“And,” Sabin went on, “I realize there are certain questions you’ll want to ask. I’d like to make the interview as brief as possible.”

  Mason said, “I’ll need some sort of authorization to …”

  Sabin took a wallet from his pocket. “I think I have anticipated your reasonable requirements, Mr. Mason. Here is a retainer check, together with a letter stating that you are acting as my lawyer and are to have access to any and all of the property left by my father.”

  Mason took the letter and check. “I see,” he said, “that you are a methodical man.”

  “I try to be,” Sabin told him. “The check will be in the nature of a retainer. Do you consider it adequate?”

  “It’s more than adequate,” Mason said, smiling. “It’s generous.”

  Sabin inclined his head. “I’ve followed your career with a great deal of interest, Mr. Mason. I think you have exceptional legal ability and an uncanny deductive skill. I want to avail myself of both.”

  “Thanks,” the lawyer said. “If I’m going to be of any value to you, Mr. Sabin, I’ll want an absolutely free hand.”

  “In what respect?” Sabin asked.

  “I want to be free to do just as I please in the matter. If the police should charge someone with the crime, I want the privilege of representing that person. In other words, I want to clear up the crime in my own way.”

  “Why do you ask that?” Sabin said. “Surely I’m paying you enough …”

  “It isn’t that,” Mason told him, “but if you’ve followed my cases, you’ll note that most of them have been cleared up in the courtroom. I can suspect the guilty, but about the only way I can really prove my point is by cross-examining witnesses.”

  “I see your point,” Sabin conceded. “I think it’s entirely reasonable.”

  “And,” Mason said, “I’ll want to know all of the salient facts, everything which you can give me that will be of assistance.”

  Sabin settled back in the chair. He spoke calmly, almost disinterestedly. “There are two or three things to be taken into consideration in getting a perspective on my father’s life. One of them was the fact that he and my mother were very happily married. My mother was a wonderful woman. She had a loyalty which was unsurpassed, and a complete lack of nervousness. During all her married life, there was literally never an unkind word spoken, simply because she never allowed herself to develop any of those emotional reflexes, which so frequently make people want to bicker with those whom they love, or with whom they come in constant association.

  Naturally, my father came to judge every woman by her standards. After her death, he was exceedingly lonely. His present wife was employed in the capacity of housekeeper. She was shrewd, scheming, deadly, designing, avaricious, grasping. She set about to insinuate herself into his affections. She did so deliberately. My father had never had any experience with women of her kind. He was temperamentally unfitted to deal with her in the first place, or even to comprehend her character. As a result, he permitted himself to be hypnotized into marriage. He has, of course, been desperately unhappy.”

  “Where is Mrs. Sabin now?” Mason asked. “I believe the paper mentioned something about her being on a tour.”

  “Yes, she left on a round-the-world cruise about two and a half months ago. She was located by wireless on a ship which left the Panama Canal yesterday. A plane has been chartered to meet her at one of the Central American ports, and she should arrive here tomorrow morning.”

  “And she will try to take charge?” Mason asked.

  “Very completely,” Sabin said, in a voice which spoke volumes.

  “Of course, as a son,” Mason said, “you have certain rights.”

  Sabin said wearily, “One of the reasons that I have set aside my grief in order to come to you at this time, Mr. Mason, is that whatever you do should be well started before she arrives. She is a very competent woman, and a very ruthless adversary.”

  “I see,” Mason said.

  “She has a son by a former marriage, Steven Watkins,” Sabin went on. “I have sometimes referred to him as his mother’s stool pigeon. He has developed conscious affability as an asset. He has the technique of a politician, the character of a rattlesnake. He has been East for some time, and took the plane from New York to connect with the plane that will pick up his mother in Central America. They will arrive together.”

  “How old is he?” Mason asked.

  “Twenty-six. His mother managed to put him through college. He looks on an education only as a magic formula, which should enable him to go through life without work. As a young man he advocated a share-the-wealth philosophy as something which would reward him for living without making it necessary for him to engage in competitive work. After his mother married my father, she was able to wheedle him into giving her large sums of money which were squandered upon Steve with a lavish hand. He has reacted just as one would expect him to under the circumstances. He is now extremely contemptuous of what he refers to as the ‘common herd.’ ”

  “Have you,” Mason asked, “any idea of who murdered your father?”

  “None whatever. If I did have, I would try to dismiss it from my mind. I don’t want to even think of anyone whom I know in that connection until I have proof. And when I have proof, Mr. Mason, I want the law to take its course.”

  “Did your father have any enemies?”

  “No. Except … there are two things which I think you should know about, Mr. Mason. One of them, the police know, the other, they don’t.”

  “What are they?” Mason asked.

  “It was not mentioned in the newspapers,” Sabin said, “but in the cabin were certain intimate articles of feminine wearing apparel. I think those clothes were left there by the murderer, simply to swing public sympathy toward the widow.”

  “What else?” Mason asked. “You mentioned something which the police didn’t know about. Was that …”

  Sabin said, “This is something which may be significant, Mr. Mason. I believe you have read in the newspapers of my father’s attachment for his parrot.”

  Mason nodded.

  “Casanova was a present given to my father by his brother three or four years ago. His brother’s a great parrot fancier, and Dad became very much attached to the bird. It was with him frequently … And the parrot which was found in the cabin with my father’s body, and which the police and everyone else have assumed to be Casanova, is, in fact, not my father’s parrot.”

  Mason’s eyes showed keen interest. “You’re certain?” he asked.

  “Absolutely certain.”

  “May I ask how you know?”

  “In the first place,” Sabin said, “the parrot in the cabin is given to profanity, particularly in connection with requests for food. Casanova had never learned to swear.”

  “Perhaps,” Mason said, “a change of environment would have been responsible for that. You know, a parrot can pick up …”

  “Moreover,” Sabin said, “—and you’ll pardon me if I interrupt you, Mr. Mason, because I am about to mention a point which is irrefutable—Casanova had one claw missing, a claw on his right foot. This parrot does not.”

  Mason frowned. “But why the devil,” he asked, “should anyone want to substitute parrots?”

  “The only reason I can think of,” Sabin said, “is that the parrot is more important than would at first seem to be the case. I am quite certain that Casanova was with my father in the mountain cabin when my father was murdered. He, perhaps, saw something, or heard something, so he was removed and another parrot substituted. My father returned home on Friday, September second, long enough to pick up Casanova. We hadn’t expected him until Monday, September fifth.”

  “But it would have been so much simpler and easier for the murderer to have killed the parrot,” Mason said.

  “I realize that,” Sabin replied, “and I know that my theory is bizarre. Nevertheless, it is the only explanation I have been able to make in my own mind.”

  “Why,” Mason asked, “didn’t you tell the police about this?”

  Sabin shook his head. This time there was no attempt to disguise the weariness in his eyes or his voice. “I have come to realize,” he said, “that it is absolutely impossible for the police to keep matters from the newspapers, and I don’t have any great confidence in the ability of the police to solve a crime such as this. I think you will find that it has very deep ramifications, Mr. Mason. I’ve told the police no more than was absolutely necessary. I have not volunteered information. I am giving this information to you. I would suggest that you keep it from the police. Let them build up their own case.”

  And Sabin indicated that he had told everything he knew by getting to his feet and extending his hand. “Thank you very much, Mr. Mason,” he said. “I’ll rest a lot easier in knowing that the matter is in your hands.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  MASON, pacing back and forth across his office, jerked out comments. Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency, his tall form draped crosswise across the overstuffed leather chair, made notes in a leather-backed notebook.

  “That substituted parrot,” Mason said, “is a clue which we have in advance of the police…. It’s a profane parrot … Later on, we’re going to find out why the murderer wanted to substitute parrots. Right now, we’re going to try and trace the profane parrot, which should be easy…. We can’t hope to compete with the police, so we’ll ignore the commonplace factors.”

  “How about the pink silk nightie?” Paul Drake asked, in his slow, drawling voice. “Do we do anything about that?”

  “Not a thing,” Mason said. “That’s something the police are working on tooth and nail…. How much do you know about the case, Paul?”

  “Not very much more than what I’ve read in the papers,” Drake said, “but one of my friends, who’s in the newspaper game, was asking me something about weapons.”

  “What did he want to know?” Mason asked.

  “Something about the murder gun.”

  “What about the gun?”

  “It’s some sort of a trick weapon,” Drake said. “One of those short-barreled guns, with a trigger which folds back out of the way. It’s small enough to be carried anywhere.”

  “What caliber?”

  “A forty-one.”

  “Try and find out about ammunition for it,” Mason said. “See if the shells are carried in stock … No, forget it. The police will do all that. You stick to parrots, Paul. Cover all pet stores. Find out about parrot sales during the last week or two.”

  Paul Drake, whose efficiency as a detective depended in large part upon the fact that he looked so completely innocuous, closed his leather-backed notebook and dropped it into his pocket. He surveyed Perry Mason with slightly protruding eyes, the expression of which was habitually masked by a glassy film.

  “How far do you want me to check up on Mrs. Sabin and the son, Perry?” he asked.

  “Everything you can find out,” Mason said.

  Drake checked off the points on his fingers. “Let’s see now, if I have everything straight. Get the dope on the widow and Steve Watkins. Cover the bird stores and find out about the profane parrot. Get all the information I can about the mountain cabin and what happened up there. Get photographs of the interior, and … How about the exterior, Perry, do you want them?”

  “No,” Mason said, “I’m going to drive up there, Paul, and give it the once-over. The only photographs I want are those which were taken when the police discovered the body.”

  “On my way,” Drake told him, sliding out of the chair.

  “And incidentally,” Mason said, as the detective was halfway to the door, “here’s another hunch. Let’s suppose the murderer substituted parrots, then what became of Casanova?”

  “I’ll bite,” Drake said, with a grin, “what do you do with a parrot? Make a parrot pie, or do you broil ’em on toast?”

  Mason said, “You put them in cages and listen to them talk.”

  “No, really!” Drake exclaimed in mock surprise. “You don’t tell me.”

  Mason said, “Get it through that droopy mind of yours that I’m not joking. That’s exactly what you do with a parrot, and whoever took Casanova, may have done it because he wanted to listen to something Casanova had to say.”

  “That,” Drake admitted, “is a thought.”

  “Moreover,” Mason went on, “the murderer probably has moved into a new neighborhood. You might make a check on any new parrots.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Drake asked. “Take a bird census, or put a bird bath on the roof and watch for parrots … My God, Perry, have a heart! How the devil can a man find a new parrot?”

  “I think,” Mason told him, “you’ll find there aren’t so many parrots. They’re a noisy pet, and they aren’t particularly apartment pets. People who have parrots are apt to live in the suburbs. Parrots are something of a nuisance as far as neighbors are concerned. I think there’s a city ordinance on parrots in apartments. I have an idea you may find something from talking to pet stores. Trace the sale of new cages. Find out people who have been inquiring about the care and feeding of parrots. And incidentally, Paul, remember there’s a pet store here in the block. Karl Helmold, the chap who runs it, is a client of mine. He’ll probably have some trade lists, which will give you the names of the larger pet stores in the vicinity, and he may be able to tell you quite a bit about parrots. Put every available operative on the job.”

  “Okay,” Drake said. “I’ll be on my way.”

  Mason nodded to Della Street. “Come on, Della, let’s go take a look at that cabin.”

  The road wound up the sides of the long canyon, turning and twisting on itself like a snake in pain. Through the windshield Mason caught occasional glimpses of purple mountains. Below, a threadlike stream tumbled whitely over granite boulders. Back of the car the heat haze of the valley country showed as a gaseous blanket, heavy, oppressive, shimmering.

  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.”