“Well,” Mason said, “I’m sorry they made you the goat. Personally, I don’t think you’re guilty, but you always were a sucker. You were half-smart, and you stuck your neck out just far enough so they could hang the murder rap on it.”
“What are you talking about?” Freel demanded.
Mason selected a cigarette, tapped it gently on the edge of the cigarette case, snapped a match into flame, lit up, and sucked in a deep, appreciative drag on the cigarette.
“It really is too bad, Freel. You never were one to understand the fine points of the game.” Mason paused to inhale another deep drag of smoke, shook his head mournfully, and added, “Too bad.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Freel said.
“I’ll say you don’t,” Mason said with a chuckle. “You don’t know what anyone’s talking about. That’s the trouble with you, Freel. You sit in on a game you don’t understand, and when someone tells you to stick your chips in the center of the table, you shove in the whole stack… Now it’s just too bad.”
“You can’t rattle me,” Freel said. “You did it once, but you can’t do it again.”
Mason said, “You’ll pardon me if I take a rather detached interest in the thing from the standpoint of legal technique. Personally, I think some shrewd lawyer figured the play.”
“You’re crazy,” Freel said.
Mason smiled. “Don’t say it so scornfully, Freel. Within thirty days, your only defense will be insanity. You’ll have a bunch of doctors calling on you, and you’ll be sweating blood, trying to make them think you’re crazy. So don’t mention insanity so lightly.