Halder seemed perplexed. “I see your point, Mr. Mason, but, good Lord, you’re splitting a lot of legal hairs.”

  “Well, if you’re going to draw a hairline distinction with formal questions,” Mason said, “I see nothing else for me to do except split the hairs when I think they are divisible.”

  Mason’s smile was completely disarming.

  Halder said, “I’d like to have you answer the questions informally, Mr. Mason.”

  “Well, now,” Mason said, “that poses a problem. After all, I’m Mrs. Davenport’s attorney. I don’t know yet whether there’s going to be a criminal action against her. I understand there may be. In that event I’m an attorney representing her in a criminal action. I am also her attorney representing her interest in probating the estate of her husband. Presumably that includes community property and perhaps some separate property. There is the relationship of husband and wife and there may be the relationship under a will. It is quite possible that if you ask me questions from a written list at this time so that your questions can be recalled at any subsequent date and repeated in their exact phraseology, some of my answers might jeopardize the interests of my client. I might, for instance, run up against the question of whether she murdered her husband, Ed Davenport. That, I take it, is conceivable under the circumstances, isn’t it, Counselor?”

  “I don’t know,” Halder said shortly. “I refuse to make any predictions as to what action will be taken by the officials in other jurisdictions.”

  Mason said, “I believe you stated over the telephone that you were being subjected to some pressure.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Pressure, I take it, from the law enforcement agencies in other counties.”

  “Yes.”

  “And quite obviously that pressure was not brought to bear upon you simply because of the possibility of an unlawful or unauthorized entry on the premises of Edward Davenport in Paradise, California. That pressure was brought to bear on you because someone feels that Ed Davenport is dead and that there is a possibility—mind you, Counselor, I am now talking entirely about the state of mind of the person or persons who brought pressure to bear on you—that there is a possibility Mrs. Davenport had something to do with the death of Edward Davenport. Isn’t that right?”

  “I’m afraid I shouldn’t answer that question frankly, Mr. Mason.”

  Mason said suavely, “Now it is my understanding of the law that if a person murders another person, that person cannot inherit any property from the decedent. Isn’t that your understanding, Counselor?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So,” Mason said, “suppose that you should ask me a question which would involve ownership to certain property—that is, the question of the status of the present title to that property, and suppose further it should be property which Ed Davenport owned in his lifetime, which he left to his wife under the terms of a will which would be perfectly valid on its face and which under ordinary circumstances would have passed title to the property to his widow. Then suppose I should, inadvertently mind you, in my answer indicate that the property did not at the present time belong to Mrs. Davenport, then it is quite possible that someone—not you, of course, Counselor, because I know you are too ethical to take advantage of a mere slip of that sort—but someone who was more technically minded would use that statement as an indication of the fact that I had admitted that Mrs. Davenport was guilty of the murder and therefore couldn’t take title and hadn’t taken title.”

  Mason sat back, smiled at the three puzzled interrogators and took a cigarette case from his pocket.

  “Anybody care to smoke?” he asked.

  There was silence.

  Mason extracted a cigarette, tapped it on the side of the cigarette case, lit up, blew out a cloud of smoke and fairly beamed at the interrogators.

  “Well, now wait a minute,” Halder said. “I’ve started to question you and it seems that about all I’m doing is answering questions.”

  “Of course,” Mason said, “I want to have the status of the interview plainly determined. I’m asking you now, Counselor, as one attorney to the other, what do you think? Should I say anything that would intimate in any way that I thought my client was not eligible to succeed to the estate of the dead husband?”

  “Certainly not. No one’s asking you to.”

  “Exactly,” Mason said. “Therefore when you ask me about a question of title I have to be very careful with my answer. Don’t you think so?”

  “I’m not in a position to advise you,” Halder said.

  “Exactly,” Mason conceded. “I appreciate your frankness, Counselor. And since you’re not in a position to advise me I have to advise myself. Now then, you’ve raised a very interesting question. I don’t know, under the circumstances, if I am at liberty to comment on any matter of title. However, go right ahead with your interrogation and I’ll see what can be done.”

  Halder looked back at his paper. “While you were in that house,” he said, “the house belonging to Ed Davenport at Paradise, didn’t you pick the lock on a desk, open a lockbox, and remove an envelope on which there was written in Davenport’s handwriting ‘To be delivered to the authorities in the event of my death’?”

  Mason paused thoughtfully.

  “Can’t you answer that question?” Halder asked.

  Mason pursed his lips. “There are a good many factors involved in that question. I am trying to divide them in my own mind.”

  “Such as what?”

  “In the first place,” Mason said, “once more you bring in the question of the ownership of the house.”

  “Well, we can have it understood,” Halder said, “that whenever I refer to the house as Ed Davenport’s house I am talking about it in the general popular sense of the word and we won’t try to adjudicate the title here and now.”

  “Oh no,” Mason said, “that would be an oral stipulation that I was not to be bound by my own statements. That might be all right as between you and me, Counselor, but it might not be all right as between some—well, let us say some cold blooded, calculating, merciless attorney who might be representing some other heir to the estate.”

  “What other heir?”

  “Well,” Mason said, “I haven’t figured it all out yet, but for instance there’s Sara Ansel. Sara Ansel’s sister married William Delano’s brother. Now let us suppose, for the sake of the argument, that the Delano estate could not come to Myrna Davenport.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh because of various legal reasons, such, for instance. as the question—and, mind you, this is only a hypothetical question—that Myrna Davenport should be accused of the murder of William Delano.”

  “She can’t be,” Halder said. “She’s accused of the murder of Hortense Paxton, but Delano wasn’t murdered. He was dying.”

  “Then I have your assurance that she is not to be charged with the murder of William Delano? And I have your assurance William Delano was not murdered?”

  “I’m not in a position to assure you of anything.”

  “There we are,” Mason said. “Right back to where we started. I find myself in a very peculiar position, Counselor. I am exceedingly anxious to cooperate with you but—”

  “What are you getting at? That Sara Ansel might be an heir to the estate?”

  “Well,” Mason said, “suppose that Myrna was incapable of inheriting from William Delano under the will Delano left because of the fact that she was accused of murdering him. That would leave Mrs. Ansel perhaps in a position to inherit property which came to the dead brother of Delano—or would it? I’m frank to admit, Counselor, I haven’t looked up the law of succession.”

  “Neither have I,” Halder said.

  “Well, perhaps we’d better look it up now,” Mason said.

  “No, no,” Halder said. “We’re getting this thing in an interminable mess. I want to keep my questions simple and I’d like to have simple, definite answers.”

  “I’m certainly anxious to do it that way,” Mason said, “but the fact that this has become a formal hearing complicates the situation enormously.”

  “I’m trying to make it informal.”

  “But you said it was formal.”

  “Well, that depends on what you call formal.”

  “Reading from a written list.”

  “Well, I tried to coordinate my thoughts in advance.”

  Mason looked at him reproachfully. “And that was the only reason for preparing the list, Counselor? The only reason?”

  “Well, of course,” Halder said, suddenly embarrassed, “I had conferred with other officials who suggested specific questions they wanted, answered.”

  “And because you adopted their suggestions as to the questions that were to be answered you wrote them down?”

  “In a way.”

  “There you are,” Mason said. “This question that you have now asked me may have been thought up by the district attorney of Los Angeles County purely in an attempt to elaborate on some theory of the case that he has. And he may construe my answer in the most technical manner possible.”

  “But your client isn’t charged with the murder of William Delano, her uncle. She’s charged with the murder of Hortense Paxton.”

  “And that alleged murder enabled her to get most of the estate of William Delano?”

  “That’s my understanding of the situation.”

  “And the body of William Delano hasn’t been exhumed?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because his was a natural death.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The man was dying. He had been dying for months.”

  “Is a dying man immune to poison?”

  “Are you trying to insinuate that your client poisoned William Delano?”

  “Good heavens, no,” Mason said. “I know she didn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know she didn’t poison anyone.”

  “She poisoned Hortense Paxton,” Halder said, “and she may have poisoned Edward Davenport.”

  “Oh, come, come,” Mason said. “You’re making a flat accusation.”

  “Well, I have information, Mr. Mason, which supports that accusation.”

  “Information which I don’t have?”

  “Certainly.”

  Mason said, “That, of course, complicates the situation again.”

  Halder said with exasperation, “I’m asking you simple questions and you go playing ring-around-a-rosy.”

  “It’s not ring-around-a-rosy,” Mason said. “I’m asking you to put yourself in my place. Would you answer questions involving the title to property?”

  “I can’t put myself in your place. I can’t advise you. I have my own problems to worry about.”

  “Exactly,” Mason said. “So, since I can’t rely on your advice, since you’re afraid to take the responsibility—”

  “Who’s afraid?” Halder demanded.

  “Why, you are,” Mason said.

  “I’m not afraid of anything,” Halder said, his face flushing, “and I’m not certain I like your attitude.”

  “Come, come,” Mason said affably. “Let’s not let the difference in our official positions enter into our personal relations, Counselor. I merely commented that you in your position were afraid to take the responsibility of advising me—”

  “I’m not afraid to take the responsibility.”

  “Are you willing to advise me, then?”

  “Certainly not. It’s not my place to advise you. I’m representing the people of the State of California. I’m representing this county. You’re representing a client. You’ll have to decide what your own responsibilities are.”

  Mason said, “Of course, Counselor, it seems to me that by that answer you’re evading the question.”

  “I’m evading the question?” Halder shouted.

  “Precisely,” Mason said. “You won’t answer definitely whether or not in my position as an attorney representing Myrna Davenport I should answer your questions.”

  “I’m not in a position to advise you on anything.”

  “Well,” Mason said, his face suddenly breaking into a smile as though he had a complete solution, “will you then assure me that if I go ahead and discuss questions of title with you my answers will not at any time be binding upon my client in regard to such matters?”

  Halder hesitated and said, “Why, I think—I don’t see how they could.”

  “But will you definitely assure me?” Mason asked. “Will you take the responsibility? Will you guarantee it?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “There you are,” Mason said.

  The lawyer settled back in his chair and smoked thoughtfully as though making a good-faith attempt at finding some way out of the impasse.

  Halder glanced at the sheriff, then at his deputy. Abruptly he said. “Mr. Mason, will you and Miss Street pardon us for a few minutes? You wait right here. I want to confer with my associates. Will you, Sheriff, and you, Oscar, mind stepping in this other office with me?”

  The three scraped back their chairs, crowded through the door into the second office.

  Della Street turned to Perry Mason. “Well,” she said, “you seem to—”

  Mason placed a warning finger to his lips and rolled his eyes around the room, then interrupted to say, “I seem to be in a devil of a fix, don’t I, Della? I’d like to be fair with Mr. Halder and I’d like to be frank. But for the life of me I don’t see how I can overlook the fact that I’m in a position of responsibility as far as my client is concerned. Now you take that question of title and it could become very complicated.”

  “Yes,” Della Street said, “even with these few preliminary questions I can see that it’s going to be complicated, and the district attorney has a list of several typewritten pages.”

  “Well,” Mason said, “Of course I want to cooperate with him, Della, but we have other things to do. We can’t stay here indefinitely. I do hope he’ll expedite matters.”

  Della Street smiled.

  Mason winked at her. “Care for a cigarette, Della?”

  “No, Chief, thank you.”

  Mason settled back to smoking. After a moment, he said, “I do hope they won’t take too much time with their conference. After all, Della, we’re holding a chartered plane here and I have very definite responsibilities back in my own office.”

  After a moment, Mason again winked at Della Street and said, “That’s right, Della. Put your head back and try and get some sleep. After all, you’ve had quite a siege of it, being up all last night.”

  “Did I have my eyes closed?” Della Street asked innocently.

  “Yes,” Mason said. “If you can doze off by all means do so.”

  And Mason, with a finger on his lips, gestured for silence.

  “Well, thanks,” Della Street said, yawning audibly.

  There was an interval of several minutes during which there was complete silence in the room. Della Street held her head against the back of the chair, her eyes closed. Mason smoked thoughtfully, from time to time holding his cigarette out in front of him, studying the eddying smoke.

  At length the door from the other room opened. The three men filed back into the room. They were followed by a fourth.

  Mason looked at the man and said, “Well, well, Sidney Boom. How are you, Mr. Boom? It’s good to see you again.”

  He got up and shook hands.

  Boom smiled. “How are you, Mr. Mason? How do you do, Miss Street?”

  Della Street gave the officer her hand. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Thank you.”

  Chairs scraped once more.

  Halder seemed to have decided upon a new line of attack. He turned to question Boom.

  “You’re an officer up at Paradise?”

  “Yes.”

  “A deputy, working out of the sheriff’s office here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you were such a deputy last night?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now were you called to the residence of Ed Davenport last night?”

  “That’s the place out on Crestview Drive?”

  “Don’t ask me where it is. I asked you a question.”

  “Well, I’m not sure who owns the house except—yes, I am, too. The woman told me.”

  “What woman?” Mason asked.

  “The secretary, Mabel Norge.”

  “Now just a moment,” Mason said. “I can’t sit here without registering some protest at this method of proving title.”

  “I’m not proving title,” Halder said angrily. “I’m simply trying to confront you with some of the proof that we have.”

  “But you distinctly asked him about who owned the property,” Mason said, “and he told you that the only way he knew was from a statement made by Mabel Norge. Now I submit that Mabel Norge isn’t an expert on real estate titles and therefore any statement she made to him was simply hearsay and—”

  “All right, all right,” Halder said. “This isn’t a court of law. We’re not trying title to the property.”

  “But you raised the question of title.”

  “I’m merely describing the house.”

  “Then why not describe it with reference to the number of the location on Crestview Drive?”

  “All right,” Halder said. “Let’s go at it this way, Boom. You were called out to a place on Crestview Drive. Where is it?”

  “As you go out on Crestview Drive and come to the end of the street it’s the last place on the right—a big, rambling house surrounded by fruit and shade trees.”

  “You make a difference in your own mind between a fruit tree and a shade tree?” Mason asked.

  “I do,” Boom said.

  “Well, now actually, Mr. Boom, a fruit tree can well give shade. You take these fig trees, I suppose one would call them fruit trees, and—”

  “Now just a moment,” Halder interpolated, his voice edged with anger. “I’m conducting the inquiry, Mr. Mason. I’m interrogating Mr. Boom at the moment, and I’m going to ask you to keep quiet.”

  “Regardless of any inaccuracies in Mr. Boom’s statement?”

  “Regardless of anything,” Halder said. ‘I ‘m going to ask you to keep quiet.”