“Now, let us return for the moment to the identity of the murderer. We now understand that Mr. Sabin suspected Steve Watkins of having forged checks in a very large amount. A handwriting expert was checking Watkins’ handwriting. Now, if Watkins had been guilty, what’s more natural than for him to have tried to silence Mr. Sabin’s lips by murder?”
Sergeant Holcomb’s lips curled in a sneer. “Simply because,” he said, “Watkins has a perfect alibi. Watkins left in an airplane, in the presence of a reputable witness, shortly after ten o’clock on the night of Monday the fifth, for New York. Every moment of his time is accounted for.”
“Exactly,” Mason said, “ If we act on the assumption that Fremont C. Sabin was murdered on Tuesday, the sixth, but the trouble with your reasoning, Sergeant, is that there is nothing to indicate he was not murdered on the fifth.”
“On the fifth?” Sergeant Holcomb exclaimed. “Impossible. The fishing season didn’t open until the sixth, and Fremont Sabin would never have fished before the season opened.”
“No,” Mason said, “I daresay he wouldn’t. I believe it’s a misdemeanor, isn’t it, Sergeant?”
“Yes.”
“And murder is a felony?”
Sergeant Holcomb disdained to answer the question.
“Therefore,” Mason said, “a murderer would have no conscientious scruples whatever against catching a limit of fish on the day before the season opened. Now, Sergeant, can you kindly tell the coroner, and this jury, what there is about your reasoning any stronger than a string of fish?”
Sergeant Holcomb stared at Perry Mason with startled eyes.