It was dry up here, and the air was impregnated with scent which oozed from the tips of pine needles. It was hot, too, but the dry balsam-laden heat was kind to the nostrils. High overhead the southern California sky was so blue that it almost seemed black in contrast with the bright sunlight which beat down upon the sheer granite ridges where there was not enough soil to support trees.
They came to a shaded turn in the road, where a spring trickled into a natural basin, then overflowed, to spill through a culvert into a stream which plunged into the dark obscurity of tangled greenery.
Mason stopped the car and said, “We’ll let the motor cool, and have a drink of mountain water... Hello, here comes a police car.”
He pointed down the side of the mountain to where a section of the road showed almost directly below them. A car, winding its laborious way up the long ascent, showed glinting red from a police spotlight fastened on the upper right-hand corner of the windshield.
“Do we try to beat them up?” Della Street asked.
Mason, stretching his long legs, sucked in deep breaths of the dry mountain air, and said, “No. We’ll wait and follow. It will save time locating the cabin.”
They drank the cool water, bending over the rock basin to place pursed lips against the limpid surface of the little pool. Gradually, above the sound of the wind sighing through the eloquent pines, came the grinding of a motor, whining in gear as it labored up the steep ascent.
As the car came into sight around the turn, Mason said, “I believe it’s our old friend, Sergeant Holcomb, from headquarters... Now, why should he be interested in a murder case which took place outside of the city... He’s stopping.”
The car veered abruptly from the paved highway to come to a stop on the shaded parking space at the side of the road. A big man, who wore a broad-brimmed black Stetson, was the first to emerge. He was followed, a moment later, by Sergeant Holcomb of the Metropolitan Police.
Holcomb walked truculently across to Mason. “What the devil are you doing here?” he asked.
Mason said, “Odd, Sergeant, but I was thinking the same about you.”
Sergeant Holcomb said, “I’m helping out Sheriff Barnes. He telephoned in for assistance, and the police loaned me to him. Shake hands with Perry Mason, Sheriff.”
The sheriff, a big man in the late fifties, who moved with slow efficiency, swung out a bronzed hand which engulfed Mason’s fingers. Mason introduced Della Street, and then produced the letter which Charles Sabin had given him. The Sheriff was impressed.
Sergeant Holcomb glanced from the letter to Mason. There was suspicion in his eyes, as well as in his voice. “Sabin employed you?”
“Yes.”
“And gave you this letter?”
“Yes.”
“Just what does he want you to do?”
“He wants me to co-operate with the police.”
Sergeant Holcomb’s laugh was sarcastic. “That’s the best one I’ve heard in twenty years. Perry Mason co-operating with the police! You co-operate with the police just like the Republicans co-operate with the Democrats.”
Mason turned to the sheriff. “Just because a lawyer represents innocent defendants doesn’t mean he’s opposed to the authorities,” he said quietly.
“The hell it doesn’t!” Sergeant Holcomb interpolated. “You’ve always been against the police.”
“On the contrary,” Mason told him, “I’ve helped solve quite a few murder cases.”
“You’ve always managed to get your clients acquitted,” Sergeant Holcomb pointed out.
“Exactly,” Mason said. “It happened that the police were trying to convict innocent parties. It remained for me to prove my clients innocent by finding the real murderers.”
Sergeant Holcomb flushed, stepped forward, and started to say something, but Sheriff Barnes interposed what was apparently an unintentional shoulder. “Now listen, boys,” he said, “there’s nothing to argue about. I’m the sheriff of this county. This thing is just a little bit high-powered for me. I ain’t got the facilities to make an investigation on this the way I’d like to, and I asked the city police to loan me a man who could help out with fingerprint work, and give me some suggestions. As far as I’m concerned, I’m going to be glad of any assistance I can get, and I don’t care who gives it. I’ve read about some of Mason’s cases in the newspapers. To my mind, when a lawyer proves his client innocent of crime by showing that someone else is guilty, he’s done society a darn good turn, and the police have no kick coming.”
“Well,” Sergeant Holcomb said to the sheriff, “it’s your funeral. His methods are enough to give you gray hairs.”
Sheriff Barnes tilted back the sombrero and ran his fingers through sweat-moistened hair. “I’ve got gray hairs now,” he said. “How about it, Mason, you going up?”
“I’ll follow you,” Mason told him. “You know the way?”
“Sure, I was up there nearly all day yesterday.”
“How much has been touched?” Mason asked.
“Not a thing. We’ve taken the body out, and cleaned out the remains of a string of fish, which had gone pretty bad. Of course, we took the parrot. Aside from that, we ain’t touched a thing, except to go over everything for fingerprints.”
“Find any?” Mason asked.
“Quite a few,” the sheriff admitted noncommittally.
Sergeant Holcomb said abruptly, “Well, Sheriff, let’s get going. Mason can follow us.”
The road crossed a ridge, debouched onto a plateau. Here and there were little clearings, cabins nestled back against the trees. Up near the upper end of the plateau, when they were within a few hundred feet of the stream which came roaring down from a mountain canyon, Sheriff Barnes abruptly signaled for a right-hand turn. He swung into a dirt road, carpeted with pine needles, which ran back to a cabin so skillfully blended with the trees that it seemed almost to be the work of nature rather than of man.
Mason exclaimed, “Look at that cabin, Della! It certainly is a beautiful setting!”
A bluejay, resenting their intrusion, launched himself downward from the top of one of the pine trees, screeching his raucous, “Thief... thief... thief.”
Mason swung the car into the shaded area back of the cabin and parked it. Sheriff Barnes crossed over and said, “I’m going to ask you to be careful not to touch anything, Mr. Mason, and I think Miss Street had better wait outside.”
Mason nodded acquiescence.
A tall, rangy man who moved with the easy grace of a mountain dweller emerged from the shadows and touched his somewhat battered hat to the sheriff. “Everything’s okay, Sheriff,” he said.
Sheriff Barnes took a key from his pocket, unlocked the padlock on the door, and said by way of introduction, “This is Fred Waner. He lives up here. I’ve had him guarding the cabin.”
The sheriff opened the door. “Now, let’s try not to walk around any more than is necessary. You, Sergeant, know what to do.” Mason glanced into the mountain cabin with its big fireplace, plain pine table, hand-hewn rafters. A neatly made bed with snowy linen was in startling contrast to the seed-littered floor. Mud-stained rubber boots stood, sagging limply; above them was a jointed fly rod.
Sergeant Holcomb said, “My advice, Sheriff, would be to let Mr. Mason look around without touching anything, and then leave. We can’t do anything as long as he’s here.”