“Suppose they are,” Della asked, “what then?”
Mason frowningly regarded the polished toes of his shoes. “Get Paul Drake on the line,” he said.
Della Street called Paul Drake’s office, cupped her hand over the mouthpiece, and said, “Drake’s out, Chief. Do you want to talk with anyone else?”
“No,” Mason said moodily. “Leave word for him to call as soon as he comes in.” As Della Street hung up the telephone, Mason got to his feet, pushed his thumbs through the armholes of his vest in a characteristic gesture, and started pacing the floor of the office, his chin sunk in thought. Knuckles sounded on the exit door, and Mason said, “That’s Paul Drake now.” He strode to the door and jerked it open. Drake, somewhat out of breath, said, “What’s all the excitement, Perry?”
“Excitement?” Mason asked, pushing the door shut.
“Yes. About the witnesses.”
Mason stared at him for a moment, then exchanged glances with Della Street, “Just what,” he asked, “do you know about witnesses?”
Drake walked over to his favorite chair, pulled a somewhat crumpled package of cigarettes from his pocket, and said, “Now, listen, Perry. Get this straight, I don’t want to butt in on anything you don’t want to tell me about. On the other hand, if I’m working on this case, I should know all about it.”
“Go ahead,” Mason told him.
“Were you going to tell me about those two witnesses who were just here in your office?”