“She seemed to think that was what we had in mind,” Mason said.
Chennery grinned, a cold, mirthless grin. “All right,” he said, “go ahead, frisk me.” He elevated his arms so that they were horizontal, his hands outstretched, the thumbs held wide from the palms. Drake searched through the man’s pockets, patted him under the arms and said, “He’s clean, Perry.”
Mason said, “Yes, he’d hardly have been so foolish as to carry the gun around with him. He probably left it at the scene of the murder.”
Chennery said, “You boys can’t frame anything like that on me.”
“You weren’t home last night,” Mason said, “all night.”
Chennery turned to glower at his wife. Mason said, “Don’t blame it on her. She hasn’t spilled anything. We’ve had a detective watching the place ever since eleven o’clock last night.”
“All right,” Chennery said, “I wasn’t home last night. So what does that add up to?”
“I don’t know,” Mason told him. “I want to know where you Were.”
“You’re a lawyer?” Chennery asked. Mason nodded.
“And this other man’s a detective,” his wife said.