There was a tense atmosphere of excitement permeating the courtroom as Judge Cortright called the Case of the People versus Stephane Claire, and Homan once more took the stand. “Just one or two further questions, Mr. Homan,” Mason said.
“Very well. Will you try and be as brief as possible?”
“If you will answer my questions,” Mason said, “without equivocation, I think we can finish with you very shortly. Lieutenant Tragg is in court, I believe?”
Mason turned to look at Tragg. Tragg returned the stare. His forehead puckered into a slightly perplexed frown.
Mason said, “Lieutenant Tragg, you have, I believe, in your possession a white starched shirt with some red stains on the bosom. May I ask you to show that shirt to this witness?”
“What is the idea?” Harold Hanley asked.
Mason said, “You will remember that according to the testimony of the witnesses, there was a smear of lipstick on the little finger of the right hand of the defendant in this case. I...”
“I think that question is proper,” Judge Cortright ruled. “Do you have such a shirt in your possession, Lieutenant Tragg?”
Tragg nodded.
“Here in court?” Mason asked.
Tragg hesitated a moment, then reached under the counsel table, and picked up a black handbag. He opened it while spectators craned curious necks to see the shirt with its telltale smear, then Tragg handed it to Mason.
“Thank you,” Mason said. “Now, Mr. Homan, will you examine this shirt carefully and tell me whether it is yours.”
“My shirt?” Homan exclaimed.
“Yes.”
“Great Heavens, man, I wasn’t driving that car! I was here...”
“But please examine it just the same, Mr. Homan, and then answer my question.”
He spread the shirt out across Homan’s knees.
Homan looked at the shirt with its crimson smear. “I don’t know,” he said promptly. “How could I tell whose shirt it is?”
Mason said, “Come, come, Mr. Homan. We can do better than that. Don’t you know your own laundry mark?”
“No, sir. I don’t.”
Mason said, “Well, perhaps I can help you. I am sorry to bother you, but will you loosen your tie so I can see the inside of your neckband?”
Homan complied and leaned forward. Mason read the laundry mark, “W. 362.”
“Now then,” Mason said, indicating a mark on the inside of the neckband of the shirt, “you will see this shirt has the same laundry mark.”
Homan regarded the shirt with narrowed eyes, took it in his hands, turned it over, looked at the smear of lipstick, then broke into bitter expostulation. “That’s a frame-up. I never saw the defendant in this case in my life. I didn’t give her any ride. I...”
“That will do,” Judge Cortright interrupted. “You will confine your answers to questions.”
“The question, Mr. Homan,” Mason said, “is whether that is your shirt.”
“I don’t know.”
“But it is your laundry mark?”
“I guess so, yes.”
“And you wear a sixteen and a quarter shirt?”
“Yes.”
“Do you see anything about it which indicates it is not your shirt?”
“No. I guess not.”
Mason said, “Very well, I am now going to call your attention to the keys which the defendant found in her purse, and ask you if this key is a key to the ignition switch of your automobile.”
“It looks like it. I presume so, yes.”
“And do you know what this one is a key to?”
“No, sir.”
“Doesn’t it look at all familiar?”
“No. It... wait a minute... No, I thought for a moment it looked like one of my keys, but it isn’t.”
“These are not your keys?”
“No, sir. Absolutely not.”
“Do you happen to have your keys in your pocket?”
“Why... yes.”
“May I see them, please?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with it.”
“The witness will produce his keys,” Judge Cortright ordered. Homan reluctantly took a leather-covered key container from his pocket.
Mason said, “Let’s compare these keys and see we can find any that check. Why, yes, here are two that are identical. Can you tell me what this key in your key container is to, Mr. Homan?”
“My yacht.”
“A lock on the cabin?”
“Yes.”
“Now this other key. Do you have one that is identical with that key?”
“I wouldn’t know. I can remember what all my keys look like.”
Mason checked through the key container. “No,” he said, “you don’t seem to have one.”
Homan shifted his position.
“Now you don’t think these are your keys?”
“No.”
“You didn’t leave your keys in the car by mistake when you parked it — the day it was stolen?”
“No.”
“You are certain?”
“Yes.”
Mason jingled the key ring. “This third key — the one you haven’t been able to identify — you haven’t any idea what lock this key fits?”
“No.”
Mason regarded him steadily for several seconds. “Eventually, Mr. Homan,” he said at length, “the police are going to find the lock this key fits. It would be unfortunate if that should prove to be...”
“Wait a minute,” Homan interrupted. “I am very absent-minded when I am working. I may have left my keys in the car when I parked it.”
“Then these may be your keys?”
Judge Cortright said sternly, “Do you want this court to understand you don’t know your own keys?”
“Yes, Your Honor, I have so many keys... I am afraid that... well, you see, I am always giving keys to servants and chauffeurs, and then getting them back. These may have been some old keys I had left in the glove compartment. Yes, that must be it, some keys I had inadvertently left in the glove compartment.”
Judge Cortright looked down at the witness for several contemptuous seconds, then said to Perry Mason, “Go ahead with your questions, Counselor.”
Mason smiled. “I am finished.”
“What!” Hanley exclaimed in surprise.
“I have no further questions,” Mason announced.
Tragg and Hanley whispered, then Hanley got up and crossed over to Mason. “What is the idea?” he whispered. “You have got him on the run.”
Mason said, “You can question him if you want to.”
“Not me,” Hanley said. “I can’t ride him with spurs. His studio would be gunning for my job before noon.”
Judge Cortright looked down at Mason. “Counsel will understand,” he said, “that the court is interested in this phase of the testimony. There have been enough facts adduced to cast some doubt in the court’s mind, but not enough as yet to overcome all of the evidence introduced by the prosecution.”
Mason said, “I am sorry, Your Honor, but I have no further questions.”
Judge Cortright hesitated, then turned to Homan. “Mr. Homan, were you driving that car on Wednesday the nineteenth?”
“No, sir. Absolutely not.”
“Do you know who was?”
“No, sir.”
“Where were you on Wednesday the nineteenth?”
“On Wednesday the nineteenth,” Homan said, “I was at my residence in Beverly Hills. As soon as I missed the car, and verified the fact that my younger brother was out in my yacht, fishing, so that there was no possibility he could have unlocked it with his keys, and taken it without consulting me, I reported the car as being stolen to the city police at Beverly Hills. A representative of the police called on me to ask me the details. That can be verified.”
“That was Wednesday the nineteenth,” Judge Cortright asked.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“At what time?”
“I would say about five or six o’clock in the afternoon.”