“Tell him I’ll see him,” Mason said. “Tell him he’ll have to wait about ten minutes. Go out and meet him, Della. Size him up. Take him into the law library, let him wait there. Bring me the morning newspapers. This, young lady, in case you don’t know it, is a Break with a capital ‘B.’ Okay, get busy... Wait a minute, I have one of the newspapers here.”
Mason made a dive for the newspaper, sweeping the file of important correspondence over to the far end of the desk, as he hurriedly cleared a space in front of him.
The account of the murder of Fremont C. Sabin occupied much of the front page. There were photographs on the second and third pages. There was a human interest story about his character and personality.
That which was known of the murder was well calculated to stir the imagination. Fremont C. Sabin, eccentric multimillionaire, had virtually retired from the many businesses which bore his name. His son, Charles Sabin, carried on for him. During the past two years the wealthy man had become almost a recluse. At times he would travel in a trailer, stopping in at auto camps, fraternizing with other trailerites, talking politics, exchanging views. None of those with whom he talked had the least inkling that this man, with his shiny business suit, his diffident manner, and his quiet gray eyes, was rated at more than two million dollars.
Or he would disappear for a week or two at a time, prowling around through bookstores, dropping in at libraries, living in a realm of studious abstraction, while he browsed through books.
Librarians invariably classified him as a clerk out of work.
Of late he had been spending much of his time in a mountain cabin, on the pine-clad slope of a rugged range near a brawling stream. Here he would sit on the porch by the hour with a pair of powerful binoculars in his hand, watching the birds, making friends with the chipmunks and squirrels, reading books — asking only to be let alone.
Just touching sixty, he represented a strange figure of a man; one who had wrung from life all that it offered in the way of material success; a man who literally had more money than he knew what to do with. Some of this money he had established in trust funds, but for the most part he did not believe in philanthropy, thinking that the ultimate purpose of life was to develop character; that the more a person came to depend on outside assistance, the more his character was weakened.
The newspaper published an interview with Charles Sabin, the son of the murdered man, giving an insight into his father’s character. Mason read it with interest. Sabin had believed that life was a struggle and had purposely been made a struggle; that competition developed character; that victory was of value only as it marked the goal of achievement; that to help someone else toward victory was doing that person an injustice, since victories were progressive.
The elder Sabin had placed something over a million dollars in trust funds for charitable uses, but he had stipulated that the money was to go only to those who had been incapacitated in life’s battles: the crippled, the aged, the infirm. To those who could still struggle on, Sabin offered nothing. The privilege of struggling for achievement was the privilege of living, and to take away that right to struggle was equivalent to taking away life itself.
Della Street entered Mason’s office as he finished reading that portion of the article.
“Well?” Mason asked.
“He’s interesting,” she said. “Of course he’s taking it pretty hard. It’s something of a shock, but there’s nothing hysterical about him, and nothing affected about his grief. He’s quiet, determined, and very self-controlled.”
“How old?” Mason asked.
“About thirty-two or thirty-three. Quietly dressed... In fact, that’s the impression he gives you, of being quiet. His voice is low and well-modulated. His eyes are a very cold blue, and very, very steady, if you get what I mean.”
“I think I do,” Mason told her. “Rather spare and austere in his appearance?”
“Yes, with high cheekbones and a firm mouth. I think you’ll find he does a lot of thinking. He’s that type.”
Mason said, “All right, let’s get some more facts on this murder.”
He once more devoted his attention to reading the newspaper, then abruptly said, “There’s too much hooey mixed in with this, Della, to give us very much information. I suppose I should get the highlights, because he probably won’t want to talk about it.”
He returned to the newspaper, skimming salient facts from the account of the murder.
Fishing season in the Grizzly Creek had opened on Tuesday, September sixth. It had been closed until that date by order of the Fish and Game Commission to protect the late season fishing. Fremont C. Sabin had gone to his mountain cabin, ready to take advantage of the first day. Police reconstructed what had happened at that cabin from the circumstantial evidence which remained. He had evidently retired early, setting the alarm for five-thirty in the morning. He had arisen, cooked breakfast, donned his fishing things, and had returned about noon, evidently with a limit of fish. Sometime after that — and the police, from the evidence which had been so far made available, were unable to tell just when — Fremont Sabin had been murdered. Robbery had evidently not been the motive, since a well-filled wallet was found in his pocket. He was still wearing a diamond ring, and a valuable emerald stickpin was found in the drawer of the dresser, near the bed. He had been shot through the heart and at close range by a short-barreled derringer, obsolete in design but deadly in its efficiency.
Sabin’s pet parrot, who had of late years accompanied him on nearly all his trips to the mountain cabin, had been left in the room with the body. The murderer had fled.
The mountain cabin was isolated, nearly a hundred yards back from the automobile road which wound its tortuous way up to the pine-timbered cabin. There was not a great deal of traffic on this road, and those people who lived in the neighborhood had learned to leave the wealthy recluse alone.
Day after day such traffic as used the highway passed heedlessly by, while in the cabin back under the trees a screaming parrot kept vigil over the lifeless corpse of his master.
Not until several days after the murder, on Sunday, September eleventh, when fishermen came in large numbers to line the stream, did anyone suspect anything was wrong.
By that time the parrot’s shrill, raucous cries, interspersed with harsh profanity, attracted attention.
“Polly wants something to eat. Dammit, Polly wants something to eat. Don’t you damn fools know Polly’s hungry?”
A neighbor, who owned a nearby cabin, had investigated. Peering through the windows he had seen the parrot, and then had seen something else which made him telephone for the police.
The murderer had evidently had compassion for the bird, but none for the master. The cage door had been left propped open. Someone, apparently the murderer, had left a dish of water on the floor, an abundance of food near the cage. Food remained, but the water dish was dry.
Mason looked up from the newspaper and said to Della Street, “All right, Della, let’s have him in.”
Charles Sabin shook hands with Perry Mason, glanced at the newspaper on the table, and said, “I hope you are familiar with the facts surrounding my father’s death.”
Mason nodded, waited until his visitor had seated himself in the overstuffed, black leather chair, and then inquired, “Just what do you want me to do?”
“Quite a few things,” Sabin said. “Among others, I want you to see that my father’s widow, Helen Watkins Sabin, doesn’t ruin the business. I have reason to believe there’s a will leaving the bulk of the estate to me, and, in particular, making me the executor. I can’t find that will in searching among his papers. I’m afraid it may be in her possession. She’s fully capable of destroying it. I don’t want her to act as administratrix of the estate.”