“He can’t tell whether there were two separate guns,” Ellis said. “Unless he compared them with the numbers he doesn’t know what gun it was.”
Mason smiled at Judge Fallon. “I think,” he said, “the district attorney has made my point perfectly. The witness saw a gun. He doesn’t know whether it was the fatal gun which some murderer had substituted in the witness’s golf bag, or whether it was a weapon which the decedent had given the defendant for her own protection and which had been stolen from her.”
Mason made a little bow to the assistant district attorney and said, “And, if the Court please, that concludes my recross-examination.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Ellis said, “that’s not a fair presentation. The witness should answer the question.”
“He can’t answer the question,” Mason said, “because you’ve objected to it.”
“Well, there hasn’t been any ruling of the Court,” Ellis said, and then added suddenly, “I’ll withdraw the objection.”
“Very well,” Mason said, “answer the question, Mr. Beason.”
“I don’t know what gun it was,” Beason said. “It could have been the same gun both times, it could have been different guns, it could have been any gun. I understand that Smith and Wesson manufactures thousands of guns, all of which are identical.”
Ellis said irritably, “It’s quite easy for the witness to answer the question in that manner after counsel has so adroitly pointed out the proper answer to make under the guise of making an objection.”
“If the Court please,” Mason said, “I didn’t make the objection. The prosecution did that.”
“I have no further redirect,” Ellis said.
“That’s all, Mr. Beason. You’re excused.”
“You’re excused,” Judge Fallon said to the witness.
Ellis glanced at the clock.
Judge Fallon nodded imperceptibly, said, “It is the hour for the usual noon adjournment. Court will recess until two o’clock this afternoon.”
The spectators rose as Judge Fallon left the bench and went through the door leading to his chambers.
Mason caught Simley Beason’s eye and beckoned to him.
Taking Beason’s arm, Mason stood close to him where there was no chance of being overheard and said, “What were you afraid of, Beason?”
“Afraid?” Beason asked, his voice showing surprise. “What do you mean, afraid? I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t want to help the prosecution’s case any more than necessary.”
Mason said, “You were afraid, Beason. There was too much relief in your manner when the deputy district attorney said he had no questions on redirect.”
Beason shook his head, his expression one of puzzled innocence. “Why no, Mr. Mason, you have me wrong.”
Mason said, “I don’t think I’ve made any mistake, Beason. I’ve examined too many witnesses in court and seen too many people under the stress of emotion to make that much of a mistake. What information were you withholding that you were afraid the prosecution was going to inquire about?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Beason said.
“All right,” Mason told him, “we’ll let it go at that.”
Beason caught Adelle Hastings’ eye as a policewoman took her arm to escort her to the jail. Between them flashed a look of significant understanding, a momentary glance of triumph.
Chapter Thirteen
A French restaurant some three blocks from the court house traditionally held a small intimate private dining room for the luncheon use of Perry Mason, Della Street and Paul Drake, and in the past many conferences held in this dining room during lunch hours had resulted in last minute changes in strategy.
Now seated around the circular table with a telephone plugged in so they could receive and send out calls, Drake said, “I’ve picked up a tip, Perry. They have a surprise they’re springing this afternoon.”
“Any idea what it is?”
“No.”
Mason said, “There’s something Simley Beason was holding back. I don’t know what it was. He was afraid the were going to ask him some particular question, and the answer to that question might well have been devastating as far as the defendant was concerned.
“When they let him off the stand without asking that question his face showed relief.”
“Any idea what it could be?” Drake asked.
“It might be anything,” Mason said. “Of course the prosecution knows he’s a hostile witness and they’re afraid to ask him general questions because he might have an answer that would crucify them. However, we’re probably out of the woods now. I doubt very much if they’ll recall him. It’s a certainty that I’m not going to call him as my witness and let them tear into him on cross-examination.
“What have you found out about the Carson City angle, Paul?”
Drake took out his pocket notebook. “There’s something here that baffles me. This Harley C. Drexel, the contractor, lives at 291 Center Street, Carson City. He’s a guy fifty-five years old, with a good reputation. He has a house that he built himself on a deep lot with a little bungalow in back of the house that he rents out. He’s a widower, he has a daughter who’s attending college somewhere in the east — supposed to be nice people.”
“Any connection whatever with Adelle Hastings or anybody else who has any connection with the case?” Mason asked.
“Now, there’s a funny thing,” Drake said. “I ran on this by accident. I told you that Drexel rents out the building in the back of his place from time to time. It’s a small compact bungalow cottage. Remember, Perry, his address is 291 Center Street. Now, when Minerva filed divorce proceedings in Nevada, the divorce proceedings she didn’t ever follow up, the address she gave was 291½ Center Street. So evidently Minerva established a residence in Drexel’s house, and presumably got quite well acquainted with him. Then, when we have this mysterious purse business in your office, Drexel’s car is parked in the parking lot half a block from your office.”
Mason’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in thoughtful concentration.
“What do you know about Drexel?” he asked, after a moment. “A ladies’ man?”
“A contractor,” Drake said, “who is concentrating on his contracting. He plunges right into the job alongside his workmen and puts in a day’s work himself from time to time. Mostly he’s a building contractor and carpenter; a plain, unimaginative horny-handed sort of chap.”
Mason digested this information.
The waiter came and took their orders.
Abruptly Mason got up and began pacing the floor.
“It has me stumped,” Drake said. “It means something, but what?”
Mason said nothing, but continued pacing the floor.
Abruptly the lawyer paused, turned to Drake, said, “Paul, here’s something else. Rosalie Blackburn, Simley Beason’s secretary, went to Carson City and got a divorce. Find out if she also lived at 291½ Center Street while she was establishing her residence. If she did, it will indicate a pattern of some sort that we should follow up.
“Now here’s something else. I want to find out about charter planes that went to Las Vegas on the afternoon of Monday, the fourth. When Della Street and I flew in that evening, our pilot told us a representative of the Chamber of Commerce was checking charter flights. Get your men on the job, check with the Las Vegas Chamber of Commerce. Find out if this checking was on the up and up, and if it was, find out what other charter flights came in that same night earlier in the evening.
“I’m going up to court as soon as we finish eating, Paul, and you can get busy on the telephone.”
Drake put through the call to his office and gave the necessary instructions.