“Now, then, we’re willing to co-operate with you,” Dimmick said insinuatingly.
Mason coughed loudly and Della Street, picking up a pen, casually slid around in her chair so that her right elbow was propped on the desk. Rodney Cuff said. “He signaled his secretary to take down what you’re saying, Mr. Dimmick.”
Dimmick shot his eyebrows down into a level line, shifted his eyes to glare ferociously at Della Street’s poised pen, then turned back to Mason and said, “I don’t give a damn if she does. Shut up, Rodney.”
There was a moment of tense silence. Then Abner Dimmick wrapped his hands more tightly about the head of the cane and said, “The bank telephoned me you were down there asking questions.”
Mason nodded.
“It might be a good plan to pool our information,” Dimmick said, “to work out a joint plan of campaign.”
“Thank you, I don’t think I’d care to do that,” Mason told him. “I want to be free to represent my client in whatever way seems best as the situation develops.”
“Can’t you see, Mr. Dimmick,” Rodney Cuff said impatiently, “he’s going to pin the whole thing on Driscoll if he has a chance.”
Dimmick continued to stare steadily at Perry Mason. “I’m not very good at this sort of thing, Mr. Mason,” he said. “I usually let the other man come to me. This time I’m coming to you. I know something of your skill in a courtroom. I know you’d be a valuable ally and a dangerous enemy. Now, if you could see your way clear to—”
“I’m sorry,” Mason told him, “but I can’t commit myself. I’m going to walk into that courtroom perfectly free to do anything which seems expedient. I’m not going to jeopardize the interests of my client by making any agreement with anyone.”