“That’s all I want to know,” Cutter snapped, “and that’s all the police will want to know.”
He looked out through the glass window in his private office, which commanded a view of the store below, and said, “Here come officers from a radio car now.”
Heavy feet climbed the stairs, and pounded down the corridor. The door pushed open, and two uniformed officers, holstered weapons prominently displayed, crossed over to Cutter’s desk and asked, “What is it?”
Cutter motioned toward Mason and Drake. “These two.”
The officers whirled. One of them, taking a step toward Mason, suddenly stopped. “Wait a minute, this is Perry Mason.”
Mason nodded and said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
The officer turned to Cutter, puzzled. “You’ve heard of Perry Mason, the lawyer?” he asked.
Cutter’s face was cold. “I don’t give a damn who he is, he tried to run a flim-flam on a client of mine.”
The officer appeared dubious. “Are you,” he asked, “going to prefer charges?”
“I don’t see why not,” Cutter said. “He claimed that a watch purchased here by Mr. Rooney had been stolen.”