“That guy should join a union,” the attendant muttered to himself.
Two radio cars were already parked in front of the Gentrie residence when Mason arrived, and, as he was switching off the ignition to his car, Lieutenant Tragg, in one of the fast cars of the Homicide Squad, came skidding around the corner.
Mason paused at the foot of the front steps to beckon to Tragg. Tragg, running across to join him, said, “I certainly hope you’re not giving me a bum steer on this, Mason.”
“I hope so, too,” Mason said. “Let’s go.”
Tragg tried the front door. It was unlocked. The men pushed their way into a strange gathering. Four radio officers were guarding the members of the Gentrie household: The younger children, huddled and frightened; Rebecca, swathed in a heavy robe, her hair in curlers, her face without make-up, her eyes glittering with indignation; Mrs. Gentrie, trying to take things philosophically; Arthur Gentrie, clad in pajamas and bathrobe, managing a prodigious yawn as Mason and Lieutenant Tragg entered the room.
“Perhaps,” Rebecca snapped to Lieutenant Tragg, “you’ll be good enough to tell me what this is about.”
Tragg made a graceful little bow, turned to Mason, and said, “Perhaps, Counselor, you’ll be good enough to tell me what this is about.”
Mason grinned with relief as he saw the little household assembled under the eyes of the radio officers. “My telephone rang a few minutes ago,” he said, “and Mrs. Gentrie confessed to having committed the murders and said she was going to shoot herself.”
Mrs. Gentrie said promptly, “Why, I never did any such thing. I absolutely deny it. You’re crazy, Mr. Mason.”
Mason grinned at her. “It was your voice all right. By pretending to be so drunk that I couldn’t have been trusted to remember what happened or what was being said over the telephone, I threw the contemplated suicide out of schedule.”