“What are you talking about?”
“I have my instructions, Mason. You can either come with me to the district attorney’s office to answer questions now, or you can go to jail.”
“What sort of blackmail is that?” Mason asked, indignantly pushing back his chair and getting to his feet.
“There’s no blackmail about it,” Holcomb said. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m hoping you say ‘no.’ I want to arrest you and throw you into the can right now. The D.A. has you dead to rights, but just because you’re a lawyer, he says you’re going to have a chance to explain — if you want it.”
Mason paused, frowning at Sergeant Holcomb, making a mental calculation of the time it would take Della Street to get Robert Peltham down in the elevator and out through the back entrance to the alley.
“Have you,” he asked, “got a warrant?”
There was no mistaking the triumph on Sergeant Holcomb’s face. “That,” he said, “was exactly what I was hoping you’d say… No, Mr. Mason, I haven’t a warrant, but I’m going to get one in just ten seconds. The skids are all greased.”
He strode across to the telephone, picked up the receiver, and said, “Get me the D.A.’s office.”
Mason shrugged his shoulders. “All right,” he said. “I’ll go with you to the district attorney’s office.”
“It’s too late for that now,” Sergeant Holcomb said.