“This,” he said, “is poetic justice for lying to your employer.” Then, to the waitress, “Go ahead and start bringing it on. Don’t listen to any protests.”
The waitress smiled and departed. Della Street said, “Now I suppose I’ll have to live on bread and water for a week to keep from putting on weight... Don’t you like to watch people in a place like this, Chief?”
He nodded, his steady, tolerant eyes moving from table to table, appraising the occupants in swift scrutiny.
“Tell me, Chief,” she said, “you’ve seen human nature in the raw. You’ve seen people torn and twisted by emotions which have ripped aside all of the hypocrisy and pretense of everyday life... Doesn’t it make you frightfully cynical?”
“Quite the contrary,” he said. “People have their strong points and their weak points. The true philosopher sees them as they are, and is never disappointed, because he doesn’t expect too much. The cynic is one who starts out with a false pattern and becomes disappointed because people don’t conform to that pattern. Most of the little chiseling practices come from trying to cope with our economic conventions. When it comes right down to fundamentals, people are fairly dependable. The neighbor who would cheat you out of a pound of sugar, would risk her life to save you from drowning.”
Della Street thought that over, then said, “There’s a lot of difference in people. Look at that aggressive woman over there at the left, bullying the poor waitress... and contrast her with that white-haired woman who’s standing over there by the window — the one who has such a benign, motherly look. She’s so placid, so homey, so...”
Mason said, “As it happens, Della, the woman’s a shoplifter.”
“What!” she exclaimed.
“And,” Mason went on, “the man who’s standing over by the cashier’s desk, apparently trying to cash a check, is a store detective who’s followed her in here.”
“How do you know she’s a shoplifter, Chief?”