“What is this?” Lone Bedford demanded.
Mason said, “Drake’s a detective, Mrs. Bedford.”
“Chennery,” she corrected.
“All right,” he said, grinning, “he’s still a detective, Mrs. Chennery.”
Drake, watching Perry Mason for a signal, moved cautiously over to the arm of a davenport and sat down, taking care to keep himself between Mrs. Bedford and the door. She stood for a moment, nonplused, then abruptly laughed and said, “You’re bluffing. He isn’t a detective.”
“What makes you think he isn’t?” Mason asked, selecting a cigarette from his case.
“He’s taken off his hat,” she said. “Detectives don’t take off their hats.”
Mason grinned, and offered her a cigarette. She took it, and leaned forward for Mason’s match. Her trembling manifested itself through the tips of her fingers as they guided the lawyer’s hand against the match. “You,” Mason charged, “have been to too many picture shows.”
“No,” she said, “I’ve seen too many detectives.”
“Criminal record?” Mason asked.