Mason reached for his hat. “On my way,” he said.
Chapter ten
Randolph Bolding had carefully cultivated an expression of what Mason had once described to a jury as “synthetic, professional gravity.” His every move was calculated to impress any audience he might have with the fact that he was one of the leading exponents of an exact science.
He bowed from the hips. “How do you do, Mr. Mason,” he said.
Mason walked on into the private office and sat down. Bolding carefully closed the door, seated himself behind the huge desk, smoothed down his vest, mechanically adjusted papers on the blotter, giving his visitor an opportunity to look at the enlarged photomicros of questioned signatures which adorned the walls.
Mason said abruptly, “You were doing some work for Fremont C. Sabin, Bolding?”
Bolding raised his eyes. They were bulging, moist eyes which held no expression. “I prefer not to answer that question.”
“Why?”
“My relations with my clients are professional secrets — just as yours are.”
Mason said, “I’m representing Charles Sabin.”