“Why?”
“I don’t know,” Mason said. “Call it a hunch if you want. I think there’s something fishy about that stock deal. Tidings was being crowded. He must have known that Adelle Hastings was going to put the screws on him…”
“His Monday night appointment was with her?” Della Street asked.
“Looks like it,” Mason said. “Sergeant Holcomb didn’t mention any names, so I didn’t… Ring Paul Drake. Tell him to find Robert Peltham, and ring up the Contractor’s Journal and put in a classified ad. Simply say, ‘P: Must talk with you, personally if possible. Otherwise over the telephone. Will mention no names over the telephone but must have additional accurate information at once. M.’ ”
Della Street’s pencil flew over the lines of her shorthand notebook. “Okay, Chief,” she said. “Anything else?”
“No,” Mason said, “but get busy on that stock deal, and tell Drake to keep his ear to the ground on that murder case.”
Della Street said, “If your clients are in the clear, Chief, why worry about the murder?”
Mason said, “Because, Della, I’m caught in a trap. I’m afraid some woman is going to come into this office at such time as suits her convenience, and hand me the other part of that ten-thousand-dollar bill, and say, ‘Go ahead and represent me, Mr. Mason.’ And it’s an even money bet that the hand holding that part of the ten-thousand-dollar bill will be the one that held the gun when Tidings was killed.”
“Within fifteen minutes after he left his office Tuesday morning?” Della Street asked skeptically.
“Somebody killed him,” Mason said.