Wenston smiled. “Frankly, I can’t. My stepfather ith one of those rugged individualists. I was to act as intermediary. He’s...”
The telephone rang. Della Street picked it up, said, “Hello,” then, shielding the mouthpiece with her hand, said to Mason, “This is he on the phone now. Elston A. Karr. Says he sent his stepson to explain matters, and he’d like to talk with you personally.”
Mason nodded acquiescence to Della Street, took the telephone from her, and said, “Hello.” He heard a thin, high-pitched voice saying in a crisp, meticulous accuracy of enunciation, “Mr. Mason, this is Elston A. Karr. I have given my address to your secretary. I presume she has made a note of it. Apparently a murder was committed in the flat below mine sometime last night. The place is crawling with police. For certain reasons which I cannot explain at the present time or over the telephone, I want to talk with an attorney. It’s about a matter about which I’ve been thinking for several days. I want to get it disposed of before police start messing into my private affairs. Can you come out here immediately? I am confined to a wheelchair and am unable to get to your office.”
“Who was murdered?” Mason asked.
“I don’t know. That matter is highly immaterial except as it will interfere with what I want to do.”
Mason, conducting a psychological experiment, asked, “Do you think you’ll be suspected of complicity in this murder?”
The man’s close-lipped accents said scornfully, “Certainly not.”
“Then why all this hurry about seeing me?”
“It’s a matter I’ll explain when you get here. It’s highly important. I am willing to pay any fee within reason. I want you personally, Mr. Mason. I would not be satisfied with any other attorney. But you’ll have to make up your mind quickly.”
Mason turned to Della Street. “Tell Gertie not to touch those books on the library table. Okay, Mr. Karr, I’ll be right out. Just a minute. Della, you have the address?”