“Well,” Drake said cheerfully, “that’s the way with theories. You form them, and they get upset.”
“But everything in this pointed absolutely to one logical conclusion,” Mason said. “It just doesn’t fit in to have those fingerprints belong to young Gentrie.”
“Well, they’re his prints all right. Keep it under your hat. I got a straight tip from one of the newspaper boys. Tragg isn’t saying anything. The newspaper guys got it straight from the fingerprint man in the D.A.’s office, but had to promise not to use it until he got a release. Apparently, Tragg’s going to give the boy a little rope and see if he’ll get himself tangled up.”
“Okay,” Mason said, “keep me posted, Paul.” He dropped the receiver into place, looked at Della Street, and shook his head. “The darn thing just doesn’t fit.”
“They’re Junior’s fingerprints?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Then the message must have been for him.”
Mason pushed his hands down deep in his pockets. “That is what comes of sticking my neck out,” he announced.
Chapter 8
The strident bell summoned Perry Mason from the depths of slumber. While his drugged senses were still trying to adjust themselves, his hand automatically reached for the telephone. He said thickly, “Hello.”