“Who made the arrest?” Mason asked.

  “I did,” Burdett said. “We couldn’t find the guy, but we saw Dough Boy come in a heavy winner so we went over to the pay-off windows and started looking around. Sure enough, Banks came up to the fifty-dollar window, presented a fifty-dollar ticket, and just before he was paid off I made the pinch.”

  “He make any statement?” Mason asked.

  “Denied everything and then clammed.”

  “You searched him?”

  “Sure, I searched him. Frisked him for a gun when I made the pinch and then of course at the jail we took everything out of his clothes.”

  “No tickets?”

  “No tickets. Just that one fifty-buck ticket was all.”

  “And you thought there were more?”

  “We were pretty sure there were more. He’d evidently slipped the tickets to some accomplice.”

  Mason turned to Fremont. “How much is the amount of the embezzlement, Mr. Fremont?”

  “I don’t know,” Fremont said.

  “Why don’t you know?”

  “It’s all mixed up.”

  “How is it all mixed up?”

  “The bankbooks. Money has been juggled,” Fremont said. “I’m going to have an audit. But I know one thing, all that money is my money. It makes no difference how much is missing. The five hundred dollars came out of my business and it’s stolen money. I still own it.”

  Mason said thoughtfully, “Perhaps Banks won enough to be able to make good all the shortages; provided, of course, there were any shortages, and I am now referring to the money he won on his fifty-dollar ticket.”

  “It’s not his money, it’s mine,” Fremont said. “I guess I know a little law myself. That’s my money. I have the title to it. He embezzled it. That doesn’t make it his money, it’s still my money. He bet it on a horse and he gets lucky. That doesn’t change the picture at all as far as I’m concerned. He’s in my employ and it’s my money and those are my winnings.”

  “You,” Mason told him, “had better see a lawyer.”

  “I’ve seen a lawyer.”

  “Then you’d better ask him some more questions,” Mason said.

  “You arrest him,” Fremont said, tapping Burdett on the sleeve. “He’s an accomplice.”

  Burdett shook his head. “I’m not arresting this man. He’s a lawyer.”

  “And,” Mason said to Fremont, “after you consult your lawyer, ask him what he thinks of my chances of recovering damages.”

  “Damages?”

  “You called me a crooked lawyer,” Mason explained.

  Burdett grinned.

  Fremont said, “Why, you . . . you . . . shyster!”

  “Got that down, Della?” Mason asked.

  She nodded.

  “Della Street, my secretary, gentlemen,” Mason said.

  Burdett turned to Fremont. “Okay, Mr. Fremont,” he said. “He called the turn. You see a lawyer.”

  “All right,” Fremont said, “I’ve got a lawyer, and a private detective, and I wish to hell I’d relied on them instead of you. It was the lawyer that told me to have an officer here and have the accomplice arrested.

  “Now I’ll tell both of you something. If this money gets away from me, I’m going to hold both of you responsible.”

  “Do that,” Mason said.

  There was a great uproar from the track. Someone shouted, “They’re off!” Mason and Della Street moved away from Fremont and the officer, hurried over to where they could see the running horses circling the track.

  “What a wonderful, magnetic personality,” Della Street said.

  “Not bad, as bosses go,” Mason told her. “I just wanted to remind you, Miss Street, that you are working for a veritable paragon of employers.”

  She laughed and squeezed his arm. “The job does have some compensations. Now, if you can just root for Pound Sterling and bring him in . . . “

  “With a name like that,” Mason said, “he couldn’t lose.”

  They stood watching the horses come down the home stretch to the finish.

  Pound Sterling wasn’t even in the money.

  “And with a name like that,” Della Street said.

  “Well, let’s try one in the next race,” Mason said. “Now, you’ve had your fill of horses with good, worthy names who could be counted on to make an honest effort. Let’s try a thoroughly disreputable horse. Here’s one in the second race, Counterfeit Cash. Now there’s a horse who should put up a thoroughly reprehensible performance.”

  “Two dollars on the nose,” Della Street said.

  Mason said, “Give me the money for the bet and I’ll place it for you, Della.”

  Mason went to the ten-dollar window. “Pound Sterling didn’t do so good for us,” he said. “How about number five, Counterfeit Cash?”

  “One?”

  “Two,” Mason said. “Two ten-dollar tickets, right on the nose.”

  The man at the window took the currency, handed Mason two tickets.

  Mason rejoined Della Street in the grandstand.

  “Don’t you feel you need an armed escort with all that money you’re carrying?” she asked.

  “It’s quite a roll,” Mason admitted, “and we may be in for trouble. I’m now suspicious of everything and everybody.”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know,” Mason said, “but it now appears that I’m mixed up in some way with an embezzler, that I’m holding currency about which there’s a dispute, to say the least, and an attempt is being made to tag me as an accessory to an embezzlement. However, let’s enjoy the races and then quietly get the hell out of here.”

  They watched the illuminated tote board.

  “Estimated odds on Counterfeit Cash,” Mason said, “are twenty to one. They should drop a little bit before the horses go to the starting gate.”

  “How come?” she asked.

  “Long odds like that on a horse tempt people to make bets just for the odds. Usually they’re small bets but there are quite a few people who, having lost ten two-dollar bets, look at a horse that is supposed to pay off at ten to one and will bet on the odds, just hoping they can break even.”

  Mason looked around the crowd in the grandstand, then said in a low voice to Della Street, “Here’s our friend, Marvin Fremont. He seems to be keeping us under what he would doubtless call surveillance.”

  “He doesn’t want to take any chances on you getting reckless and betting his bankroll,” she said.

  “There’s something mighty strange about the whole thing,” Mason said.

  “Oh-oh,” Della Street said, “here go the odds. They’re down to eighteen to one now and—Oh-oh, fifteen to one. I don’t see how anyone would bet on a horse with a name like that unless they were people who got hooked on that Pound Sterling horse. Imagine a horse with a name like that not even getting in the money.”

  “Well,” Mason said, “I think we’ll get out of here and lock this money in our safe.”

  “But we’re going to see this race?” Della Street asked.

  “Very definitely we’re going to see this race,” Mason said. “I wouldn’t want you to have to retain a lawyer to cash in your ticket.”

  Della Street laughed.

  Mason handed her the ticket, said, “This time we’ll keep an eye on the horse and see if we can coax him along to victory.”

  They chatted for a few moments, then Della Street said, “There’s your man standing over there and this time he has two others with him.”

  Mason glanced over his shoulder, said, “He’s probably sent for reinforcements.”

  “What can he do?” she asked.

  “Not a darned thing,” Mason said.

  “Suppose the money was embezzled?”

  “We don’t know a thing about it,” Mason said, “and what’s more, no one else does. There’s no way on earth those tickets can be identified. Of course, the man at the betting window might happen to remember the person who made such a bet on a long shot. He probably would, but he can’t identify the money.”

  “And suppose it turns out that the person who made the bet is the embezzler?” Della Street asked.

  “Then,” Mason said, “they have to do several things. They have to prove that he bought the tickets with embezzled money. They have to prove that he came to me, that I acted as his agent, or that I knew the money was embezzled. Then they have to go to court to get the money.”

  “Unless they should arrest you,” Della Street said, “in which event the money would be impounded at the jail.”

  “In which event,” Mason said, “this man, Fremont, whoever he is, would find that he’d stirred up a lot more action than he’d bargained for. And then of course he’d find himself confronted with the same problems, only then, in a criminal case, they’d have to prove each point beyond all reasonable doubt and not just by a preponderance of the evidence . . . .They’re off, Della.”

  “Which one is ours?”

  “Number five,” Mason said.

  “Oh-oh,” Della said, “he’s back third, he’s drifting back fourth . . . .I’m afraid he didn’t have an honest name and isn’t making an effort—”

  “Wait a minute,” Mason said, “he’s forging ahead now. He’s coming up to third place.”

  Della Street said, “He’s got to do a lot better than that. I bet right on the nose.”

  “Well, he’s bringing his nose along,” Mason said. “He’s running even with the third now. Wait a minute, they’re rounding the turn, he’s passed the horse in third place, he’s coming up on second—Come on, number five, come on!” Mason shouted.

  Number five inched up on the horse in second place, then nosed up on the favorite as they ran in a tight group down the home stretch.

  The crowd became suddenly silent. Then hundreds of voices started rooting for the favorite.

  Della jumped up on the seat, her hands on Mason’s shoulders, “Come on, come on, come on!” she shouted. “Oh, Chief, I believe he’s going to—No, he didn’t.” She settled down dejectedly, then said, “Gosh, if I’d only thought to put a two-dollar bet on him in second place, I could have won.”

  “It’s a photo finish,” Mason said. “It was that close. They’re going to have to develop the picture.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Not long,” Mason said. “We’ll ease our way toward the exit and be ready to go as soon as we hear the result.”

  “You mean there’s a chance?”

  “A good chance,” Mason said. “At least an even-money chance.”

  “An even-money chance on odds of fifteen to one,” Della Street said. “Good grief, that’ll be something. Why don’t we stay for the rest of the races? Maybe we can—”

  “You’re forgetting,” Mason said, “this is business. You’re getting the fever.”

  They moved toward the exit.

  “Well, here’s our reception committee,” Della Street said.

  Marvin Fremont pushed forward. “You said I should get a lawyer? I’ve got a lawyer.”

  One of the men said, “I’m Bannister Dowling, Mr. Mason. I’m representing Marvin Fremont.”

  “Good,” Mason said. “He’ll need you.”

  “And this is Moray Hobart, of the Hobart Detective Agency.”

  “A private detective, I take it?” Mason asked.

  “Right,” Hobart said.

  “All right,” Mason said, “I have only a few moments. What do you people want?”

  “Money,” Hobart said. “And we want it now, Mr. Mason.”

  “You’ve got some money that belongs to my client,” Dowling explained.

  “What makes you think it belongs to your client?” Mason asked.

  Hobart said, “The money was bet on the horse yesterday.”

  “What horse?” Mason asked.

  “Dough Boy.”

  “And that makes the money belong to Marvin Fremont?” Mason asked.

  Dowling said, “We may just as well understand each other, Mason. Rodney Banks embezzled money from my client in order to make a bet on a long shot. He was short in his accounts and he wanted to pay off. Getting a long-shot bet was the only chance he had . . . . By that time we were on to him. Moray Hobart spotted him at the fifty-dollar window collecting a bet on Dough Boy. We surmised he also had some other bets on the horses.”

  “Then what did he do with the tickets?” Mason asked.

  “He gave them to an accomplice, and the accomplice gave them to you,” Dowling said.

  “And who was the accomplice?”

  “His sister. She was seen at the hundred-dollar window.”

  “Why didn’t you arrest her?”

  “Because she didn’t show up to cash in on her winnings. Her brother’s arrest frightened her. She got away from us.”

  “You can identify the money she bet?” Mason asked.

  “In toto, yes. We haven’t all the bill numbers.”

  “Very interesting,” Mason said. “I fail to see how it concerns me.”

  Dowling said, “If the money was embezzled, Banks had no title to it, and if he had no title to it, any money that he won automatically became the property of my client. In other words, he didn’t have title to the money, he had only the physical possession of the money and he was holding it in trust. Any increment belongs to my client.”

  “This is a very interesting situation,” Mason said. “I want to be sure that I get your point of view. Banks was an embezzler?”

  “Yes.”

  “But the money that he had won would have covered his shortage?”

  “I believe,” Dowling said, “I’m not violating any confidence in stating that it would have more than covered the shortage.”

  “But Banks is in jail?”

  “He’s arrested on a charge of embezzlement. The bail is five thousand dollars. So far he hasn’t been able to raise it.”

  “And I take it the embezzlement was for less than five thousand dollars?”

  “Actually it was.”

  “Then you have no intention of letting him make restitution?”

  “Certainly not. That would be compounding a felony. My client intends to hold him for the embezzlement.”

  “And at the same time to take the winnings on the bet?”

  “Certainly. The money is my client’s.”

  “Well, it’s an interesting theory,” Mason said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t subscribe to the theory and—”

  “You can at least tell us how you came into possession of the tickets,” Dowling said.

  Mason merely smiled.

  “I want you to understand,” Dowling said, “that we’re going to be fair with you and courteous with you, Mr. Mason. As a matter of professional courtesy, I’m going to give you every opportunity to co-operate. But in view of the facts that I have stated to you now, you’re placed on notice of the true situation and you can become an accessory after the fact as far as the embezzlement is concerned, and an accomplice of the embezzler.”

  “Thank you,” Mason said. “I’m afraid I don’t need to have you tell me the law. I have an office full of lawbooks and I can look it up in case I don’t know it.”

  “All right,” Dowling said angrily, “go look up the question of what makes a man an accessory after the fact, and don’t kid yourself that just because you’re a lawyer you can get away with helping an embezzler.”

  “And the reason I suggested to your client that he consult a lawyer,” Mason said, “was because he made defamatory statements in the presence of witnesses. He called me a shyster and a crooked lawyer.”

  Dowling looked at Fremont.

  “That’s a lie,” Fremont said. “That’s absolutely not so. Mr. Mason misunderstood me. I was talking about something else entirely, about other lawyers.”

  “About Mr. Dowling?” Mason asked.

  “Don’t let him trap you,” Dowling said, holding up his hand with the palm toward Fremont’s mouth. “Don’t say a word. Shut up right now. You’ve said enough.”

  “Too much,” Mason said.

  “There’s some witness?” Dowling asked Mason.

  “My secretary,” Mason said, “and an officer, whose name I believe is Sidney Burdett.”

  “His secretary,” Fremont snorted. “She’d say anything to—”

  “Shut up,” Dowling commanded.

  “Let him keep talking,” Mason said. “Perhaps my secretary will also have a cause of action.”

  “I think,” Dowling said, “we’ll carry on this discussion in the absence of my client.”

  “You’ll carry it on in my absence also,” Mason said. “We’re just waiting for . . . “

  Lights flashed on the board. The voice of an announcer said, “The photo finish gives the first place in the race to number five, Counterfeit Cash, second place to Bigger and Better; third place Hot Head.”

  Mason turned to Della Street. “Let’s go cash our tickets, Della, and be on our way. Or do you also claim these winnings as well as the others?”

  “Say, wait a minute,” Fremont said. “What kind of a system are you using?”

  “It’s a very simple system,” Mason said, “and it’s virtually infallible.”

  “What is it?” Fremont asked, his eyes alight with interest.

  “Suppose you let me do the talking,” Dowling said.

  Mason smiled at the attorney. “I was about to answer your client’s question, but since you prefer that I don’t talk with him, and that he doesn’t talk with me, I think it’s better to preserve the ethics of the situation. Come on, Della.”

  “Hey, wait a minute!” Fremont said. “He didn’t mean not to talk about horse racing. He meant not to talk about what I said—I mean, what you said I said . . . what—”

  “Will you keep quiet?” Dowling asked.

  Mason took Della Street’s arm, led her to the cashier windows.

  Della exerted gentle pressure against Mason’s guiding arm. “It’s this way, Chief,” she said.

  “No, it isn’t,” Mason said. “It’s this way. Take a look at your ticket.”

  “Ten dollars!” Della Street exclaimed. “Why, you must have given me your ticket.”