“Forget it,” Mason interrupted. “Remember that Walter was nervous. Walter was working too hard. Walter was a man who cared nothing for society or companionship, but only because he was too self-sufficient. The fact that you didn’t get along with him doesn’t mean there was anything wrong with his character.”
She said venomously, “I hate to lie. He embezzled my money. He was a—”
“Never mind what he was,” Mason said. “He’s dead. You remember what I told you about him. Keep that attitude whenever you speak of him. He left no relatives, and you as his wife inherit all of his property, whether it’s separate or community. You’ll get your twelve thousand back that way.”
The private telephone on his desk jangled into noise. Only three people had the number of that telephone. It was used only in the event of major emergencies.
Mason scooped the receiver to his ear and heard Drake’s voice saying, “Sorry to call you on this line, Perry, but this is important as hell. I think we’ve found Jason Braun, or Carl Packard, whichever you want to call him.”
“Where?” Mason asked.
“Out in the country. I’m having a man bring up a car.”
“Where are you now?”
“Just leaving the office. I’ll meet you at the elevator.”
Mason said, “Okay,” banged up the receiver, pushed back his chair, called over his shoulder to Rosalind Prescott, “Be back in an hour. In the meantime, remember what I told you. Change your attitude to the newspaper boys. Talk plenty, but don’t tell them anything.”