“Go ahead,” Rodney Cuff said to Driscoll.
Perry Mason stirred uneasily in his seat, started to say something, then lapsed into silence.
Driscoll said, “Walter Prescott was alive at eleven fifty-five. He telephoned his partner at that time. Five minutes later, just as the noon whistles were blowing, there was an automobile accident in front of Prescott’s house. I ran out and helped remove the injured man from the coupe. I then returned to Prescott’s house and gave Rosalind Prescott the gun with which, the evidence shows, the murder must have been committed. That gun was placed back of the drawer in the desk, and was subsequently found there by the police. Now, from that time until the time I left the house the witness, Stella Anderson, was watching that room. She didn’t see anyone take the gun out from behind the drawer in the desk. At quarter past twelve Rosalind Prescott and I left the house by the side door — that’s the one which opens on Fourteenth Street, and went to the airport, where we took the next plane out and went to Reno.”
Emil Scanlon said very seductively, “That, of course, leaves a gap between eleven fifty-five and twelve o’clock. Not a great deal of time, to be certain, but one, nevertheless, within which a shot could easily have been fired.”
Driscoll said, “During that time, I was engaged in telephoning.”
“Could you prove that?” the deputy district attorney asked.
“Yes,” Rodney Cuff said, answering for the witness. “If I may be allowed to call a witness I can prove my point.”
Scanlon hesitated for a moment, glanced at the deputy district attorney, then at Rodney Cuff, then back to Oscar Overmeyer.
Overmeyer slowly, almost imperceptibly, nodded his head, and Emil Scanlon said, “Very well, we’ll grant you permission to put on a witness. It’s rather irregular to handle the thing in this way, but this is a peculiar case and we’re anxious to get at what actually happened.”
There was something of triumph in Rodney Cuff’s manner as he got to his feet and said, “That’s all, Mr. Driscoll. You may leave the stand for the moment and I’ll call Jackson Weyman as my first witness.”
A slender-built man in the early forties got to his feet and started to leave the room. “That’s Weyman,” Rodney Cuff said. “I want him as a witness.”
An officer stopped Weyman at the door. Weyman turned and said, “I’m not going to be a witness. I didn’t come here to be called to the witness stand.”
His left eye was discolored and bloodshot. A piece of gauze, held in place by adhesive tape, covered the top of his forehead, and another smaller bit of tape was on his right cheek.
“I demand he be called as a witness,” Cuff said.
“Come forward and be sworn, Mr. Weyman,” the coroner ordered.
“I’m not going to do any such thing,” Weyman said, his voice surly. “I don’t want to be a witness, and you can’t make me. I’m a hell of a looking specimen to get on the witness stand!”
The crowd roared with laughter, which Scanlon made no effort to check. When it had subsided, he said, “Come forward and be sworn, anyway, Mr. Weyman.”
“I’m not going to tell anything,” Weyman said doggedly.
The good-natured smile didn’t leave the coroner’s lips, but his eyes suddenly became hard. “I think,” he said gently, “you’re in error on that point, Mr. Weyman. Officer, bring him forward.”
The officer took Weyman’s arm and said, “Come on, buddy. This way.”
Weyman, his temper flaring up, jumped back and lashed out a blow at the officer. The next instant he found himself grabbed with a strangle hold, spun neatly around, and then rushed down the corridor toward the witness chair, while the spectators set up a delighted tittering.
Scanlon said, “Hold him there just a minute, Mr. Officer. I want to say something to him... Now, Mr. Weyman, this is an inquest. The coroner has the power to subpoena witnesses and make them testify. If you disobey me you’re going to jail. I don’t want to have any trouble, but if you know anything about this case, we’re going to find it out... Have you been drinking?”
Weyman said in a surly voice, “I’ve had a drink or two.”
“Raise your right hand and be sworn,” the coroner ordered sternly.
The officer released his hold, and Weyman, scowling savagely, raised his right hand and was sworn.
Scanlon indicated the witness chair, and Rodney Cuff stepped forward. “Mr. Weyman,” he said, “you remember the automobile accident which took place in front of Walter Prescott’s home?”
“Well, what if I do?”
“You live next door to Prescott?”
“Yes.”
“And you saw that accident?”
“Yes, I saw it.”
“Where were you at the time?”
“I was standing on Fourteenth Street.”
“You’d been drinking, had picked a fight, and got the worst of the argument, is that right?”
“That’s none of your damn business.”
Scanlon banged with his gavel, frowned at the witness, but turned to Rodney Cuff and said, “This man is an unwilling witness. I’m forcing him to testify. I don’t want him unnecessarily annoyed. What has his fighting got to do with it?”
“Simply this,” Rodney Cuff said. “This witness has a habit of fighting when he’s drunk. It’s been a matter of argument between him and his wife. This time he’d been beaten into unconsciousness, had to go to a doctor to have his face dressed, and didn’t want to go home and face the music. So he was standing rather uncertainly on Fourteenth Street near the comer of Alsace Avenue when the accident occurred. I want to show he was there at the time, and show why he was there.”
“All right,” Weyman said, in a surly voice, “that’s right. I was there. So what?”
“You could see into Walter Prescott’s house?”
“I could see through some of the windows on the Fourteenth Street side of the house.”
“Could you see the little hallway where the telephone’s located?”
“Yes, I could see that.”
“Did you see Mr. Driscoll using the telephone?”
There was a moment of tense silence, when Weyman said reluctantly, “I seen a man standing there, telephoning. He had his back turned, though.”
“Now you were standing there when the accident took place?”
“Yes.”
“What was Driscoll doing when the accident took place?”
“The man I saw was still at the telephone.”
“And how long had he been there?”
“I don’t know, four or five minutes maybe.”
“What did you do after the accident occurred?”
“I started to go over and see what had happened. Then I decided to keep out of it. I went back and sat down on the curb, watched them load the guy that was hurt into the van. This guy in the blue suit ran out and helped. Then he went back in the house, and I saw the van drive away.”
“Then what?”
“Then, after a few minutes, I saw this man, Driscoll, come out of the house again. Just then a prowl car swung around the comer and the officers nailed this guy.”
“How long did you stay there after that?”
“I didn’t stay. I didn’t want those officers asking me questions, so I beat it. I walked around for a while. I was kinda sleepy and wasn’t feeling very good. After a while I made up my mind I had to face the music, so I turned around and went home.”
“What time was that?”
“I don’t know. It was long enough so I’d commenced to feel sick.”
Rodney Cuff made a little gesture of surrendering the witness, and resumed his seat with a satisfied smile.