“Honestly, Mr. Mason, I…”
Mason, looking at his wrist watch, motioned Freel to silence.
Abruptly the door opened. A man who seemed to be all chest and jaw steam-rollered his way into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. He held up two lingers to Mason.
Mason jumped up from his chair, moved over to grasp the intruder’s hand cordially. “Well, well, Captain,” he said, “it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. I wasn’t expecting you. I thought Sergeant Holcomb of Homicide would show up to make the arrest. I see you decided to come yourself.”
“Yeah,” the visitor said in a deep, booming voice, “I came myself.”
Mason, talking rapidly, said, “Now listen, Captain, this little guy is a rabbit. He’s a rat. He’s a poor, shrivelled-up, chicken-feed blackmailer. But I don’t like to see this murder rap hung on him. I think he’s about ready to tell the truth. If he tells the truth, I’m going to try and save his neck. If he tells the whole truth, they won’t give him first-degree murder. It’s his only chance. There’s my secretary over there with her typewriter all ready to take down what he says. Captain, let’s do the square thing… let’s be human… let’s give this guy a break. Give him sixty seconds. Won’t you do that for me?”
The private detective blinked his eyes. In a deep, rumbling voice he said, “Sixty seconds — for you.”
Mason turned to Freel. “All right, sucker, make up your mind.”
Freel, who had evidently been thinking while Mason and the operative were talking, said in a high-pitched, whining voice, “All right, I’ll confess. And if I confess you’ll try to save my neck?”
Mason nodded.