“What stuff?” Mason asked.
“Trying to shake me down. Hell, don’t think I was born yesterday. All I’ve got to do is to step over to that phone, ring the district attorney, and tell him the defense lawyer is trying to tamper with one of his witnesses, and they’ll have you on the spot so fast you won’t have a chance to finish your dinner.”
Mason gravely handed him a dime. “There’s the phone,” he said. “Hop to it.”
“I’m not that kind,” Serle said. “I don’t squeal.”
Mason said, “Of course, if the district attorney wanted actual proof, I could see that he had the lottery ticket and the crooked crap dice which you delivered for twenty-five bucks to Paul Drake.”
Serle, who had been about to attack his meat pie, paused with the fork poised over the plate. “What the hell are you trying to pull?” he asked.
Mason speared a carrot, cut a corner from the rich crust of the pie, and conveyed it to his mouth. After watching Serle, Mason said, “Drake’s the head of the Drake Detective Agency. He was working for me.”
Serle said, “Oh,” tonelessly.
“We were trying to locate Conway,” Mason said. “We found out about the Conway Appliance Company, but it had moved. We couldn’t get the post office to kick loose with a forwarding address so we sent twenty-five bucks on a chance. The chance paid off.” He returned to his meat pie.
“Look here,” Serle said abruptly, “what do you want?”