She took a cigarette from his case. Della Street also took one, and Mason held matches to their cigarettes, then settled back comfortably in the chair. “I’m waiting,” he said.
“For what?”
“Your complete statement.”
“I’m not going to give it to you.”
“That,” Mason said, “will be most unfortunate.”
She opened her mouth, hesitated, and then suddenly burst into a torrent of words. “Must you always dominate everyone with whom you come in contact? Can’t you leave anyone a shred of self-respect or self-volition? My first experience with you was so humiliating that I could cry about it, but now… Well, I’m not going to have that first experience repeated.”
Mason said, calmly, “Let’s face the facts, Miss Hastings. Your dealings with men have been confined to social affairs where women are extended polite courtesy. I deal with problems of life and death. I have neither the time nor the patience for polite courtesies.”
“And so?” she asked.
“And so,” Mason said, “I am going to learn what contacts you had with Robert Peltham, what your arrangements were, how you received messages from him, and to what extent you were given carte blanche.”
“What makes you think he gave me carte blanche?”