“That’s right.”
“You wanted to see how he’d digest the peanut, I suppose?”
“No, I had another peanut I was going to give him,” Mason said patiently. “I wanted him to come down and take it out of my hand.”
Sergeant Holcomb said to Sheriff Barnes, “I don’t know what his game is, but if Perry Mason is walking down the road feeding peanuts to bluejays, you can gamble there’s something back of it. He knew darn well that wire was there, all the time. Otherwise, he’d never have found it.”
Sheriff Barnes stared moodily at the cabin. “Keep away,” he said, as though entirely oblivious of their conversation. “I’m going into that cabin. Sergeant, if any shooting starts, I leave it to you to back me up.”
Quietly, calmly, he approached the door of the cabin, pounded with peremptory knuckles, then lowering his shoulder, smashed his weight against the door. At his third lunge the door gave way and shot backward on its hinges. Sheriff Barnes stepped into the half darkness of the interior to find that Perry Mason was right on his heels, while Sergeant Holcomb was behind Mason, holding his gun in readiness.
“It’s all right,” the sheriff called, “there’s no one here... You, Mason, shouldn’t have taken chances like that.”
Mason made no reply. He was staring in frowning contemplation at the array of paraphernalia on the inside of the room. What looked like half of a piece of baggage proved to be a radio amplifier. The whole outfit had been neatly tailored so that, when it was fitted together, it was impossible to distinguish between it and any ordinary piece of baggage. There were headphones, elaborate recording devices, a pencil and pad of paper. A partially smoked cigarette was lying on the edge of a pine table. The cigarette, apparently forgotten, had charred through the wood of the table top. A fine layer of dust had settled over it, as well as over everything else in the room.
“Evidently,” the sheriff said, “he ain’t been here for quite a spell. But when he left, he lit out in a hurry. He even forgot his cigarette.”
“How did you know this was here?” Sergeant Holcomb demanded of Perry Mason, his voice harsh in its implied accusation.
Mason shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
Sheriff Barnes stopped him as he started to walk out. “Say, just a minute, Mason,” he said in a quiet tone which was, nevertheless, charged with authority.
Mason stopped.
“Did you know this line had been tapped, Mason?”
“Frankly, Sheriff, I didn’t.”
“How did you discover it?”
“Just as I told you.”
Sheriff Barnes still appeared dubious. Sergeant Holcomb made no attempt to disguise the contemptuous disbelief on his face.
“Did you,” Sheriff Barnes asked, “know that Fremont C. Sabin had been back of an attempt to expose organized vice and graft in the Metropolitan Police?”
“Good heavens, no!” Mason said.
Sergeant Holcomb, his face almost a brick-red, said, “I didn’t give you that information to be bandied around, Sheriff.”
Barnes said, without taking his eyes from Mason, “I’m not bandying it around. You’ve probably read, Mason, of the confidential advices which the Grand Jury have been receiving, advices which have caused it to start an inquiry against some persons who are prominent politically.”
“I’ve heard something about it,” Mason admitted cautiously.
“And you knew that some private citizen was back of this campaign to get information?”
“I’d heard something of the sort.”
“Did you have any idea that that person was Fremont C. Sabin?”
Mason said, “Sheriff, I can assure you I didn’t have any idea who the person was.”
“That’s all,” Sheriff Barnes said. “I just wanted to be sure, Mason.”
“Thanks,” Mason said, and walked out, leaving them alone in the cabin.
Chapter three
Paul Drake was waiting for Mason in the lobby of the Plaza Hotel in San Molinas. He looked at his watch and said, “You’re late, Perry, but Gibbs is waiting for us.”
Mason said, “Before we go around there, Paul, has anybody else been trying to get in touch with Gibbs?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“Do you know?”
“No I don’t. I hung around there until about an hour ago and then came over here to wait in the hotel. I’ve been rather expecting you to drive in any time during the last hour.”
Mason said, “I was delayed up there because we found that Sabin’s line was tapped.”
“His line was tapped?”
“Yes. The line into the cabin. The tapping plant may not have been used lately. On the other hand, someone may have been listening in on your conversation with me. Here’s something else. Sabin is the man who’s been furnishing finances to the citizens’ committee which has been investigating vice conditions and transmitting information on graft to the Grand Jury.”
Drake gave a low whistle. “If that’s the case,” he said, “there were probably anywhere from a hundred to a hundred and fifty people who would have murdered him without batting an eyelash.”
“Well, that angle’s up to the police. It’s too big for us to cover,” Mason said.
“You’re the boss,” Drake said. “We’ll go down and talk with Gibbs. He has a swell description of the man who bought the parrot.”
“He’s certain about the parrot?”
“Yes,” Drake said. “I’ll let you talk with him, but it’s a cinch. He says the man looked a little seedy,” Drake continued, “but then, Perry, that’s about what you could expect. If any of the vice interests had decided to bump Sabin off, they’d have hired a down-and-outer to do the job, or else would have had a mobster put on the act.”
“Would this man know the fellow who bought the parrot if he saw him again?”
“I’ll say he would.”
“Okay,” Mason said, “let’s go.”
Della Street was waiting in the car at the curb, with the motor running. She said, “Hello, Paul,” and handed Mason a newspaper. “Here’s the latest afternoon newspaper, Chief, just in from the city. Do you want me to drive?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it, Paul?” she asked.
“Straight down this street for three blocks, then turn to the right for two blocks, and swing to the left. It’s on a side street, halfway in the block. You should be able to find a parking place in front.”
“Okay,” she said, and snapped the car into gear. As she slid the big machine out into traffic, Mason opened the newspaper and said, “There probably won’t be anything much in here.”
“How do they fix the time of death so accurately,” Drake asked, “if they didn’t find the body for so long?”
“It’s quite a story,” Mason told him. “Depends on some deduction by the sheriff. He’s rather a level-headed chap. I’ll tell you about it when we have more time.”
He skimmed through the contents of the paper while Della Street drove with swift competency to the pet store.
Mason and Drake alighted. “Want me to stay here, Chief?” Della asked.
“You’d better,” Drake said. “You’re parked in front of a fireplug. Keep the motor running. We probably won’t be long.”
Mason handed her the newspaper. “Brush up on current events while we learn about parrots; and quit eating that peanut brittle. It’ll spoil your appetite for dinner.”
She chuckled. “I was getting along fine until you made me think of that candy; but you’re going to have to buy Paul and me dinner on the expense account, Chief, so my loss of appetite may be a blessing in disguise.”