"Then within a couple of days the new strike was made and the stock started climbing sky high."
"And the stock is in your name, and not in the trust?"
"That's right."
"You have no letters from Palmer, no evidence to back up your story?"
"No."
Mason shook his head. "Tell that story to a jury and add it to your handling of the trust fund and you'll be crucified."
"But I did what I felt was best."
"For whom? For you or for Desere?"
"For everyone."
Mason shook his head. "A jury will think you sold out the Steer Ridge Oil stock from the trust fund; that you had a tip the new wells were in oil sand; that you acted on that tip to feather your own financial nest; that Palmer found out what you were doing, or rather what you had done, and was blackmailing you."
There was dismay on Dutton's face. "I hadn't thought of it that way."
"Better start thinking of it that way now," Mason said.
"Good heavens, everything I've done can be misinterpreted," Dutton said.
"Exactly," Mason agreed.
"You, yourself, don't even believe me," Dutton charged.
"I'm trying to," Mason said. And then added, "That's part of my job. A jury won't have to try so hard."
There was an interval of grim silence, then Mason said, "So you agreed to meet Palmer surreptitiously at a spot that wasn't particularly convenient to pay over blackmail, but was ideal for murder."
"He was the one who picked the spot," Dutton said.
"Too bad he can't come to life long enough to tell the jury so," Mason observed.
"Why in the world did you ever consent to go out there to meet him?" Mason asked after a few moments.
"That's where he wanted me to meet him."
"Why?"
"He didn't say why, but I gathered that he had to be pretty furtive about what he was doing. He didn't want it to come out into the open that he was trying to round up proxies on the stock or get control of the corporation. He wanted to get himself pretty firmly seated in the saddle before he turned the horse loose and let it buck. And he seemed afraid to let anyone find out he was selling me information."
"All right, you agreed to go out there," Mason said, wearily, "and you went out there."
"That's right."
"For your information," Mason told him, "the police have a wire recording of your conversation from the telephone booth. The one in which you agreed to go out there. You-"
The lawyer stopped before the expression of utter consternation on Dutton's face.
"How in the world could they get a wire recording of that conversation?" Dutton asked.
Mason regarded the man with thought-narrowed eyes. "It seems to give you a jolt."
"Good heavens, yes. Of course, it gives me a jolt. I picked out a telephone booth and- Wait a minute, there was some fellow snooping around on the outside."
"He planted a bug and a wire recorder," Mason said. "I thought you should know it."
Dutton lowered his eyes, then suddenly raised them. "He bugged the conversation in the telephone booth, he didn't tap the line?"
"No," Mason said. "Wire tapping is illegal."
"I see," Dutton said. "Then he only has my end of the conversation recorded on wire?"
"That's right."
"Just that end of the conversation?"
"That's right, but your end was pretty incriminating. You said that you would go out there and meet him on the seventh tee at the Barclay Country Club."
"Yes, I did," Dutton said, slowly, "and the police have that recording?"
"The police have that recording."
Dutton shrugged his shoulders.
Mason said, "All right, Dutton, you've stalled around now long.enough to have thought over all the angles. You've had plenty of time to think up a pretty good story; you have an idea of what the police have against you, so why not try to give me the facts? The real facts might help."
"He was dead when I got there," Dutton said.
"How long did you hang around?"
"Too long!"
"Why?"
"I had a key to the clubhouse," Dutton said. "All members have keys. Palmer knew that. He'd borrowed a key from a friend. Palmer wasn't a member. I went in through the clubhouse, out the back door to the links and walked down to the seventh tee. That's about a hundred yards from the clubhouse.
"All the time I was walking down there, I thought I was making a darn fool of myself. That was no way to meet a man and carry on a legitimate business conversation or a legitimate business transaction."
"You can say that again," Mason observed dryly.
"What do you mean?"
"If it embarrasses you to tell me about it," Mason said, "think how you're going to feel when you have to tell twelve cold-eyed, skeptical jurors about it and then be cross-examined by a sarcastic district attorney."
There was a long moment of silence.
"You may as well get on with it," Mason said.
Dutton said, "I stood around the seventh tee expecting to see Palmer there. I was, of course, watching the skyline for a man to show up. After some ten minutes, I started walking around and then I saw something dark on the ground. At first I thought it was a shadow. I moved over and my foot struck against it."
Dutton stopped talking.
"Palmer's body?" Mason asked.
"It was Palmer's body."
"What did you do?"
"I got in a panic. I almost ran back to the clubhouse; got in my car and drove away."
Mason said, "You didn't have a flashlight?"
Dutton hesitated a fraction of a second, then said, "No."
"You went out there in the dark?"
"Yes. A flashlight might have attracted the attention of the club watchman. He's paid to watch the locker rooms and not the golf links, but a flashlight could have attracted his attention."
"Then that's your story?"
"That's it."
"You're willing to stick to it?"
"Absolutely. It's the truth."
Mason regarded the man in thoughtful silence.
"Well?" Dutton asked, at length, squirming uncomfortably.
Mason said, "What about the gun?"
"What gun?"
"The gun you hid in the culvert."
Dutton's eyes widened.
"Go on," Mason said. "What about the gun you hid in the culvert?"
"You're crazy!"
Mason said, "Look, let's quit kidding each other and kidding ourselves. The police picked you up. They had enough evidence against you to contemplate charging you with murder.
"That can only mean one thing. They found the murder weapon and they traced it to you.
"You may not realize it, but the average amateur criminal always regards a culvert as a wonderful place to hide incriminating objects. They run true to form with devastating regularity.
"Therefore, when the police encounter a murder, one of the first things they do is to start looking in culverts on all roads leading away from the scene of the crime.
"Now, I'm willing to bet that you made a stop at a culvert, got out of your car and tossed the murder weapon and perhaps some other incriminating evidence into the culvert."
"And the police have that?" Dutton asked in dismay.
"The police have that."
"Then there's nothing left for you to do," Dutton said, "except have me plead guilty and put myself on the mercy of the court."
"Did you kill him?" Mason asked.
"No, I didn't kill him," Dutton said, "but I did find a gun by the body. I picked it up and when I got to my car, I examined it by flashlight and found it was my gun."
"You had a flashlight in the car?"
"Well, it was the dash light," Dutton said.
Mason said, "You're indulging in the most expensive luxury a man can indulge in."
"What's that? Being tried for murder?"
"No, lying to your lawyer."
"I'm not lying."
Mason said, "Don't be silly. A detective was watching you when you came out of the club. You jumped in your car and drove away at high speed. You went a mile and three-tenths, passed over a culvert, slammed on your brakes so you left tire marks on the surface of the pavement, put your car in reverse; went back, got out and tossed something under the culvert. You didn't turn on the dash light; you didn't use any flashlight."
"A detective was watching me?"
"Yes."
"Then why wasn't I arrested?"
"It was a private detective and no one knew anything about the murder, as yet."
"All right," Dutton said. "You have me convicted in your own mind and-"
"I don't have you convicted in my mind," Mason said. "I simply suggested that you had better tell your lawyer the truth. How did you know it was your gun?"
"I looked at the gun on the ground."
"Then you must have had some light. What did you do, strike a match?"
"I had a small pocket flashlight in my coat. A very small, flat light which has a rechargeable battery. It gives a small field of illumination."
"Then you did have the means of looking around when you got out on the tee for the seventh hole?"
"Yes, I guess so, if I had used it."
"Why didn't you use it?"
"There wasn't any occasion to use it."
Mason said, "After you discovered the body, you did use it?"
"Yes."
"I was wondering," Mason said, "how you identified the body and how you identified the gun."
"Well, that was it. I had this flashlight with me."
"As soon as you recognized the gun as yours, you pocketed the gun and made a beeline for your car?"
"Yes."
Mason said, "I don't think you're that big a damn fool, Dutton. I think you're protecting someone."
"Protecting someone!" Dutton exclaimed.
"That's right."
"I'm trying to protect myself. I wish I could."
"Not with that story, you can't."
"Well, it's the only story I have."
Mason looked at his watch and said, "I have things to do. I'm going to tell you one thing. If you tell that story on the witness stand, you're going to be convicted."
"But why? The story is the truth."
"It may be the truth," Mason said, "but if that's so, it isn't all the truth. You're skipping over some incidents that might make your story convincing. You're trying to conceal things that you think might be against you. Hell, I don't know what you're doing, but every instinct I have as a lawyer tells me that once someone starts cross-examining you on that story, you're going to find yourself boxed in."
"No lawyer can cross-examine me and confuse me when I'm telling the truth," Dutton said.
"Exactly," Mason told him. "That's why I think you're going to be confused."
"Try it," Dutton invited. "Try cross-examining me."
"All right," Mason said, adopting a sneering, sarcastic attitude, "I'll pretend I'm the district attorney. Now, you answer questions. You're on the witness stand."
"Go right ahead," Dutton said.
"You had this flashlight in your pocket?" Mason said.
"Yes, sir."
"Why did you have it?"
"So I could- Well, I thought I might have to use it."
"For what purpose?"
"To identify the man I was to meet."
"You knew him?"
"I'd- Well, I talked with him over the telephone."
"Oh," Mason said, "you were going to use the flashlight then to identify his voice, is that right?"
"Well, I thought I'd take the flashlight along. It might come in handy."
"And it did come in very, very handy, didn't it?" Mason said sarcastically. "It enabled you to identify the body, to make sure he was very, very dead. It enabled you to search the body, to cut the labels off his clothes, to be certain you left nothing at all on the body so the corpse could readily be identified."
"I didn't say I had made sure he was dead."
"Well, then you didn't feel for a pulse?"
"No."
"In other words, the man might have been wounded and you simply took off for Ensenada on a vacation leaving a badly wounded man dying there on the golf course?"
"I could tell he was dead."
"How?"
"By- Well, he'd been shot."
"How did you know he'd been shot?"
"The gun was there."
"You found the gun with the aid of the flashlight?"
"Yes."
"And you knew it was your gun as soon as you saw it?"
"Yes."
"How? Did you check the numbers on the gun?"
"No, I… I recognized it."
"What was there about it that enabled you to recognize it?"
"The size, the shape."
"A thirty-eight-caliber Smith and Wesson short-barreled revolver?"
"Yes."
"Any distinguishing features about it?"
"Well… I just knew it was my gun, that's all."
"Certainly," Mason said, "you knew it was your gun because you had it in your pocket when you went out on the golf links. You knew it was your gun because you had loaded it and intended to murder the man who was trying to blackmail you. You knew it was your gun and you knew that you didn't dare to be caught with it in your possession. So you stopped your car in the middle of your flight and threw the gun under the culvert, hoping that it would remain there undiscovered."
Dutton cringed under Mason's sarcastic manner.
The lawyer got to his feet. "All right," he said. "That's a very weak sample of what you'll have to contend with. Hamilton Burger can be a demon when it comes to cross-examination.
"Think it over, Mr. Dutton.
"Whenever you're ready to change your story, send for me."
"What are you going to do?" Dutton asked. "Quit the case? Plead me guilty?"
"Are you guilty?" Mason asked.
"No."
"I never let a client plead guilty if he isn't guilty," Mason said. "I don't believe in it. I try to find the truth."
"You think I'm telling the truth?"
"No," Mason said, "but I still don't think you're a murderer. I think you're just a rotten liar. I hope you either improve by the time you get on the witness stand, or else have a different story to tell."
And with that, Mason signaled the officer who was waiting at the door of the conference room.
The lawyer walked out, and the barred door clanged shut.
Chapter Thirteen
Desere Ellis said, "Oh, Mr. Mason, I'm so glad to see you. Isn't this simply too terrible for anything?"
Mason said, "These things nearly always look blacker at the start; then after the facts begin to come to light the case looks better. Are you willing to talk with me?"
"Willing? Why, I'm anxious! I've been wondering how I could get in touch with you. Tell me, how is the case against Kerry? Does it look bad? All I know is that he's been arrested."
"That," Mason said, "is something I can't tell you. I'm Kerry's attorney. I want you to understand that. I'm here as Kerry Dutton's lawyer. I'm representing him and no one else.
"Now, Dutton may be representing you, in a way, but that doesn't mean that I'm representing you. My whole interest in this case is to protect Kerry Dutton against the charges that have been made against him and to get an acquittal, if possible. Do you understand that?"
"Yes."
"All right," Mason said, "let's talk."
"Won't you be seated?" she asked, indicating a comfortable chair.
Mason said, "Thank you," and dropped into the chair.
"May I get you a drink?"
"No," Mason said, smiling, "I'm on duty and when I'm on duty I prefer not to drink. Now then, tell me about Dutton's gun."
"About… Dutton's… gun!"
"That's right."
Her eyes were wide with panic. "What about it?"
"
Did he loan it to you?"
"Why… why, yes."
"Where is it?" Mason asked.
"In the drawer, in my bedroom."
"Let's go get it," Mason said.
"All right. I'll bring it to you."
"If it's all the same with you, I'd like to go with you," Mason said.
"Why?"
"One might say, to see how good an actress you are."
"What do you mean?" she flared.
"If you're telling the truth," Mason said, "I think I can detect it. If you're not, I think I can also tell that. It may make a big difference."
"In what way?"
"Let's get the gun first and then I'll tell you."
"All right," she said, "come with me."
She led the way down a passageway, opened the door of a typically feminine room, walked over to a dresser by the bed, triumphantly opened the drawer and then recoiled with her hand on her breast.
"It's… it's not here!"
"I didn't think it would be," Mason said dryly. "The gun was used in killing Rodger Palmer. Now, perhaps you'll tell me how that happened?"
"I don't know," she said. "I-I- Why, I just can't imagine. I would have sworn the gun was here."
Mason eyed her narrowly. "That," he said, "is exactly what I want you to do."
"What?"
"Swear that the gun was there."
"But… but what could have happened to it?"
"Someone took it," Mason said. "Unless you took it and used it."
"What do you mean?"
Mason said, "Did you, by any chance, go out to the Barclay Country Club the night of the murder?"
"No, why?"
"You are a member of the Barclay Club?"
"Yes."
"And, as such, have a key?"
"Heavens, I suppose so. There's one around here somewhere. Wait a minute, I had that in the drawer with the gun."
"You say you had it?" Mason said. "That's past tense."
"All right, if you want to be technical about it, I have it."
"Let's take a look."
She rummaged through the back of the drawer and then triumphantly produced a key.
"Now then," Mason said, "is there any chance that last night you took this key and that gun, went out to the Barclay Country Club, met Rodger Palmer on the seventh tee, had an argument with him over blackmail and shot him?"
"Good heavens, what are you talking about? Are you crazy?"
The Case of the Troubled Trustee pm-78 Page 8