“It’s a lie!” she screamed. “I tell you, it’s a lie!”
The door from the corridor banged open. A tall young man, with black hair and cold, blue eyes, stood on the threshold and said, “What’s a lie?”
“Pete!” she screamed.
Drake got to his feet. She ran forward toward the man who was standing on the threshold. Drake’s arm reached out to circle her waist. She struggled with him like a wild cat. The man stepped forward two paces. Drake took one look at his eyes, and tried to free his arm from the girl’s waist to block the punch. He was too late. The blow hit him on the side of the chin and staggered him backwards. The arm of the davenport, catching on the back of his legs, sprawled him back at full length, his feet kicking in the air. The girl flung her arms around the man. He brushed her to one side and kicked the door shut. He marched past the davenport, ignoring the struggling form of the detective, and stood facing Mason. “All right,” he said with deadly calm, “now we’ll hear from you.”
Mason, his thumbs still hooked in the armhole of his vest said calmly, “I think we’ll hear from you instead, Chennery.”
The woman said, “That’s Perry Mason, the lawyer, Pete.”
Chennery didn’t take his eyes from Mason’s. “What the hell’s he doing here?” he asked her over his shoulder.
Drake, rolling from the davenport, got his feet under him and said to Chennery, “All right, let’s try that again.”
Chennery didn’t even turn his head. He said to Mason, “Go ahead, start talking.”
Mason looked past him to Drake and said, “You might frisk him, Paul, and see if, by any chance, he has a thirty-eight caliber revolver in his hip pocket.”