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Griffin made a slight motion with his shoulders.
“If you had a mind like that,” he said, “you wouldn’t need to ask the question. The man had wonderful intellectual capacity. He had the ability to see through people and to penetrate sham and hypocrisy. He was the type of a man who never made any friends. He was so thoroughly self-reliant that he didn’t have to lean on any one, and, therefore, he hadn’t any ground for establishing friendships. His sole inclination was to fight. He fought the world and everyone in it.”
“Evidently he didn’t fight you,” said Sergeant Hoffman.
“No,” admitted Griffin, “he didn’t fight me, because he knew that I didn’t give a damn about him or his money. I didn’t lick his boots, and, on the other hand, I didn’t double-cross him. I told him what I thought, and I shot fair with him.”
Sergeant Hoffman narrowed his eyes. “Who did double-cross him?” he asked.
“Why, what do you mean?”
“You said you didn’t double-cross him, so he liked you.”
“That’s right.”
“And there was an emphasis on the pronoun you used.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“How about his wife? Didn’t he like her?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t discuss his wife with me.”
“Did she double-cross him?” demanded Sergeant Hoffman.
“How should I know that?”
Sergeant Hoffman stared at the young man. “You sure know how to keep things to yourself,” he mused, “but if you won’t talk, you won’t, so that’s all there is to it.”
“But I’ll talk, Sergeant,” protested Griffin, “I’ll tell you everything I can.”
Sergeant Hoffman sighed and said, “Can you tell me exactly where you were when the murder was committed?”
A flush came over Griffin’s face.
“I’m sorry, Sergeant,” he said, “but I can’t.”
“Why?” asked Sergeant Hoffman.
“Because,” said Griffin, “in the first place, I don’t know when the murder was committed, and in the second place, I wouldn’t know where I was. I’m afraid I’d been making quite an evening of it. I was out with a young woman earlier in the evening, and after I left her I went to a few speakeasies on my own. When I started home, I had that damned flat tire and I knew I was too drunk to change it. I couldn’t find a garage that was open, and it was raining, so I just fought the car along over the road. It must have taken me hours to get here.”
“The tire was pretty well chewed to pieces,” remarked Sergeant Hoffman. “And, by the way, did any one else know of your uncle’s will? Had any one else seen it?”
“Oh, yes,” Griffin answered, “my lawyer saw it.”
“Oh,” said Sergeant Hoffman, “so you had a lawyer, too, did you?”
“Of course I had a lawyer. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Who is he?” asked Hoffman.
“Arthur Atwood. He’s got offices in the MutualBuilding.”
Sergeant Hoffman turned to Mason. “I don’t know him. Do you know him, Mason?”
“Yes,” Mason said, “I’ve met him once or twice. He’s a bald-headed chap, who used to do some personal injury work. They say he always settles his cases out of court and always gets a good settlement.”
“How did you happen to see the will in the presence of your lawyer?” pressed Sergeant Hoffman. “It’s not usual for a man to call in the beneficiary under his will, together with his lawyer, in order to show them how the will is made, is it?”
Griffin pressed his lips together. “That’s something that you’ll have to ask my attorney about. I simply can’t go into it. It’s rather a complicated matter and one that I would prefer not to discuss.”
Sergeant Hoffman snapped. “All right, let’s forget about that stuff. Now go ahead and tell me what it was.”
“What do you mean?” asked Griffin.
Bill Hoffman turned around so that he was squarely facing the young man, and looked down at him. His jaw was thrust slightly forward, and his patient eyes were suddenly hard.
“I mean just this, Griffin,” he said, slowly and ominously, “you can’t pull that stuff. You’re trying to protect somebody, or trying to be a gentleman, or something of the sort. It won’t go. You either tell me what you know here and now, or else you go to jail as a material witness.”
Griffin’s face flushed. “I say,” he protested, “isn’t that rather steep?”
“I don’t give a damn how steep it is,” Hoffman said. “This is a murder case, and you’re sitting here trying to play button, button, who’s got the button with me. Now come on, and kick through. What was said at that time, and how did it happen that the will was exhibited to you and to your lawyer?”
Griffin spoke reluctantly. “You understand that I’m telling you this under protest?”
“Sure,” said Hoffman, “go ahead and tell me. What is it?”
“Well,” Griffin said slowly and with evident reluctance, “I’ve intimated that Uncle George and his wife weren’t on the best of terms. Uncle George had an idea that perhaps she was going to bring a suit against him for divorce in the event she could get the sort of evidence she wanted. Uncle George and I had some business dealings together, you know, and one time when Atwood and myself were discussing a business matter with him, he suddenly brought this other thing up. It was embarrassing to me, and I didn’t want to go ahead and discuss it, but Atwood looked at it just the way any lawyer would.”
Carl Griffin turned to Perry Mason. “I think you understand how that is, sir. I understand you’re an attorney.”
Bill Hoffman kept his eyes on Griffin’s face. “Never mind him. Go on. What happened?”
“Well,” said Griffin, “Uncle George made that single crack about him and his wife not being on the best of terms, and he held out a paper which he had in his hands, and which seemed to be all in his handwriting, and asked Mr. Atwood as a lawyer, if a will made entirely in the handwriting of the person who wrote it, was good without witnesses, or whether it needed to be witnessed. He said that he’d made his will, and that he thought there might be a contest because he wasn’t leaving much of his property to his wife. In fact, I believe he mentioned the sum of five thousand dollars, and he said that the bulk of the estate was to go to me.”
“You didn’t read the will?” asked Sergeant Hoffman.
“Well, not exactly. No, not in the way that you’d pick it up and look it through, word for word. I glanced at it, and saw that it was in his handwriting, and heard what he had to say about it. Atwood, I think, read it more carefully.”
“All right,” said Hoffman, “go ahead. Then what?”
“That was all,” said Griffin.
“No, it wasn’t,” Hoffman insisted. “What else?”
Griffin shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, well,” he said, “he went on to say something else, the way a man will sometimes. I didn’t pay any attention to it.”
“Never mind that line of hooey,” pressed Hoffman. “What was it he said?”