While Perry Mason talked, the sheriff slipped a plug of tobacco from his pants pocket, opened a knife, the blade of which had been rubbed thin through many sharpenings, and cut off a corner of moist, black tobacco.
When Mason had finished, the sheriff was silent for a few moments, rolling the tobacco over the edge of his tongue; then he shifted his steady, thoughtful eyes to the lawyer and said, “Those are all the facts you have?”
“That’s a general summary of everything,” Mason told him. “My cards are on the table.”
“You shouldn’t have done that about the telephone bill,” the sheriff said to Paul Drake. “We had some trouble getting a duplicate telephone bill. It delayed things for us a little while.”
“I’m sorry,” Mason told him, “it was my fault. I’m assuming the responsibility.”
The sheriff swung his weight slowly back and forth in the creaking chair. “What conclusions are you drawing?” he asked of Mason.
Mason said, “I don’t think I’m ready to draw any conclusions yet. I’d like to wait until after the inquest.”
“Think you could draw some then?”
“I think I could,” Mason told him, “if I were permitted to question the witnesses.”
“That’s sort of up to the coroner, ain’t it?” the sheriff asked.