“Very well,” Mrs. Tump said. “I just want to say one thing, and then I’m through, Mr. Mason. Personally, I think Adelle Hastings is a snob, an arrogant, insulting little snob. She’s done a lot to make things disagreeable for Byrl. I hate her because of that. But I know she isn’t one who would commit murder. I’ll say that for her — although I still hate her.
“Now then, Mr. Mason, suppose she’s accused of that murder. She might depend upon an alibi, and she might want to prove that Tidings died after twelve o’clock Tuesday in order to make her alibi good. Now then, if you tried to help her do that, you’d be working directly against Byrl’s interests because we want to show that Tidings died before eleven o’clock… You understand me, Mr. Mason?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Tump got to her feet. “Very well, Mr. Mason,” she said. “I just wanted to know where you stood. I’m never one to mince words. I don’t care whom you represent, but there’s one thing on which there must be no misunderstanding: Albert Tidings met his death before that stock deal went through… Good morning, Mr. Mason.”
Mason glanced across at Della Street as the door closed behind Mrs. Tump. “That,” he said, “is that… Get your hat and coat, Della. Bring along a notebook. We’re going to call on the woman who holds the other part of that ten-thousand-dollar bill.”
“You know who she is?” Della Street asked in surprise.
“I do now,” Mason said grimly, “—just about three days too late.”
“How did you discover her?”
“By a little head work,” Mason said. “And I should have known a lot sooner. Come on. Let’s go.”
They drove in Mason’s car out through the city, swinging to the northward away from the through boulevard.