“Threatening?” Mason inquired.
“Yes,” Waid said shortly, and as he led the way into the living room, added, “And that’s putting it mildly.”
Charles Sabin got to his feet at once, as Mason entered. He came forward to grasp the lawyer’s hand, with evident relief. “You must be a mind reader, Mr. Mason,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get you for the last half hour.”
He turned and said, “Helen, let me present Perry Mason. Mrs. Helen Watkins Sabin, Mr. Mason.”
Mason bowed. “I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Sabin.”
She glared at him as though he had been an insect impaled with a pin and mounted on a wall board. “Humph!” she said.
She was heavy, but there was nothing flabby about her heaviness. Her body was hard beef, and her eyes held the arrogant steadiness of a person who is accustomed to put others on the defensive and keep them there.
“And her son, Mr. Watkins, Mr. Mason.”
Watkins came forward to take Mason’s hand in a firm, cordial grasp. His eyes sought those of the lawyer, and his voice as he said, “I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Mason,” lent emphasis to his words. “I’ve been reading so much about you, from time to time, that it’s a real pleasure to meet you in the flesh. I was particularly interested in the newspaper accounts of the trial of that case involving the murder of the insurance man.”
“Thank you very much,” Mason said, letting his eyes take in the bulging forehead, the well-rounded cheeks, the steady blue eyes, and the fit of the well-pressed flannels.