Mason said, “How about checking it the other way, Paul? The police records must show when Serle was booked.”
“They do, but he gave himself up sometime before he was booked. Estimates vary from as little as five minutes to as much as twenty. He was booked at ten-fifty-five.”
Mason said, “I’ve got to talk with Serle.”
Drake said, “The cops hold all the trumps. Remember, they have a felony rap on Serle.”
“What happened to his bail?” Mason asked.
“There wasn’t any bail. It was fixed at five grand. Serle squawked his head off and tried to get it at a thousand, but they sat tight at five. By the time the argument was over, and Serle called for Conway to come down and put up the bail, it was around eleven-thirty. By that time, of course, there was no answer on the phone. Serle thought Conway had given him a double cross, and he was so damn mad he could hardly talk. He kept calling Conway’s place until the cops threw him in the cooler. They won’t let him out now until he’s signed a written statement, and you can figure that statement ain’t going to help us any.”
Mason said, “Look here, Paul. Our only chance is to mix this thing all up, so the D.A. doesn’t know just what to go after, and then grab the facts we want out of the scramble.”
Drake nodded, but without enthusiasm. “It isn’t going to be so easy, Perry,” he said.
The telephone rang. Mason picked it up, said, “Hello,” and Drake’s secretary said, “Mr. Mason, would you mind passing the word on to Mr. Drake that operative number twelve telephoned in to report that Guy T. Serle is out walking the streets?”
“Thanks,” Mason said, “I will. Was there anything else?”