All the way out to Cullens’ residence, Larry Sampson maintained a thoughtful silence. Gradually, he commenced to pick up the loose threads of various ideas which had been flitting through his head and weave them into a comprehensive pattern. Hogan also was silent, the careful silence of one who is afraid to say anything lest he say too much. Perry Mason, on the other hand, was filled with conversation, but his conversation had nothing to do with the case of the People vs. Sarah Breel. Instead, he told stories, discussed politics, and in general, kept up such a constant flow of words that the others were interrupted in their attempts to center their minds on the problem which had assumed a position of such importance.
Behind the official car containing the lawyers and the man appointed by the Court to make the official inspection, there came a police car and three automobiles filled with newspaper reporters and photographers. Sampson turned uneasily in the seat to frown at the glaring headlights which poured in through the back window. “Look here,” he said, “we don’t want all of this bunch in there tramping around.”
“Why not?” Mason asked.
“They might interfere with our finding evidence. And besides, the Court said that only the three of us were to go in.”
“Oh, no,” Mason said affably, “the Court remarked that Hogan was to be the Court’s disinterested viewer. We were permitted to accompany him to see fair play. Nothing was said about the others.”
“Well, I don’t want them in there.”
“All right,” Mason said, laughing, “you take the responsibility of keeping them out — you know how the newspaper reporters will feel about that.”
“Why don’t you keep them out?” Sampson asked. “You know, I’m holding a political office. I can’t very well antagonize the press.”
“I’d just as soon have them in,” Mason said.
And so it was that as Hogan entered the room where the body of Austin Cullens had been found, newspaper reporters crowded in the hallway. Photographers snapped pictures as flash bulbs exploded, and those photographs, subsequently published in the morning papers, showed Perry Mason smiling, affable, good-natured, while the deputy district attorney’s expression showed only too plainly the worry which was gnawing away the last underpinning of his self-possession.
Hogan went about his business with calm efficiency. “The body,” he said, “as I understand it, was lying about here. Now, it’s your contention, Mason, that this bullet had been fired by Cullens from a gun which he took from his pocket. Therefore, Cullens must have been facing in approximately this direction when he was killed. The bullet might be anywhere from the level of the floor to a point, say, six feet from the floor level... I see no evidence of any such bullet.”
“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.”