“Yes.”
“The sound of that typewriter,” Mason said, “sounded plainly over the dictograph. They could tell from the uneven tempo and the ragged touch that I was writing something on the machine. They knew you were in the room, and they knew Della Street was in the room. The only reason I’d have typed anything under those circumstances would have been for the purpose of giving you a silent message.”
“And so they pulled the dictograph out?”
“Exactly,” Mason said. “They were afraid I’d try to bring them in for contempt of court, or make a squawk which would get public sentiment in my favor.”
“You mean that now they’ll deny there was ever a dictograph in there?”
“Probably they won’t go that far,” Mason said, “but they’ll certainly deny they knew anything about it or had anything to do with it.”
Drake said bitterly, “They talk about the tricks of criminal lawyers, but you know and I know that if we tried to pull the stuff the police pull, we’d be in jail before night.”
Mason shrugged his shoulders. “That’s neither here nor there, Drake. I had a chance to make a squawk on that dictograph and chase down the wires, find where they led, and do something about it. I passed up that chance. Now, I won’t have another one.”
“How long do you suppose it has been in, Perry?”
“I don’t know.”