Paul Drake’s voice said. “Giving you a hot tip right off the bat, Perry.”
“What is it?”
“Remember I told you there were fingerprints on the telephone receiver?”
“Yes.”
“Tragg isn’t saying anything just yet, but he’s found out whose prints they are.”
“Whose?”
“Arthur Gentrie’s.”
“The old man,” Mason said triumphantly. “I was just telling Della that...”
“No,” Drake interrupted. “The young chap — the one they call Junior.”
Mason frowned. “Darn it, Paul. You kick the props out from under me just when I’m showing off to my secretary. Why the hell couldn’t you have waited a half hour with that information?”