Perry Mason followed Sergeant Holcomb into the district attorney’s outer office. The plain-clothes officer brought up the rear.
Mason saw Paul Drake seated beside a man who was obviously a police detective.
“Hello, Paul,” Mason said, affecting surprise. “What’s the idea?”
Drake got to his feet. “So far no one’s told me.”
Sergeant Holcomb said, “Come on, Mason. The D.A.’s waiting.”
Drake shot forward his hand impulsively. “Perry,” he said, “no matter what they say, I want you to know that I’m for you. No one can ever make me believe there’s anything crooked about the way you do things.”
“Thanks,” Mason said, gripping Paul’s hand and feeling, as he did so, a folded piece of paper which Drake had surreptitiously slipped into his palm.
“Come on,” Holcomb said impatiently, standing in a double doorway which led to an inner suite of offices.
The detective who had been seated next to Drake intervened. “You two guys don’t need to go into a huddle,” he said. “Break away.”
Mason turned away, casually slipping his right hand into his trousers pocket.