“No?” Mason asked sarcastically.
“No.”
Mason suddenly pointed a forefinger squarely at the man’s chest. “I could,” he said, “for instance, accuse you of the murder of Albert Tidings.”
The little man on the bed jumped as though an electrical discharge had sparked from Mason’s forefinger to his chest. His mouth sagged in astonishment and consternation. “Me!” he shrilled in a voice high-pitched with fear and indignation.
“You,” Mason said, and lit a cigarette.
The silence of the room was broken only by the creak of the bedsprings as Freel shifted his position uncomfortably.
“Are you,” he asked, “the police?”
“This man,” Mason said, indicating Paul Drake with a gesture of his thumb, “is a detective,” and then added after a moment, in a lower voice, “private. He’s working on that Tidings case.”
“What’s he got to do with me?”
“You mean what’s he going to do to you? When did you last see Tidings alive?”