“Yes, sir.”
“And her height, weight, age, and general build?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All the same as this defendant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the man. Was he about the same height as anyone you are now looking at?”
“Objected to as leading and suggestive.”
“Objection sustained.”
“Well, how can you describe him?”
“Objected to as already asked and answered.”
“Objection sustained.”
“Cross-examine,” Hamilton Burger snapped, with exasperation.
Mason said, “You thought you saw that same person again, didn’t you?”
“I certainly thought I did, Mr. Mason, yes, sir. It was just the way Sergeant Holcomb has described it.”
“In other words, the figure you saw at the garage that night was a man of just about the same height, build, and wearing about the same colored garments as the man you saw emerging from the auto court?”
“That’s right.”
“But you never did see the man’s face?”
“No, sir.”
“When you saw him at the garage you saw only his back?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So all you know is that you saw a rather tall man with a tan-colored topcoat and a gray hat.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And any tall man of approximately the same build, wearing those garments, would look just about the same to you as the man you saw at that time?”
“Well, I... no I don’t think so. I think probably I could identify him.”
Mason said, “You did identify him, didn’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You heard the Sergeant’s testimony that you pointed out the man who ran out of that cabin.”
“Well, I guess I made a mistake there,” Goshen admitted, gulping in embarrassment.
“What makes you think you made a mistake?”
“Well, that man evidently was someone who had been planted there.”
“What makes you think you made a mistake?”
“Well... my gosh, Mr. Mason, you’ve just proved it wasn’t you.”
“In other words,” Mason said, “you had been told that the man you had seen at the garage was none other than Perry Mason?”
“Well, that’s what the police seemed to think.”
“You’d been told that?”
“Yes.”
“And when you saw that man run out of the cabin you said to Sergeant Holcomb, ‘that’s the man,’ didn’t you?”
“Well, I guess I did.”
“And you saw that figure running toward the headlights of an automobile, and you saw it turn around and run back?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You saw it as plainly as you saw the figure that you were looking at across the alley?”
“Well, I... as a matter of fact, those flashlights popping in my eyes certainly did make everything seem all sort of black to me, sort of hard to look at.”
“But you saw the figure well enough so that you were willing to identify him?”
“Well, yes.”
“And did identify him?”
“Yes.”
“And now think you were mistaken?”
“Well, I guess I must have been.”
“Simply because the figure was not that of the man police had told you you must have seen at the garage, is that right?”
“Well... I... I just don’t rightly know how to say it, Mr. Mason, but I guess I walked into a trap and... and I guess,” he added ruefully, “I’ve got my fingers caught.”
Even Judge Osborn smiled.
“And this woman whom you saw across the alley was with a man?”
“Yes.”
“And you saw her at the same time and place as the man?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Under the same conditions?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if you can’t identify the man, how do you expect to identify the woman?”
“Well... well, I really could have identified that man if I hadn’t made a mistake.”
“You did identify a man?”
“Yes.”
“And now you think it was the wrong man?”
“It must have been.”
“And you saw the woman there at the garage no more distinctly than you saw the man?”
“Well, no.”
“Thank you,” Mason said. “That’s all.”
“And now,” Judge Osborn said, cocking a stern eye at Hamilton Burger, “the Court will take a ten-minute recess.”
Chapter 26
As soon as Judge Osborn had left the bench, Lucille Barton turned to Perry Mason, placed her gloved hand over his wrist, squeezed so hard the leather of the glove stretched taut over her knuckles.
“Mr. Mason, you’re wonderful!” she whispered.
Mason said, “This is just the opening round, Lucille, we’ve shaken the witness in his identification of me; but don’t overlook the fact that his identification of you will stand up unless we can find some way of showing you weren’t there.”
“Yes, that’s so,” she admitted in a whisper.
“And,” Mason said, “the gun with which Pitkin was killed was a gun that quite evidently had been given you by Arthur Colson. And incidentally, Ross Hollister was also murdered, and you had twenty thousand dollars’ insurance on Hollister’s life.”
“But, Mr. Mason, can’t you understand? I loved Ross. His death is a great blow to me. We were going to be married. He represented security, affection, a home, everything a woman wants.”
“Unless, perhaps, she happened to have been in love with Arthur Colson, who showed her a way of collecting twenty thousand dollars’ insurance so she could marry him.”
“Mr. Mason, don’t be silly! You were so nice, and now you’re talking just like that district attorney.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Mason said. “Wait until you hear the way he’s going to talk! You never have told me why you didn’t take my advice and telephone the police when that body was discovered, and when that gun was still in your purse.”
“Mr. Mason, I can’t. I simply can’t. I can’t tell you that story. I can’t tell anyone.”
“All right,” Mason said, “I can put on all sorts of a grandstand here, but you’re going to be bound over for murder, and later on, unless you can tell some satisfactory story to a jury, you’re going to be convicted of murder.”
“Mr. Mason, can’t you get me off?”
“Not unless I know what happened, and unless it’s a good story.”
“Other women shoot people and get off. Lawyers...”
“I know,” Mason said, “but you’re up against a different situation. Colson started masterminding this thing, and two men have been murdered. The revolver which killed one of them was in your possession both before and after the murders were committed. You’re going to have one hell of a time explaining that it wasn’t in your possession while they were being committed.”
“Mr. Mason, Arthur Colson wasn’t the one who did what you call masterminding that.”
“No?” Mason said skeptically. “He’s never done anything, or said anything that convinced me of his sincerity.”
She said impulsively, “He’s simply trying to stand by me, Mr. Mason. You must believe that. You must understand that.”
Mason merely smiled.
“The man who did what you call masterminding the thing,” she said, “was someone whom you haven’t even talked to.”
“Who?”
“Willard Barton,” she blurted, and then suddenly removed her gloved hand to press it against her lips. “There, I’ve said too much! He’d be furious if he knew that.”
Mason watched her with coldly cynical eyes. “Was that an act?” he asked.