Mason nodded.
“I’m Peltham.”
Mason raised his eyebrows. “I thought the name was Cragmore,” he said.
“It was,” Peltham observed dryly, “but several things have caused me to change it.”
“May I ask what those things are?” Mason asked.
Peltham smiled, a frosty gesture of the lips. “To begin with,” he said, “I was followed from the time I parked my car. It was cleverly done — but I was followed just the same. I notice that the office of the Drake Detective Agency is on this floor. After you came up in the elevator, you went down to that office and were there for some five minutes. I notice that you are now placing a bottle of whiskey on your desk where it can be picked up. Under the circumstances, Mr. Mason, we’ll abandon our little subterfuge. The name is Peltham, and we won’t bother beating around the bush. You’ve won the first trick rather neatly — but don’t overbid your hand.”
Mason said, “Come in,” and indicated the door to his private office. “You’re alone?” he asked.
“You know I’m not.”
“Who’s the woman,” Mason asked; “—that is, does she enter into the case?”
“We’ll talk about that.”