“What man?” Holcomb asked.
“A Mr. Mason.”
Mason heard the pound of Sergeant Holcomb’s feet, then the police sergeant stood scowling at him from the threshold. “So,” he said, “you’re here.”
Mason nodded and said casually, “How are you, Sergeant? Better ditch the cigar. She doesn’t want the curtains to smell of tobacco smoke.”
Sergeant Holcomb made little jabbing motions with the cigar he was holding between the first two fingers of his right hand. “Never mind that,” he said. “How do you fit in on this murder?”
“What murder?” Mason asked, raising his eyebrows.
Sergeant Holcomb said sarcastically, “Oh, sure, you wouldn’t know anything about it, would you?”
“Not a thing,” Mason told him.
“And I presume,” Holcomb said with a sneer, “you just dropped in for a social chat, to ask Mrs. Anderson to go to a movie.”
Mason said with dignity, “As a matter of fact, Sergeant, I called to investigate an automobile accident.”