“How old?” Mason asked.
“About thirty-two or thirty-three. Quietly dressed... In fact, that’s the impression he gives you, of being quiet. His voice is low and well-modulated. His eyes are a very cold blue, and very, very steady, if you get what I mean.”
“I think I do,” Mason told her. “Rather spare and austere in his appearance?”
“Yes, with high cheekbones and a firm mouth. I think you’ll find he does a lot of thinking. He’s that type.”
Mason said, “All right, let’s get some more facts on this murder.”
He once more devoted his attention to reading the newspaper, then abruptly said, “There’s too much hooey mixed in with this, Della, to give us very much information. I suppose I should get the highlights, because he probably won’t want to talk about it.”
He returned to the newspaper, skimming salient facts from the account of the murder.
Fishing season in the Grizzly Creek had opened on Tuesday, September sixth. It had been closed until that date by order of the Fish and Game Commission to protect the late season fishing. Fremont C. Sabin had gone to his mountain cabin, ready to take advantage of the first day. Police reconstructed what had happened at that cabin from the circumstantial evidence which remained. He had evidently retired early, setting the alarm for five-thirty in the morning. He had arisen, cooked breakfast, donned his fishing things, and had returned about noon, evidently with a limit of fish. Sometime after that — and the police, from the evidence which had been so far made available, were unable to tell just when — Fremont Sabin had been murdered. Robbery had evidently not been the motive, since a well-filled wallet was found in his pocket. He was still wearing a diamond ring, and a valuable emerald stickpin was found in the drawer of the dresser, near the bed. He had been shot through the heart and at close range by a short-barreled derringer, obsolete in design but deadly in its efficiency.
Sabin’s pet parrot, who had of late years accompanied him on nearly all his trips to the mountain cabin, had been left in the room with the body. The murderer had fled.
The mountain cabin was isolated, nearly a hundred yards back from the automobile road which wound its tortuous way up to the pine-timbered cabin. There was not a great deal of traffic on this road, and those people who lived in the neighborhood had learned to leave the wealthy recluse alone.