“Exactly,” Mason said.
“Then don’t you think we’d better communicate with the police, Mr. Mason?”
“Not yet,” Mason said. “Just keep quiet so we don’t disturb anyone. We’ll do a little investigating on our own.”
Mason led the way to the cellar door, opened it silently, tiptoed down the cellar stairs. Mrs. Gentrie clicked a light switch which flooded the cellar with brilliance.
Mason inched his way over toward the shelf where the preserves were kept, keeping his eyes, however, on the garage door. “Now, as I understand it, this is the door which was painted. Your husband painted it the evening of the murder... Where is he, by the way?”
She said, “I made him go to bed. He couldn’t have done any good by sitting up, and he’s going to have a hard time at the store waiting on all of the customers without Junior to help him. That’s one thing about my husband. No matter what happens, he can sleep like a log. I don’t think he ever actually worries about anything. I don’t mean by that he isn’t concerned over the situation. He simply doesn’t worry about it. If he knew he was going to be executed tomorrow, I don’t think he’d lose a minute’s sleep. He’d simply say, ‘Well, if it’s going to be that way and there’s nothing I can do about it, there’s no reason for losing any sleep over it.’ ”
Mason turned then, casually, so he could look at the shelf on which he had placed the can. Apparently, the can had not been disturbed. He noticed that Della Street was also looking at it. She turned, caught his eye, then looked hastily away.
Mason said, “Now, is there any chance that your son could have got his fingers in that paint in some other way than off the garage door? Your husband must have brought this paint home when he came from the hardware store.”
“That’s right, but he didn’t mix it until after Junior had gone out.”
“Now, this door, I take it,” Mason said, “is not kept locked.”