The witness shifted his position on the witness stand, looked somewhat hopelessly at Hamilton Burger.
“That’s objected to,” Hamilton Burger said, “on the ground that the question is argumentative, that it calls for a conclusion of the witness.”
“The objection is overruled,” Judge DeWitt said. “The witness is an expert, and is testifying as to his opinion. Answer the question.”
Dr. Garfield said slowly, “It is my opinion that the rigor had been broken.”
“And it is your opinion that the position of the body had been changed after death, and prior to the time you saw it there in Room 729 at the Redfern Hotel?”
There was a long period of hesitation, then Dr. Garfield said reluctantly, “That is my opinion.”
“Thank you,” Mason said. “That is all.”
“No further questions,” Elliott announced.
Hamilton Burger seemed preoccupied and worried. He bent over and whispered something to his trial deputy, and then ponderously tiptoed from the courtroom.
Elliott said, “My next witness will be Lt. Tragg.”
Tragg came forward and was sworn. He testified in a leisurely manner that was hardly in keeping with Tragg’s usually crisp, incisive manner on the stand.
He had, he said, attended a conference of officers on October seventeenth. The defendant had appeared. With him had appeared his attorney, Perry Mason.
“Did the defendant make a statement?”
“Yes.”
“Was the statement free arid voluntary?”
“It was.”
Elliott asked him to describe what was said.
Slowly, almost tediously, Tragg repeated the conversation in detail, with Elliott glancing at his watch from time to time.
The morning recess was taken and Court reconvened. Tragg’s testimony was still dragging on until at eleven-thirty he was finished.
“You may cross-examine,” Elliott said.
“No questions,” Mason said.
Elliott bit his lip.
His next witness was the uniformed officer who had sat in on the conference in the district attorney’s office. The uniformed officer was still giving his testimony about what had happened when Court took its noon adjournment.
“What’s happening?” Conway whispered. “They seem to be bogging down.”
“They’re worried,” Mason whispered back. “Just keep a stiff upper lip.”
The jurors filed out of the courtroom. Mason walked over to where Paul Drake, Della Street, and Myrtle Lamar, the elevator operator, were standing talking.
Myrtle Lamar shifted her wad of gum, grinned at Mason.
“Hello, big boy,” she said.
“How’s everything?” Mason asked.
“Sort of tedious this morning,” she said. “Why the subpoena? I’m supposed to be on duty tonight and I should be getting my beauty sleep.”
“You don’t need it,” Mason told her.
“I will before I get done.”
Drake put his hand on her arm. “We’ll take care of you all right. Don’t worry!”
“You don’t know the manager up there at the Redfern Hotel. Women must have made a habit of turning him down. He loves to kick them around. He’d throw me out on my ear as easy as he’d snap a bread crumb off the table.”
“You don’t snap bread crumbs. You remove them with a little silver scoop,” Drake said.
“You and your damned culture,” she said.
“Come on,” Mason told her. “We’re going out.”
“Where?”
“We’re going visiting.”
“My face,” she said, “has bad habits. It needs to be fed.”
“We’ll get it fed,” Mason said.
“Okay, that’s a promise!”
Mason shepherded them down in the elevator into his car, drove carefully but skillfully.
“Where?” Drake asked.
Mason looked at his watch. “Not far.”
Mason stopped the car in front of an apartment house, went to the room telephones, called Evangeline Farrell.
When her voice came on the line, the lawyer said, “Mrs. Farrell, I want to see you at once on a matter of considerable importance.”
“I’m not dressed for company,” she said.
“Put on something,” Mason told her. “I have to be back in court and I’m coming up.”
“Is it important?”
“Very!”
“It concerns the case?”
“Yes.”
“Come on up,” she told him.
Mason nodded to the others. They took the elevator.
Mrs. Farrell opened the apartment door, then fell back in surprise, clutching at the sheer negligee.
“You didn’t tell me anyone was with you,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” Mason told her. “I overlooked it, perhaps. I’m in a terrible hurry. I have to be back in court at two o’clock.”
“But what in the world—?”
Mason said, “You could buy us a drink. This is important.”
She hesitated for a long moment, then said, “Very well.”
“May I help you?” Della Street asked.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mason said. “I haven’t introduced these people to you.”
Mason performed introductions, mentioning only names except for Della Street. “My confidential secretary,” he explained.
“Come on,” Della Street said, “I’ll help you.”
Somewhat hesitantly Mrs. Farrell moved toward the kitchenette. When she had gone, Mason said to the elevator operator, “Have you ever seen her before?”
“I think I have. If I could get a better look at her feet, I’d be sure. I’d like to see her shoes.”
“Let’s look,” Mason said. He walked boldly to the bedroom door, opened it, beckoned to Paul Drake who took Myrtle’s arm, led her along into the bedroom.
The elevator operator tried to hang back, but Drake shifted his arm around her waist.
“Know what you’re, doing, Perry?” Drake asked, as Mason crossed the bedroom.
“No,” Mason said, “but I have a hunch.” He opened a closet door.
“Take a look at the shoes, Myrtle,” Mason said. “Do they mean anything to you? Wait a moment! I guess we don’t need those. Take a look at this.” The lawyer reached back into the closet, pulled out a Suitcase. It had the initials “R. C.”
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” an angry, icy voice demanded.
Mason turned, said, “Right at the moment, I’m checking the baggage that you removed from the Redfern Hotel, Mrs. Farrell, and this young woman who is the elevator operator who was on duty the day of the murder is looking at your shoes to see if she recognizes the pair you wore. She has the peculiar habit of noticing people’s feet.”
Mrs. Farrell started indignantly toward them, then suddenly stopped in her tracks.
Mason said, “Let’s take a look inside that suitcase, Paul.”
“You can’t do that,” she said. “You have no right.”
“Okay,” Mason said, “if you want it the hard way, we’ll do it the hard way. Go to the phone, Paul. Call Homicide and ask them to send up some officers with a warrant. We’ll stay here until they arrive.”
Evangeline Farrell stood looking at them with eyes that held an expression of sickened dismay.
“Or perhaps,” Mason said, “you’d like to tell us about it. We haven’t very much time, Mrs. Farrell.”
“Tell you about what?” she asked, trying to get hold of herself.
“About renting Room 729 and saying you were the secretary of Gerald Boswell, and that he was to occupy the room for the night.
“Tell us about shooting Rose Calvert, who was in 728; about sitting there waiting, trying to figure out what you’d do, then taking the body across the hall... Did you manage that alone? Or did someone help you?”
She said, “You can’t do that to me. You — I don’t know what you’re talking about.”