“Of course,” the sheriff said, “if we was going to do that down at the coroner’s inquest, we couldn’t have a lot of objections and things; we’d have to scoot right along and hit the high spots. You couldn’t make a lot of objections to questions and all that sort of stuff.”
“I wouldn’t,” Mason promised.
“Well,” the sheriff said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’d prefer,” Mason told him, “that you didn’t try to do anything with Sprague. In other words, I don’t want to tip my hand to Sprague. I’m putting my cards on the table with you.”
“Nope,” the sheriff said, “I’m co-operating with the district attorney; the district attorney has to know everything about it. Maybe he’ll be willing to give you a break. Maybe he won’t. I’m telling you, fair and square, if he agrees to let you talk it’ll be because he’ll want to give you lots of rope and watch you hang yourself.”
“That suits me,” Mason said. “All I want is the rope.”
“You’d have to be kinda tactful,” the sheriff said. “Sprague wouldn’t like it if it appeared you was bringing out all the evidence.”
“I can appreciate that,” Mason said. “I’d try to let it appear I was co-operating with the district attorney; whether I can really co-operate or not, depends upon how Sprague looks at it.”
Sheriff Barnes looked out the window. The afternoon sunlight etched the lines of his bronzed countenance, showed the silver strands in his hair. He held his lips pursed for ten thoughtful seconds before seeking the relief of a cuspidor.
“Well,” he said, “we’ll see what we can do. As I understand it, all you want is to see that all the evidence gets before that coroner’s jury.”