Mason regarded his client skeptically. "And he also wanted proxies?"

"Yes."

"He was a blackmailer then?"

"I guess that's the word for it. However, I'd have done anything to prevent Desere marrying Hedley."

"What about proxies?"

"That's the strange, incredible thing," Dutton said. "When he made me that offer, I decided to take him up. I went out and bought up twenty thousand shares of Steer Ridge Oil stock in my own name. I got them at from ten to fifteen cents a share. I intended to let Palmer think they were the original shares of stock from the trust.

"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.