The guard said, “The guy knocked on his own. I wouldn’t let him in.”
“Well, don’t let him knock,” the man said, and turned back toward the door.
The uniformed guard held Mason back in the corridor. The lawyer waited until the detective had opened the door, and then, raising his voice so that it was distinctly audible within the room, said, “Mrs. Breel won’t answer any questions unless you let me in.”
The door swung shut. The officer glowered at Mason belligerently and said, “You’re hard to get along with.”
Mason grinned, offered him a cigarette. “Oh, no, I’m not.”
The officer hesitated a moment, then took the cigarette, scratched a match and jerked his head down the corridor. “On your way,” he said.
Mason smiled. “I’m waiting right here.”
“You just think you are.”
“You,” Mason told him, “are guarding the room. You’re not guarding the corridor.”
“You don’t have any business here.”