“This way,” Holcomb said.
Beyond the double doorway, a long corridor stretched past doors bearing the names of deputies. At the far end of the corridor, a mahogany door was inscribed simply with the words, “Hamilton Berger, District Attorney.”
“He’s expecting us,” Sergeant Holcomb said, and opened the door to walk in. Mason followed, and the plain-clothes man, apparently having done his duty by having herded the lawyer thus far, turned to stand with his back to the wall near the doorway.
The automatic door check clicked the door shut.
Mason saw Hamilton Berger seated behind his desk, a barrel-chested, thick-necked individual who gave the impression of having great physical strength and a bulldog mental tenacity.
“How do you do, Mason,” he said. “Sit down over here in this chair.”
Mason nodded and glanced around at the office. A man, who was evidently a shorthand reporter, sat at a little table, a notebook opened in front of him. The page of the notebook which was visible was half filled with shorthand characters, evidently notes taken of a conversation with some other witness. Carl Mattern sat back against the wall looking very self-righteous. Mrs. Tump, seated beside him, glowered belligerently at Mason, and beside her, Byrl Gailord, who had evidently been crying, raised her eyes to regard Mason with hurt dignity. There were dark smudges where the mascara had been dissolved by her tears and smeared by her soggy handkerchief.
“All right,” Mason said. “What is it?”
Hamilton Berger said, “I have sufficient information to justify a warrant for your arrest. Because you are an attorney and so far have had what officially amounts to good standing, I’ve decided to give you an opportunity to explain your actions.”
“Thank you,” Mason said with acid politeness.