“That’s all,” Mason said, “and I’d like to do it in such a way the coroner’s jury would feel I was trying to assist the coroner. As I’ve mentioned before, when people get fixed beliefs, they interpret everything in the light of those beliefs. Take politics, for instance. We can look back at past events, and the deadly significance of those events seems so plain that we don’t see how people could possibly have overlooked them. Yet millions of voters, at the time, saw those facts and warped their significance so that they supported erroneous political beliefs.
“The same is true of the things which are happening at present. A few years from now we’ll look back in wonder that people failed to see the deadly significance of signs on the political horizon. Twenty years from now even the most stupid high school student can appreciate the importance of those signs and the results which must inevitably have followed. But right now we have some twenty-five million who think another. And both sides believe they’re correctly interpreting the facts.”
The sheriff came to an upright position, while the chair gave forth one long, last, protesting squeak, which made Della Street wince. “Well,” he said, “I’ll let you know in an hour or so. I’ll have to talk with the coroner and the district attorney. Personally, Mason, I’m for you. I ain’t running the prosecution, but I am running the department of criminal investigation. There’s been a murder committed in my county. I’m going to do everything I can to find out who committed that murder. I think you’re prejudiced because you think Helen Monteith is innocent, whereas I think she’s guilty. Naturally, you’re trying to protect your client. On the other hand, you’ve had a lot more experience with big murder cases than I have. I ain’t going to let you lead me around by the nose, but I am going to take any help you have to offer, and be mighty darned glad to get it.
“And now you want to see Helen Monteith?”
Mason nodded.
“All right,” the sheriff said, “you’ll have to come over to the jail, and only you can see her. You’ll have to leave the others behind.”
Mason entered the cement-floored office of the jail as Sheriff Barnes swung back the heavy iron door. The atmosphere was permeated with the sickly sweet odor of jail disinfectant, with the psychic emanations from scores of dispirited derelicts. It exerted a strangely depressing influence upon one who had not become immune to it.
“She’s in the detention ward,” the sheriff said, “and the detention ward’s over on that side. The matron’s the jailer’s wife. I’ll have to get her and bring her down. You can go in that room and wait.”
Mason entered the little office and waited some five minutes before the jailer’s wife escorted Helen Monteith into the room.
“Well,” she said, as she dropped into a chair, “what do you want?”