Della Street regarded him steadily. “And because you wanted to give him a break.”
“Well, perhaps,” Mason admitted.
“He hates your guts, Chief.”
“I know he does, but he’s a fighter and I like fighters. How are things going over at The Clarion?”
“Like a house afire. Sergeant Holcomb can’t see Freel — they have him sewed up.”
Mason grinned. “He can get a lot of advertising trying,” he said, “and they’ll put Freel back into circulation after the extra hits the streets.”
The telephone rang. Della Street picked up the receiver, said hello, and then, cupping her hand over the mouthpiece, turned to Perry Mason. “Adelle Hastings wants to know if there is anything she can do.”
Mason said, “Tell her to meet us at the Haystack Cocktail Lounge in fifteen minutes. I want to see her face when she reads that newspaper.”
With her hand still cupped over the receiver, Della Street in the manner of a secretary who has been trying to deal in details, said, “If we get there in fifteen minutes do you think we’ll still be there when The Clarion comes out?”
“The way I feel,” Mason said, grinning, “we’re going to be there all afternoon.”