“Well,” Mason said, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to readjust your philosophies of life. Under your brother’s will, you’ve inherited quite a chunk of money.”
George Wallman meditated for a while, then looked down at his wife. He patted her shoulder comfortingly, and said, “How about it, Babe, should we take enough of it to open up a little grocery store, or shall we tell ’em we don’t want any?”
She laughed happily. When she tried to speak, there was a catch in her throat. “You do whatever you want to, dearest,” she said. “Money doesn’t buy happiness.”
Mason got up, nodded to Della Street.
“You going?” Wallman asked.
Mason said, “I’ve done everything I can here.”
Wallman got up from the chair, bent over to kiss his wife, then came over to grip Mason’s hand. “I guess,” he said, “from all I hear, you did a pretty good job, Mr. Mason.”
“I hope I did,” Mason told him. “and I don’t mind telling you, I never had a more satisfactory case, or a more satisfactory client. Come on, Della.”
They walked down the creaking staircase to the street. As Mason climbed in his car Della Street said, “Chief, I’m so happy, I’m b-b-bawling.”
Mason said thoughtfully, “He does leave a clean taste in your mouth, doesn’t he, Della?”
She nodded. “It must be wonderful to have happiness like that, Chief.”
They drove through the moonlight, along the ribbon of road, lined with palm trees on either side. They were silent, wrapped in thought, bathed in that perfect understanding which comes to people who have no need for words.
At length Mason turned on the car radio. “Della,” he said, “I don’t know about you, but I’d like to find a nice waltz program somewhere... or perhaps the tinkle of some Hawaiian music, with...”
The radio screamed into violent sound in the midst of a news report. Mason heard the tail end of an announcement concerning himself, as the announcer said, “... Perry Mason, the noted trial attorney.” There was a short pause, then the flash news reports continued, “Sheriff Barnes said merely that he had been covering dozens of places, that finding Richard Waid up at the mountain cabin which he had used as headquarters when listening in on Sabin’s telephone was partly routine, partly luck. Sergeant Holcomb, of the Metropolitan police, gave a long interview to newspaper reporters. ‘I knew Waid would head for that cabin,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell you all the evidence which pointed to that conclusion, but there was enough to send me up there. Waid put up a terrific fight, but he was taken alive.’ ”
Mason switched the radio into silence. “We’ve had enough of police and murders and evidence for a while, Della. I can’t get Wallman and his philosophy out of my mind... I should have suspected the truth long before I did. The evidence was all there. I just didn’t see it... That’s quite an idea, to go through life doing your best work and letting the man-made tokens of payment take care of themselves, Della.”
“Yes,” she said, then added after a moment, “Well, that’s about what you do, anyway, Chief.” She slid down on the seat so the cushion was against her neck. The reflected moonlight bathed her features with soft illumination. “Lord, think of the people who live to bless you!”
He laughed. “Let’s think of moonlight instead, Della.”
Her hand slid over to the steering wheel, rested on his for a moment. “Let’s,” she said.