“Well, let’s keep looking,” Mason said. “I feel the gun must have been discharged about as I pointed out. It’s the only logical explanation which accounts for the facts. However, it’s certain the bullet hole isn’t where it could be readily detected or it would have been seen... What’s this in the chair?”
Hogan dropped to his knees to inspect an opening between the arm of a leather-upholstered chair and the seat cover. On the under side of the seat was a peculiar rip, the edges stained with black.
“That,” Hogan said, “might be something.”
“Pull the seat out and take a look,” Mason said.
Hogan pulled out the seat. Back of it, and in such a position that it had been concealed by the seat cushion, was a small, round hole. Hogan looked at the back of the chair. There was no hole in the back of the chair.
“If that’s a bullet,” Mason said cheerfully, “and it looks like a bullet, it’s still in the chair. Suppose we find out.”
Hogan said, “I think we’d better have some photographs of this before we go any farther.”
Newspaper photographers were only too willing to oblige. They pushed forward and shot a dozen pictures.
Hogan opened a sharp-bladed knife, took a pair of long-nosed pliers from his pocket and said, “Here we go.”
He cut back the upholstery of the chair, pulled out some hair stuffing. A bullet was embedded in the oak frame of the chair. “How about it,” Hogan asked Sampson, “do I dig this bullet out?”
“Better photograph it first,” Mason suggested, “and then dig it out. That’s what we want. We want to see the rifling marks.”
Once more, there was a succession of flashes as newspaper photographers took pictures. Reporters disappeared down the corridor to rush flashes to their papers. Hogan calmly set about digging out the bullet, taking care not to touch the lead with the point of his knife. The oak was hard. The cutting was slow. But, eventually, Hogan twisted the point of his knife in behind the bullet and worked it out. “There’s going to be no question that this bullet was substituted,” he said taking an envelope from his pocket. “I’m going to seal this envelope and have both of you men write your names across the flap. The bullet will be on the inside.”
Mason pulled out his fountain pen. “Fair enough,” he said. Mason and Sampson wrote their names across the flap of the envelope, which was sealed and put in Hogan’s pocket. “If you don’t mind,” Mason told him, “I’m going to follow this bullet to its ultimate destination — at least until we’ve made micro-photographs.”
“Come on,” Hogan invited. “I understand that I’m appointed on this phase of the case as a disinterested expert. Let’s go.”
They went to Hogan’s office. Hogan said, “I fired two or three test bullets from that Breel gun, Mason. There’s no objection to using any of those, is there?”
“None whatever,” Mason said.
Hogan placed the bullets side by side in a specially constructed holder which enabled them to be rotated slowly. He pushed the holder under the lenses of a double-barreled microscope, focused the eyepiece, and slowly started rotating the bullets. Mason, watching the man’s hand as it slowly turned the screw, saw it pause, turn the screw back for a fraction of a turn, then come to rest. Hogan stared intently through the eyepiece of the microscope. Slowly, he straightened and turned to Sampson. “All right, Sampson,” he said. “These bullets are from the same gun.”
A veritable battery of cameras clicked as Hogan made the announcement. “I presume,” Hogan said, “we’ll want micro-photographs, but they’re a mere formality. The bullets are the same. You can see for yourself.”
Mason grinned and said, “Thanks. I’ll take your word for it, and I’ll trust you to see that the bullets aren’t substituted or switched in any way, Hogan. I’m headed back for my office. I have some work to do.”
Sampson said savagely, “I don’t care what legal hocuspocus you use on those guns, you can’t get away from the blood on her shoe.”
“I’m not trying to,” Mason told him, and left.
At his office, Paul Drake and Della Street were waiting.
“Well?” Della Street asked.
Mason nodded cheerfully and said, “No one had noticed the bullet because it went through a crack in the upholstery of a chair and lodged down below the seat level in the back.”
Della Street said, “Look here, Chief, do you know just what you’re getting into?”
“What?” Mason asked, raising his eyebrows.
“You’re getting Sarah Breel out of a murder case by getting Virginia Trent in it right up to her eyebrows.”
“Oh, sure,” Mason said cheerfully. “After all, you know, someone had to kill him.”
“But, Chief, Virginia Trent’s also your client,” Della Street objected.
“Sure,” Mason laughed, “and they’re not trying her yet.”
“No, but they’re going to be if you keep on.”
“Well,” Mason said, “I’ll keep on. Let’s go eat. I’m famished.”
Chapter 18
As court convened, there was not a vacant seat anywhere in the room. People were standing along the walls in back of the chairs. There was an atmosphere of tense, hushed expectancy. Only those jurors who had been too conscientious even to glance at the headlines or at photographs published in the newspapers were in any doubt as to what had occurred. Judge Barnes, taking his position on the bench and listening to the bailiff call court to order, glanced at Perry Mason with eyes which held a glint of puzzled admiration. Larry Sampson, his mouth a thin line of grim determination, sat doggedly at his desk. His case was crashing about his ears. But he still had a few cards with which he hoped to trump Mason’s aces. “I’m going to ask Mr. Hogan to take the stand,” Mason said.
Hogan took the witness stand and testified to what he had found. He produced the bullet that had been found embedded in the chair, as well as photographs. “And, in your opinion,” Mason asked, “this bullet was fired from the weapon which the prosecution introduced as an exhibit in this case and which has been referred to as the Breel gun?”
“There’s not the slightest doubt of it,” Hogan said.
“Now then,” Mason went on, “at the time this gun was found in the bag of the defendant, only one shell had been fired, is that right?”
“I can’t answer that,” Hogan said. “I know that when the weapon was turned over to me for examination, only one shell had been fired.”
“Thank you,” Mason said, “That’s all.”
“No cross-examination,” Sampson announced.
“Call Paul Drake to the stand,” Mason said. Paul Drake came forward, was sworn, and took the witness stand. He seemed somewhat ill at ease. “You’re a private detective,” Mason asked, “and, as such, have been employed by me?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have occasion to shadow a woman who was known as Lone Bedford and who purported to be the owner of certain jewelry which Austin Cullens had left with George Trent?” Mason asked.
“Objected to as incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial,” Sampson sputtered. “It doesn’t connect up with the present case in anyway.”
“I expect to connect it up,” Mason said.
“I don’t see just what you have in mind,” Judge Barnes remarked.