He pointed down the side of the mountain to where a section of the road showed almost directly below them. A car, winding its laborious way up the long ascent, showed glinting red from a police spotlight fastened on the upper right-hand corner of the windshield.
“Do we try to beat them up?” Della Street asked.
Mason, stretching his long legs, sucked in deep breaths of the dry mountain air, and said, “No. We’ll wait and follow. It will save time locating the cabin.”
They drank the cool water, bending over the rock basin to place pursed lips against the limpid surface of the little pool. Gradually, above the sound of the wind sighing through the eloquent pines, came the grinding of a motor, whining in gear as it labored up the steep ascent.
As the car came into sight around the turn, Mason said, “I believe it’s our old friend, Sergeant Holcomb, from headquarters... Now, why should he be interested in a murder case which took place outside of the city... He’s stopping.”
The car veered abruptly from the paved highway to come to a stop on the shaded parking space at the side of the road. A big man, who wore a broad-brimmed black Stetson, was the first to emerge. He was followed, a moment later, by Sergeant Holcomb of the Metropolitan Police.
Holcomb walked truculently across to Mason. “What the devil are you doing here? ” he asked.
Mason said, “Odd, Sergeant, but I was thinking the same about you.”
Sergeant Holcomb said, “I’m helping out Sheriff Barnes. He telephoned in for assistance, and the police loaned me to him. Shake hands with Perry Mason, Sheriff.”
The sheriff, a big man in the late fifties, who moved with slow efficiency, swung out a bronzed hand which engulfed Mason’s fingers. Mason introduced Della Street, and then produced the letter which Charles Sabin had given him. The Sheriff was impressed.