off.”
“Oh.”
After a moment, Mason said, “That’s the same as a death penalty. If you know a person will die as the result of being accused — well, you just can’t do it, that’s all.”
“What’s the alternative?” she asked.
Mason rubbed his fingers along the angle of his jaw. “That,” he said, “is the tough part of it. The law doesn’t recognize a situation such as this. I could probably go to court and get an order putting her in a sanitarium under a doctor’s care with no visitors permitted until the doctor said so. But the doctor would be someone appointed by the court. He would be more or less subject to influence by the district attorney. The main thing is that the minute I go to court I have to prove my case. I can bring in a doctor who testifies to what he found. The district attorney would want his doctor to check on mine. The judge would probably want to see her personally. She’d have to know something of the nature of the proceedings. She’d know they were going to charge her with murder when she got well enough to... No, I can’t go ahead that way. I can’t let that hang over her head.”
“Where does that leave you?” Della Street asked.
Mason said, “I’ve got to take the law into my own hands. I’ve got to fix it so they can’t find her.”
“Isn’t that a pretty large order if they really want her?”
Mason said, “That’s what bothers me. There’s only one way to really keep them from doing it — and at the same time accomplish something else I want.”
“What’s the something else?”
“I want the police to get Robert Lawley.”
“Aren’t they looking for him?”
“Not very hard. So far, he’s just a missing witness who skipped out to save his own bacon, and the police can prove everything they want by other witnesses.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Mason grinned. “I’ve already done it,” he said. “I’m just looking back to see the thing in its proper perspective — like climbing a mountain. You keep looking back to see how far you’ve climbed.”
“Or how far you have to fall?” she asked.
“Both,” he admitted.
There were several seconds of silence, then Della said abruptly, “Well, you’ve done it. Why worry about it?”
“That isn’t what I’m worrying about.”
“What?”
He said, “I’ve got to drag you into it.”
“How?”
He said, “I hate to do it. I don’t see any other way out. If you follow instructions and don’t ask any questions, I can keep you in the clear, but...”
“I don’t want to be kept in the clear,” she said impatiently. “How many times must I tell you that I’m part of the organization? If you take chances, I want to take chances.”
He shook his head. “No dice, Della.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Just follow instructions and not ask any questions.”
“What are the instructions?”
“I have a book of travelers’ checks. The name on those checks is Carlotta Lawley. Practice that signature until you’re pretty good at it — not too good, because I want someone to get suspicious; but I don’t want it to happen until after you’ve cashed some of the checks.”
Her eyes were alert. Anxious to miss no detail of his instructions, she sat perfectly motionless, watching and listening.
Mason said, “You’ll need to make a build-up on the first checks. Go home and put on your glad rags. Go to a pawn shop, get some secondhand luggage, have the initials ‘C.L.’ put on it. Go to a hotel, say you don’t know whether you’re going to get a room or be with friends, that you’ll know in half an hour. Go over to the cashier’s window, say you’d like to cash a check for a hundred dollars, but that you can get along with a smaller check if they’d prefer. You won’t have much trouble there. Explain that you’re waiting to see about getting a room.
“Then go over to the telephone, and tell the clerk you’re going to be staying with friends, and go out. Do that at a couple of hotels. Then go to a department store, buy a little stuff, and cash a small travelers’ check in payment. All of that is going to be easy.”
“What’s the hard part?”
“You’d probably better do it in a department store,” Mason said. “Order about five dollars’ worth of merchandise and try to cash a hundred-dollar check. The cashier will be tactful but suspicious. She’ll ask to see your driving license or some identification. You look in your purse, then get in a panic, and say you left your coin purse together with your driving license in the ladies’ restroom. Tell the cashier you’ll be back. Now get this. As you leave, call back over your shoulder, ‘There’s over three hundred dollars in that coin purse.’ ”
“Then what?”
“Then duck out, and don’t come back. Get out and stay out.”
“The travelers’ check?”
“You leave that with the cashier.”
“And don’t try to claim it?”
“No. That’s where the catch comes in.”
“How so?”
“The cashier will wonder why you don’t come back. She’ll also wonder why you’re trying to cash a hundred-dollar travelers’ check for a five-dollar purchase if you had three hundred dollars in your coin purse. The cashier will start looking at the signatures a little more closely. Then the cashier will call the police.”
“All right,” Della said. “When do I start?”
“Now.”
She walked over to the coat closet, put on hat and coat, paused to powder her face, and touch up her lips in front of the mirror. “Okay, Chief. Give me the checks.”
Mason smiled. “You haven’t asked me whether you were going to jail.”
“This isn’t my day to ask questions.”
Mason got to his feet, slid his arm around her waist, and walked to the door with her. “I hate to do this, Della. If there’d been anyone else I could trust...”
“I’d have hated you the rest of my life,” she said.
“If things don’t go just right, call me, and I’ll...”
“What will you do?”
“Get you out.”
“In order to do that you’d have to give away your plan of campaign.”
He shook his head. “If you get pinched, my plan of campaign is all finished... and so am I.”
“Then I won’t get pinched.”
“Ring me up and let me know how things are coming. I’ll be anxious.”
“Don’t worry.”
He patted her shoulder. “Good girl.”
Her eyes were eloquent as she flashed him a quick smile, then slipped out into the corridor. Mason stood listening to the sound of her heels on the tiled corridor. He was frowning and thoughtful. Not until after the elevator door had clanged shut, did he walk back to his desk.
At eleven-thirty-five Harry Peavis called, and Mason told the receptionist to bring him in.
The lawyer studied the tall, lumbering figure of the florist as Peavis came marching across the office, his manner indicating a dogged determination.
“How are you, Mr. Peavis?” Mason said, and shook hands.
Peavis had been freshly shaved, massaged, and manicured. His suit showed a despairing effort on the part of the tailor to mask the toil-worn slouch of the shoulders. His six-dollar tie and fifteen-dollar custom-made shirt seemed incongruous against the weather-checked skin of his neck. His powerful, gnarled fingers circled Mason’s hand and gripped — hard.
Mason said, “Sit down.”
There was that in Peavis’ manner which indicated a scorn of diplomacy and hypocrisy. “You know who I am,” he said, and it was not so much a question as a statement.