Leeds stared at Mason, his cold, gray eyes, under frosty eyebrows, boring steadily into the lawyer’s. “I don’t understand,” he said.
Mason said, “You called on John Milicant at ten-five last night.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You called on him where he’d had an apartment under the name of L. C. Conway,” Mason said.
Emily Milicant started to say something, then stopped suddenly.
Mason went on casually, “Don’t tell me that you don’t know John Milicant was murdered last night sometime between ten and ten-forty-five.”
Emily Milicant came to her feet, her eyes staring. “John!” she cried, and then, after a moment, “Murdered!”
Alden Leeds started to get to his feet, dropped back in the chair, and said sharply, “He’s lying, Emily, trying to get something out of you. Don’t fall for it.”
Mason fished in his inside pocket, took out a clipping, hastily torn from an early edition of the afternoon paper. He passed it across to Emily Milicant who read a few lines and crossed over to kneel beside Alden Leeds’ chair. Together they read the newspaper account
Mason said to Leeds, “You may or may not know that I’ve been employed to represent you by Phyllis.”