“She went home and killed the parrot,” Drake said. “Snickasneed its head off with a butcher knife — made a nice clean job of it, too.”
“As soon as she got home?” Mason asked.
“I reckon so. The sheriff didn’t tumble to it for a little while. They caught her red-handed with the forty-one caliber shells and stuff she’d been burning in the fireplace. The sheriff went to quite a bit of trouble trying to get something out of the ashes, but about all he could tell was she’d been burning paper. They hustled her out to jail and telephoned in for a technical man from the homicide squad here, to see what could be done about reconstructing the papers... Sergeant Holcomb has been working hand and glove with ’em, you know.”
“I know,” Mason said. “What did she say about the forty-one caliber shells? Does she admit buying them?”
“I don’t know,” Drake said. “They hustled her off to jail, and that’s all anyone knows.”
“When did they find out about the parrot?”
“Not so very long ago,” Drake said. “Sergeant Holcomb’s men apparently discovered that when they went through the house...”
“Wait a minute,” Mason interpolated. “Couldn’t the parrot have been killed after Helen Monteith was arrested?”
“Not a chance,” Drake said; “they put the place under guard right after they’d pinched her. That was so no one could get in and remove any evidence. I think your friend, Helen Watkins Sabin, may have been back of that move. I understand they’re going through the house with a magnifying glass, looking for additional evidence. They found out about the parrot, and my man telephoned in a report about fifteen minutes ago... Perry, why the devil do you suppose she killed that parrot?”
“The murder of a parrot,” Mason said, with his eyes twinkling, “is somewhat similar to the murder of a human being; that is, a person must look for a motive. Having found a motive, there must then be opportunity, and...”