Mason said, “No, that’s probably Helen Monteith’s car. She lives in San Molinas, and she may come to the house here. I want to see her just as soon as we can...”
He broke off as a car swung around the corner, and headlights cast moving shadows along the street.
“I’ll see who this is,” the detective said. “Probably some more relatives coming in to join the family row.”
He walked around the rear of Mason’s machine, then came running back and said, “That’s the license number the boss told us to be on the lookout for. Do you want it?”
Mason’s answer was to start running for the place where the car was being backed into a vacant space at the curb. By the time the young woman who was driving it had switched off her headlights and stepped from the car, Mason was abreast of her.
“I want to talk with you, Miss Monteith,” he said.
“Who are you?” she asked sharply.
“Mason is the name,” he said. “I’m a lawyer, representing Charles Sabin.”
“What do you want with me?”
“I want to talk with you.”
“What about?”
“About Fremont C. Sabin.”
“I don’t think I have anything to say.”
“Don’t be silly,” Mason told her. “The thing has gone so far now it’s entirely out of your hands.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the newspaper men are on the job. It isn’t going to take them long to find out that you claim to have gone through a marriage ceremony with Fremont C. Sabin, who was going under the name of George Wallman. After they’ve gone that far, they’ll find out that Sabin’s parrot, Casanova, is on the screen porch of your house in San Molinas, and that since the murder he’s been saying, ‘Drop that gun, Helen... Don’t shoot... My God, you’ve shot me.’ ”
She was tall enough so that she needed to raise her eyes only slightly to meet the lawyer’s. She was slender enough to be easy and graceful in her motions, and her posture indicated a self-reliance and ability to reach decisions quickly, and put them into rapid execution.
“How,” she asked, apparently without batting an eyelash, “did you find out all this?”
“By using the same methods the police and the newspapermen will use,” Mason said.
“Very well,” she told him quietly, “I’ll talk. What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” he said.
“Do you,” she asked, “want to talk in my car, or in the house?”
“In my car,” Mason told her, “if you don’t mind.”
He cupped his hand under her elbow, escorted her back to his automobile, introduced Della Street, and placed Helen Monteith beside him in the front seat.
“I want you to understand,” Helen Monteith said, “that I’ve done nothing wrong — nothing of which I am ashamed.”
“I understand,” Mason told her.
He could see her profile outlined against the illumination which filtered in through the car windows. Her manner was quick, alert, intelligent; her voice was well controlled. She evidently had ample speaking range to make her voice expressive when she chose, yet she resorted to no tricks of emphasis or expression to win sympathy. She spoke rapidly, and managed to convey the impression that, regardless of what her personal feelings in the matter might be, she was keeping her emotions entirely divorced from those events which she considered it necessary to report.
“I’m a librarian,” she said, “employed in the San Molinas library. For various reasons, I have never married. My position gives me at once an opportunity to cultivate a taste for the best in literature, and to learn something of character. I have nothing in common with the younger set who find alcoholic stimulation the necessary prerequisite to any attempt at conversation or enjoyment.
“I first met the man whom I now know as Fremont C. Sabin about two months ago. He entered the library, asked for books dealing with certain economic subjects. He told me he never read newspapers because they were merely a recital of crimes and political propaganda. He read news magazines for his general information, was interested in history, economics, science and biographies. He read some of the best fiction. His questions and comments were unusually intelligent, and the man impressed me. I realized, of course, that he was much older than I, and, quite apparently, was out of work. His clothes were well-kept, but had seen far better days. I’m dwelling on this because I want you to understand the situation.”
Mason nodded.
“He told me his name was George Wallman; that he had been employed as a grocery clerk, had saved a little money, and purchased a store of his own; that, after making a living out of it for several years, he found himself forced out of business by a combination of unfortunate circumstances. His original capital was gone. He had tried to get work and was unable to find any because, as he had been so frequently told, not only were there no jobs, but in the event there had been, employers would prefer to fill them with younger men.”
“You had no inkling of his real identity?” Mason asked.
“None whatever.”
“Do you know why he chose to assume this fictitious personality?” Mason asked.
“Yes,” she said shortly.
“Why?”
“I realize now,” she said, “that, in the first place, the man was married; in the second place, he was wealthy. He was trying to protect himself from an unpleasant wife on the one hand, and avaricious gold-diggers or blackmailers on the other.”
“And apparently, somewhere in the process, he messed up your life pretty well,” Mason said sympathetically.
She turned on him, not in anger, but with quick resentment. “That,” she said, “shows that you didn’t know George... Mr. Sabin.”
“It’s a fact, isn’t it?” Mason asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know what the complete explanation is,” she said, “but you can rest assured that when all the facts are uncovered, his reasons will have been good ones.”
“And you feel no bitterness?” the lawyer inquired.
“None whatever,” she said, and for a moment there was a wistful note in her voice. “The happiest two months of my life were in the period following my meeting with Mr. Sabin. All of this tragedy has hit me a terrific blow... However, you’re not interested in my grief.”
“I’m trying to understand,” he said gently.
“That’s virtually all there is to it,” she said; “I had some money which I’d saved from my salary. I recognized, of course, that it was hopeless for a man in the late fifties, who had no particular skill in any profession, and no regular trade, to get employment. I told him that I would back him in starting a grocery store in San Molinas. He looked the town over, but finally came to the conclusion that it wouldn’t be possible to make a go of things there. So then I told him to pick his place.”
“Then what?” Mason asked.
“Then,” she said, “he went out to look the territory over.”
“You heard from him?” Mason asked.
“Letters, yes.”
“What did he say in his letters?”
“He was rather vague about matters pertaining to business,” she said; “his letters were — mostly personal. We had been married less than a week when he left.” She turned suddenly to face Mason and said, “And regardless of what else may transpire, he loved me.”
She said it simply, without dramatic emphasis, without allowing her personal grief to intrude upon the statement. It was merely a statement of facts made as a calm assertion by one who knows whereof she speaks.
Mason nodded silent acquiescence.
“The first intimation I had,” she said, “was... was... this afternoon, when I picked up the afternoon paper and saw his picture as Fremont C. Sabin, the man who had been murdered.”