“That,” Mason admitted, “would be bad.”
“Well, it may be just rumor,” Drake said. “My operative in San Molinas picked it up.”
Mason said, “We’re going to go and see the sheriff as soon as we get there. He may be willing to put the cards on the table.”
Della Street said, “Chief, she simply can’t be guilty of murder. She really loved him.”
“I know,” Mason said, “but she certainly left a lot of circumstantial evidence hanging around loose... Incidentally, there’s a nice legal point involved. If she actually is the widow of Fremont C. Sabin, then she inherits a share of his property, because the will is invalid as to her.”
“How so?” Drake asked.
“A will,” Mason said, “is revoked by the subsequent marriage of the testator. On the other hand, a will in which he makes no provision for his wife, and in which it appears that the omission was not intentional, is also subject to attack. The farther we go into this thing, Paul, the more possibilities it has.”
They drove for several miles in thoughtful silence, then suddenly, from the back seat, came the hoarse voice of the parrot: “Put down that gun, Helen! Don’t shoot! Squawk. Squawk. My God, you’ve shot me!”
Drake said, “We have two suspects in this case, both of them named Helen. Perry, if you introduce that parrot in evidence to show that Helen Watkins Sabin fired the shot, the district attorney will turn your own evidence against you to show that Helen Monteith did it.”
Mason grinned, “That parrot may make a better witness than you think, Paul.”
Sheriff Barnes had an office in the south wing of the old courthouse. Afternoon sunlight, beating through the windows, illuminated battered furniture, a floor covered with linoleum, which, in several spots, had been completely worn through. Bulletin boards on the wall were adorned with printed circulars of persons wanted for crime. Across from these posters, and on the wall on the opposite side of the room, were glass-framed display cases, in which various lethal weapons, which had figured in historic murder cases in the county, were on display.
Sheriff Barnes sat behind the old-fashioned roll-topped desk, in a dilapidated swivel chair, which squeaked monotonously as he teetered back and forth.
While Perry Mason talked, the sheriff slipped a plug of tobacco from his pants pocket, opened a knife, the blade of which had been rubbed thin through many sharpenings, and cut off a corner of moist, black tobacco.
When Mason had finished, the sheriff was silent for a few moments, rolling the tobacco over the edge of his tongue; then he shifted his steady, thoughtful eyes to the lawyer and said, “Those are all the facts you have?”
“That’s a general summary of everything,” Mason told him. “My cards are on the table.”
“You shouldn’t have done that about the telephone bill,” the sheriff said to Paul Drake. “We had some trouble getting a duplicate telephone bill. It delayed things for us a little while.”
“I’m sorry,” Mason told him, “it was my fault. I’m assuming the responsibility.”
The sheriff swung his weight slowly back and forth in the creaking chair. “What conclusions are you drawing?” he asked of Mason.
Mason said, “I don’t think I’m ready to draw any conclusions yet. I’d like to wait until after the inquest.”
“Think you could draw some then?”
“I think I could,” Mason told him, “if I were permitted to question the witnesses.”
“That’s sort of up to the coroner, ain’t it?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes,” Mason said, “but it occurs to me the coroner might do what you suggested would be in the best interests of justice.”
“I suppose he’d have to ask the district attorney about what he should do,” the sheriff remarked musingly.
“In that event,” Mason said, “we’re sunk. That’s why I said I didn’t want to form any opinion from the evidence. Once a man forms an opinion, he starts interpreting facts in the light of that belief. He ceases to be an impartial judge of facts. That’s what’s happened to Raymond Sprague. He’s come to the conclusion that I’m opposed to justice; that my tactics must necessarily be opposed to justice; that, therefore, he can best serve the ends of justice by blocking me at every turn. He’s also come to the conclusion that Helen Monteith is guilty of murder; therefore, he interprets all the facts in the light of that belief.”
“Ain’t that being a little harsh on Sprague?” the sheriff asked.
“I don’t think so,” Mason replied. “After all he’s only human.”
The sheriff munched on his tobacco, then slowly nodded and said, “One of the things I’ve got against this state is the way they measure the efficiency of a district attorney. The state keeps records of the criminal trials in the different counties. They gauge the efficiency of the district attorneys by the percentage of convictions they secure in cases tried. Now that ain’t right. If I was keeping a district attorney’s record, I’d give him more points for finding out somebody was innocent, and not prosecuting that person, than I would for getting a conviction just because he’d gone into court.”
Paul Drake started to say something, but Mason warned him to silence with a gesture.
“Of course,” Sheriff Barnes went on, “Raymond Sprague has his record to consider. Sprague is a good boy, he wants to get some advancement politically. He knows that when he comes up for office, no matter what he runs for, people are going to look at his record as district attorney.
“Now, I’m different. I’m sheriff, and that’s all I want to be — just sheriff. I know that I have a lot of power to use, and I want to use it fair and square to everyone. I don’t want to have anyone convicted that ain’t guilty.”
“Under those circumstances,” Mason said, “don’t you think it would be more fair, all around, to have the guilt or innocence determined at the coroner’s inquest tonight? Then, perhaps, it wouldn’t be necessary to take the matter before a jury. If Helen Monteith isn’t innocent, the prosecution has everything to gain by having me put all my facts before the coroner’s jury. If she is innocent, then the prosecution has everything to gain by not being put in the position of going into court on a big case, and having the jury return a verdict of not guilty.”
“Of course,” the sheriff said, “if we was going to do that down at the coroner’s inquest, we couldn’t have a lot of objections and things; we’d have to scoot right along and hit the high spots. You couldn’t make a lot of objections to questions and all that sort of stuff.”
“I wouldn’t,” Mason promised.
“Well,” the sheriff said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’d prefer,” Mason told him, “that you didn’t try to do anything with Sprague. In other words, I don’t want to tip my hand to Sprague. I’m putting my cards on the table with you.”
“Nope,” the sheriff said, “I’m co-operating with the district attorney; the district attorney has to know everything about it. Maybe he’ll be willing to give you a break. Maybe he won’t. I’m telling you, fair and square, if he agrees to let you talk it’ll be because he’ll want to give you lots of rope and watch you hang yourself.”
“That suits me,” Mason said. “All I want is the rope.”
“You’d have to be kinda tactful,” the sheriff said. “Sprague wouldn’t like it if it appeared you was bringing out all the evidence.”
“I can appreciate that,” Mason said. “I’d try to let it appear I was co-operating with the district attorney; whether I can really co-operate or not, depends upon how Sprague looks at it.”