“No,” she admitted with a smile, “you win on that.”
“Now then,” Mason said, “let’s suppose that Walter Prescott is a murderer. Let’s suppose that what Jason Braun, alias Carl Packard, saw in the window of that house didn’t have to do with the murder of Walter Prescott but did have to do with the murder of someone else — someone Walter Prescott was killing.”
Della Street said, “You also win on that, Chief. I can’t conceive of the police being able to follow you into that line of reasoning.”
“It’s goofy,” he admitted, “and yet, somehow or other, I feel that I’m getting on the track of what really happened. Somehow, putting all these possibilities in words takes away that feeling of fumbling around in the dark. Now then, with that as a starting point, and considering that Packard saw something connected with a murder, who was the victim? If Walter Prescott had killed someone, who would he have killed? If he’d tried to kill someone, who was that someone, and what could Packard have seen— Wait a minute, Della— good Lord!”
Mason paused in his pacing, to stand in the middle of the floor, his legs spread apart. “Della,” he said slowly, “if what I think happened is actually the real solution, then—”
A series of knocks sounded on the door which led to the corridor. Mason said, “That’s Paul Drake. Let him in, Della, and see what he wants.”
Della Street crossed the room and opened the door.
“Hello, folks,” Drake said. “What’re you doing?”
“We’re engaging in a new form of logic,” Della answered with a grin. “It’s swell. It solves murders and everything.”
“Gimme,” Drake said, entering the room.