“You’ve had Helen Monteith take a powder.”
Mason faced them, his feet spread far apart, his shoulders squared, his hands thrust into the side pockets of his coat. “All right,” he said, “let’s get this straight. I’m representing Helen Monteith. I’m also representing Charles Sabin. I’m trying to solve the murder of Fremont C. Sabin. I’m being paid money by my clients for doing just that. You gentlemen are being paid money by your county for solving the same murder I’m trying to solve. Naturally, you’re going to solve it your way, and, by the same token, I intend to solve it mine.”
“We want to question Helen Monteith,” Sprague said.
Mason met his eyes squarely. “Go ahead and question her, then.”
“Where is she?”
Mason pulled his cigarette case from his pocket and said, “I’ve told you once I don’t know. You’re running this show, I’m not.”
“You wouldn’t want me to charge you with being an accessory after the fact, would you?” Sprague asked ominously.
“I don’t give a damn what you charge me with,” Mason told him. “Only, if you want to talk law, remember that I can’t be an accessory after the fact, unless I give aid to the murderer. Now then, do you intend to claim that Helen Monteith is the one who committed the murder?”
Sprague flushed and said, “Yes.”
Sheriff Barnes interposed a drawling comment. “Now wait a minute, Ray, let’s not get our cart before our horse.”