“All right, then,” Mason said, letting anger creep into his voice, “it wasn’t a hunch, and it isn’t logical. So what?”
Holcomb said to one of the officers, “Take these two guys into a separate room. Don’t talk with them and don’t let them talk with you. Don’t let them do any telephoning. Don’t let them touch anything. And, above all, don’t let them do any rubber-necking around... Okay, boys, go through the house. We’ll take the room in here... Make sure the men are posted at the back... Okay, let’s go.”
Mason and the detective were escorted into the dining room by an officer who indicated seats with silent hostility, and continued to watch over them in sullen silence while Mason heard steps on the stairs, the pound of feet in the upper corridors, heard additional cars roar down the boulevard to come to a stop in front of the house, and men pell-mell up the cement walk to the front door.
It was twenty minutes later when Sergeant Holcomb descended on the pair for questioning, and at the end of fifteen minutes’ questioning he knew no more than when he had started. “All right,” he said, “you birds can go. But there’s something about this I don’t like.”
“I don’t know of anything else we could have done to cooperate,” Mason said. “Drake notified the police the minute we arrived and found the body.”
“Where were you just before you came here?” Holcomb asked.
“Immediately before I arrived here,” Mason said, “it happened that I was in a drug store telephoning.”
“To whom?”
“To my secretary, if you want to know.”
“About what?”