“You promise?”
Again there was a nod.
Freel took a soiled handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped his forehead. “What do I do?” he asked.
Mason indicated Della Street with a nod of his head. “Start talking to her,” he said, “and sign your name to it when she gets it written.”
Freel looked across at Della Street. “It all started,” he said, “when I tried to blackmail Albert Tidings. First I wanted to sell him information and then…”
Della Street’s hands poised over the keyboard for a moment then crashed down on the keys as the portable typewriter exploded into staccato noise. As Freel paused in his statement, Mason said, “When that’s finished, Della, get him to sign it. Have the Captain sign as witness. Put the paper in an envelope, beat it over to The Clarion, and hand it to the editor personally. Take Freel along with you.”
Della Street nodded, then, with her hands held over the keyboard, glanced expectantly at Freel.
Mason said in a low voice to the private detective, “If he gets rusty, break him in two. If he tries to beat it, collar him and hold him.”
“How shall I hold him?” the operative asked.
Mason looked at him scornfully. “You have two hands — aren’t they enough?”