Mason whirled. “Skip it, Della,” he said. She glanced apprehensively at Paul Drake and became silent.
“Was Golding one of those witnesses?” Drake asked. “Was it Golding and Eva Tannis, Perry — and why all the mystery?”
Mason didn’t answer the question. Instead he walked over to the baseboard and started walking slowly along the edge of the carpet, looking down at the edge of the baseboard. Paul Drake said, “Good Lord, Perry! You don’t suppose...” and was silent.
Mason, without paying any attention to his comment, continued his inspection. Abruptly, he stooped and pressed his finger against some white dust on the baseboard. Some particles of that dust adhered to the moist surface of his forefinger. He tested the consistency by rubbing thumb and forefinger together and then nodded to Paul Drake. The detective slid from the chair to cross the office and stand at Mason’s side. Mason pointed toward a framed Picture on the wall. Slowly, the two men raised the picture, and moved it from the curved brass hangers from which it was suspended. A neat hole had been drilled through the plaster. In that hole appeared the ugly, black circle of a microphone. Della Street stared at it with wide, apprehensive eyes, started to say something, and checked herself. Paul Drake gave a low, almost inaudible Whistle.
Mason strode across the office, put a sheet of paper in the typewriter, and tapped out a jerky message with two fingers. Paul Drake and Della Street came to stare over his shoulder as the type bars, pounding against the sheet of paper which had been fed over the roller of the typewriter, tapped out: “This is unethical as hell. We can make a squawk about it, and that’s all. The fat’s in the fire now. Holcomb probably doesn’t give a damn whether we find out now or whether we don’t. The thing has served its purpose. Our only chance now is to throw him off the track. Try and back my play. You’ll have to ad lib.” Mason pushed back his chair from the typewriter, started pacing the floor of the office, said, “Bill Golding and Eva Tannis were here, Paul. Holcomb must have had them shadowed. I had subpoenas served on them. There must have been a leak somewhere.”
“What were they going to testify to?” Drake asked.
Mason said, “Paul, I think they’re mixed up in that murder. They’re trying to push it over on Mrs. Breel’s shoulders.”
Drake looked at Mason’s face, apparently waiting for some sign or signal. Mason, in pantomime, indicated that Drake was to speak, but the detective seemed slightly uncertain as to what it was Mason wanted him to say.
Della Street, reading Mason’s signals, interposed to ask, “What are you going to do about it, Chief?”
Mason flashed her a grateful grin, and by his manner indicated she had interpreted his pantomime correctly. “There’s only one thing for me to do,” he said. “If they’re going to try and convict Sarah Breel on perjured evidence, I’ll have to resort to every technicality I can to free her... or else I’ll have to...”