“Yes,” Mildreth Faulkner interrupted, “you should feel very proud of yourself for that — a brave police officer!”
Mason said, “Well, Tragg, that’s a matter of opinion — whether I’d have admitted it or not.”
“Well, I have my opinion,” Tragg said, his lips tightening.
“You’re entitled to it,” Mason told him.
“I’m also entitled to the stock.”
“Not unless you get an order of court. I was ordered to be in court as a witness and have that stock certificate with me. I’m here. I have that stock certificate.”
“Judge Grosbeck would understand the situation.”
“If he does, he can make an order.”
“That will take time.”
“So it will.”
“And when I try to serve that order on you, how do I know I’m going to be able to find you?”
“You don’t.”
Tragg said, “Churchill will go up in the air over this. He won’t like it a bit.”
“Too bad,” Mason said. “I suppose I’ll spend a sleepless night now, knowing that Loring Churchill doesn’t like me.”
Tragg said, “Listen, Mason, you’re on one side of the fence. I’m on the other. I get a kick out of you. You fight hard, and at times you fight dirty, but you’re always fighting. If you turn over that stock certificate, Churchill probably won’t go ahead with this grand jury business. I’d like to see you keep in the clear.”
“To hell with Churchill.”
“That’s your final answer?”
“No. If he turns Mrs. Lawley loose within an hour, he’ll get that stock certificate. Otherwise, he’ll get it when I get damn good and ready to give it to him.”
Tragg said, “I’m afraid Mrs. Lawley is going to face a jury.”
“What charge?”
“First-degree murder.”
“Decided to pin it on her, have you?”
“We have no alternative. Her husband made some damaging statements.”
“Damaging to him or her?”
“Her.”
Mildreth Faulkner forgot her animosity for Tragg in the shock given her by that information. “You mean Bob Lawley said something which made the case bad for Carla?” she asked incredulously.
“Yes,” Tragg said, and then hastened to add, “I’m not supposed to be telling you this, I guess, but — well, to tell you the truth, Mason, I’m not very happy about it.”
“Why not?”
Tragg said, “Bob Lawley impresses me as being a rat, a heel, and a fourflusher. His wife seems a dead game square-shooter.”
“What did Bob tell you?” Mason asked.
Tragg hesitated. “Look here, Mason, you have a fast mind. You’re usually able to get your clients out, one way or another. I suppose Churchill would give me the devil for this, but...”
“Well, go on.”
Tragg said suddenly, “I’m a servant of the people. I’m a cog in a big system. I play the game to get results. I’m dealing with criminals, and I have a job to do.”
“Why the prelude?” Mason asked.
“Because I’m sorry that I did what I did with Mrs. Lawley. If I’d realized how grave her condition was, I wouldn’t have done it. I’ll tell you that frankly.”
“You’ve done it,” Mason said.
Tragg said, “That’s right, I’ve done it, and I’m not backing up on it. She’s going to be treated just as any other prisoner would be treated. Only — well, this is a situation the law doesn’t provide for. A woman who’s dangerously ill. The slightest excitement may prove fatal.”
“Let’s hear what Bob Lawley told you,” Mason said by way of answer.
“Lawley,” Tragg said bitterly, “seems all broken up over his wife’s condition. He cries and whimpers about it, and we let him in to see her, and he got down on his knees and kissed the sleeve of her nightgown.”
“Go on.”
“Well, just before that, he’d broken down and told the police everything he knew.”
“What did he know?”
“He said he’d taken his car out, that he’d picked up a friend, that the friend wanted to borrow the car. Lawley had some telephoning he wanted to do so he drove in to the curb down by Coulter Street, that he let the friend drive the automobile away, that his wife was following him, that the car went to Lilac Canyon, that his wife went there after the car, and went to Lynk’s house.”
“How does he know all this?”
“Because she told him.”
“And he told the officers that?”
Tragg nodded.
“It’s a privileged and confidential communication,” Mason said. “No one should ever have inquired into what his wife told him.”
Tragg said, “At first he was shaking his fists at the ceiling, swearing that he’d never divulge one single thing she had told him. Ten minutes later he was sobbing and spilling everything he knew.”
“He would,” Mildreth Faulkner said bitterly.
Mason said, “You know what he’s doing, don’t you, Tragg?”
“Trying to save his own bacon,” Tragg said.
“Not that.”
“What then?”
“Figure it out. His wife’s in a precarious position. Excitement is bad for her. Strain and worry are worse. Not quite as spectacular in their effects, but more deadly in the long run.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Who’s the sole beneficiary under her will? Bob. Who is the beneficiary of her life insurance? Bob. Who would inherit her property? Bob.”
Tragg pulled his brows together in a frown. “Mason, do you mean to say that he’d plan to kill his own wife?”
“Why not? Other men have killed their wives. It isn’t completely unheard of in the annals of crime, you know, and this is a perfect setup. All he has to do is egg you folks on, and when her ticker stops, you’ll be the ones who have to take the rap. He’ll be smugly smiling to himself with all of the benefits.”
“You don’t sketch him in a very flattering light.”
“Why should I?”
“What’s your basis for making any such insinuations?”
“They aren’t insinuations,” Mason said. “They’re charges. I’m telling you that’s his game.”
“The police wouldn’t hound her so that there’d be — well, fatal complications.”
“The hell you wouldn’t,” Mason said. “You’ve already come pretty close to doing it.”
“We haven’t hurt her any.”
“Don’t kid yourself. She was getting along pretty well, then...”
“I’m not responsible for the excitement incident to committing murder.”
“She didn’t commit murder. She had some excitement, all right. That put her back. But I had her examined yesterday morning by a competent physician. You don’t dare to let him examine her now and see what he has to say about what’s happened in the last twenty-four hours.”
Tragg said with some show of irritation, “We’re not responsible for everything of that sort which can happen.”
“You’re responsible for your share of it — and look at Loring Churchill. That smug, beetle-browed, bookish nincompoop will nag her to death. Let Bob give him a few fresh facts to work on, and he’ll keep trotting back and forth into Mrs. Lawley’s room in the hospital until he’s worn a groove in the floor.”
“What,” Mildreth Faulkner asked, “did Bob say besides that?”
Tragg said, “Not a great deal. What he did say was more damning by implication than by direct statement.”
Mason said, “Don’t be a sap, Tragg. Use your head. Why would Mrs. Lawley have killed him?”
“Over that stock.”
“Bunk! Bob might have killed him over the stock, but she wouldn’t. She’d have found out how much money he wanted for it, paid through the nose, given Bob a spanking, listened to him cry and whine, then smoothed his hair, fixed his necktie nice and pretty, and given him some more money to play on the ponies.”