Mason looked at the young man’s sullen features, and said, “Don’t tell me anything in confidence, Mrs. Gentrie, because, in a way, I’m not a free agent. It’s quite possible I won’t be able to help you.”
“Well, I’ve got to talk with someone, and I don’t know anyone else to whom I can turn. This thing has been preying on my mind ever since I heard what Junior said to the police. I thought at first my duty was to back up my son in a chivalrous attempt to protect some young woman’s good name. Then, when I began to think of how serious it might be because — well, because perhaps that murder is linked with — well, I can’t keep quiet any longer.”
“What’s eating you?” Junior demanded. “What’s got into you, Ma?”
She kept looking anxiously at the lawyer. “Don’t you think I’m doing the right thing, Mr. Mason?”
“Go ahead,” Mason said. “I’ve warned you.”
Young Gentrie spoke up to say, “You folks go ahead and talk about me all you please, but nothing anyone can do is going to change my position, or make me change my story. I want that definitely and finally understood.”
Mrs. Gentrie said, “I wish you’d try to impress on my son the importance of telling the truth, Mr. Mason.”
“Have you,” Mason asked the young man, “been taking liberties with the truth, Junior? Perhaps just fudging the least little bit?”
“No, I haven’t,” Gentrie said sullenly.
“Arthur, I know that you have. I tell you I heard that shot and got up. I looked in your room. You weren’t in your bed. You hadn’t been in your room.”