“I don’t care who she’s asked for,” the officer said. “You get in here on a pass, or you stay out.”

  “Who’s in there?” Mason asked.

  “The doctor, a deputy D.A., a court reporter, Sergeant Holcomb, and a few others.”

  “Well, I’m Mrs. Breel’s lawyer.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “I want in.’

  “You said you did.”

  Mason sized the officer up. “Tell Sergeant Holcomb I’m here.”

  The officer said, “Nope. I ain’t paid for telling anybody anything. I’m here to guard the door.”

  Abruptly Mason raised his knuckles and knocked on the door. The officer frowned and jerked Mason’s arm down. “Now, who told you you could do that?” he asked.

  Mason’s voice was conciliatory. “Forget it. You’re here to keep anyone from coming in without a pass. That doesn’t mean I can’t knock …”

  A man opened the door, glowered at Mason and said, “What?”

  Mason raised his voice. “I’m Perry Mason, Mrs. Breel’s lawyer. I want to see my client.”

  Mason heard Mrs. Breel say, “Come in, Mr. Mason,” and, at the same time, the man in the doorway and the uniformed officer on guard converged on him, pushing him back into the corridor. The man who had opened the door pulled it shut behind him and said to the guard, “We told you there were to be no visitors.”

  The guard said, “The guy knocked on his own. I wouldn’t let him in.”

  “Well, don’t let him knock,” the man said, and turned back toward the door.

  The uniformed guard held Mason back in the corridor. The lawyer waited until the detective had opened the door, and then, raising his voice so that it was distinctly audible within the room, said, “Mrs. Breel won’t answer any questions unless you let me in.”

  The door swung shut. The officer glowered at Mason belligerently and said, “You’re hard to get along with.”

  Mason grinned, offered him a cigarette. “Oh, no, I’m not.”

  The officer hesitated a moment, then took the cigarette, scratched a match and jerked his head down the corridor. “On your way,” he said.

  Mason smiled. “I’m waiting right here.”

  “You just think you are.”

  “You,” Mason told him, “are guarding the room. You’re not guarding the corridor.”

  “You don’t have any business here.”

  “I’m going to have.”

  There was a moment of silence, while the officer contemplated the situation in frowning belligerence. Once more, there was the sound of angry voices raised behind the door. A few moments later, Sergeant Holcomb suddenly pushed the door open and said, “All right, Mason, come in.”

  Mason entered the room. A court reporter was seated at a small table, a shorthand notebook spread out in front of him, a fountain pen held poised over the page. Larry Sampson, a deputy district attorney, was standing by the foot of the bed with his hands jammed down in his coat pockets. Over by the window. Dr. Gilford stood professionally aloof. Beside him stood a red-headed nurse with large brown eyes, a peaches-and-cream complexion, and a mouth which was a hard, straight line of determination. Lying on the hospital bed, the back of which had been raised a few inches, so as to prop up her bandaged head, Sarah Breel surveyed them with calm, untroubled eyes. A rope attached to the broken leg ran from underneath the covers, up over a pulley, and terminated in a weight which dangled over the foot of the bed.

  Dr. Gifford said, “Gentlemen, I want to repeat, all of this argument is getting us nowhere. My patient has sustained a severe nervous shock. I am not going to permit her health to be jeopardized by any sustained questioning, or any browbeating.”

  “Oh, forget it!” Sergeant Holcomb said irritably. “No one’s trying to browbeat her.”

  “The minute I see any indication of it,” Dr. Gifford said, “the interview will be terminated.”

  Sarah Breel smiled at Perry Mason. It was rather a lop-sided smile, what with the bandages about her head and a swelling on one side of her face. “Good morning, Mr. Mason,” she said, “I want you as my lawyer.”

  Mason nodded. “I understand,” she went on, “that I’m accused of murder. I’ve refused to make any statement until my lawyer was present.”

  Sergeant Holcomb said, “You understand, Mrs. Breel, that your failure to deny the charges against you …”

  “Let me handle it, Sergeant,” Larry Sampson interrupted. “I may explain once more to Mrs. Breel, and for the benefit of Mr. Mason, that the object of this interview is not to try to trap Mrs. Breel into making any admissions. The circumstantial evidence, standing by itself, is sufficiently black against her to more than justify the charge of first-degree murder. Now then, if she’s innocent and can explain the evidence in the case, we’ll withdraw the charge. This is an opportunity we’re giving her to avoid newspaper publicity and the stigma of a public trial.”

  “Bunk!” Mason said. “That’s the old line of hooey, Mrs. Breel. Having once filed a first-degree murder charge against you, it’ll take a miracle to make them quit. All this business about giving you a chance to explain is simply an excuse to get you talking, so they can catch discrepancies in your story and trap you into an admission.”

  Sampson flushed. Sergeant Holcomb said, “You start cracking wise, and you’ll go out of here on your ear.”

  Mason said, “I have a right to see my client. It’s my duty to advise her. I’m advising her.”

  “Advising her not to answer questions?” Sampson asked.

  “Not at all,” Mason said. “I was merely correcting the inaccuracies in your statement. My client can do anything she wants to. I consider it my duty, however, to advise her that she doesn’t have to answer any questions, and if she is at all nervous or emotionally upset, she can postpone this interview until after she has talked with me.”

  “You mean until after you’ve told her what to say,” Sergeant Holcomb sneered.

  “I meant exactly what I said,” Mason told him.

  “Well,” Mrs. Breel interrupted. “There’s no use arguing about it. I’m going to make a full and complete statement. I just wanted my attorney here when I did it.”

  “That’s better,” Sampson told her. “You’re a woman of understanding. You can appreciate the damaging effect of letting this circumstantial evidence stand uncontradicted.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about when you refer to circumstantial evidence,” Mrs. Breel said.

  Sampson said, “Mrs. Breel, I’m going to be frank with you, perhaps brutally frank. I’m doing it for your own good. When you were struck by that automobile last night, there was a thirty-eight caliber revolver in your bag. The police have discharged a test bullet from that revolver. They have made micro-photographs of that bullet. They have also recovered the fatal bullet which killed Austin Cullens. They have made micro-photographs of that bullet. The two bullets, compared side by side under a powerful microscope, and as shown in the micro-photographs, are not only identical bullets, but moreover, they were both discharged from the same gun. In other words, Mrs. Breel, the gun which you had in your possession in your handbag last night fired the bullet which killed Austin Cullens.”

  Mrs. Breel regarded him sternly. “Young man,” she said, “are you sure that a gun was found in my bag?”

  “Absolutely,” Larry Sampson said. “The bag was lying on the pavement near you when …”

  “But that doesn’t indicate that it was my bag,” Mrs. Breel said. “I was unconscious at the time. You can’t hold me responsible for a bag which was found near me. I don’t know who put it there.”

  Mason grinned and flashed a wink at Dr. Gilford. Sergeant Holcomb said disgustedly to the doctor, “And this is the woman you said shouldn’t answer questions because her thoughts might not be coherent.”

  Larry Sampson hesitated a moment, then opened a leather handbag which was on the floor near the corner. “Mrs. Breel,” he said, “I am going to show you a handbag. I’m going to ask you to say whether this is your handbag.”

  Dramatically, he jerked out the handbag with the two imitation jade rings, and whirled to hold it out in front of him. Mrs. Breel surveyed the bag with an appraisal which was almost disinterested. “I think,” she said, “that I did have a bag like that once, but I can’t be certain. However, young man, I most certainly can’t say that that is my bag…. You see, I had it some time ago.”

  Sampson looked nonplused. Abruptly, he reached into the bag and pulled out the partially knitted garment. “Try and deny the ownership of this,” he said. “This is yours, isn’t it?”

  She looked at it with a perfectly blank countenance, “Is it?” she asked.

  “You know it is.”

  She shook her head and said, “No, I don’t know it is.”

  Sampson said, “Now, look here, Mrs. Breel, this isn’t a game. This is a serious matter. You’re charged with the crime of first-degree murder, which is the most serious crime known to our law. The questions which I am asking, and the answers which you are giving, are being taken down in shorthand. They can be used against you at any time. Now then, Mrs. Breel, I am not going to take an unfair advantage of you. I am going to state to you frankly in the presence of your counsel that the circumstantial evidence against you looks very black. I am going to state further, however, that the evidence is largely circumstantial; that perhaps some of that evidence can be explained away. If you co-operate with the authorities, if you make every effort to assist us in uncovering the truth in this matter, it will go a long way toward establishing your innocence. If you make a single false statement, and it can be proven that statement is false, it is going to crucify you so far as this charge is concerned. Mr. Perry Mason, your own lawyer, is present. He will tell you that I am telling you the truth. Now then, if you deny the ownership of this bag, and we can prove that it really is your bag, that statement will absolutely pillory you. Now, Mrs. Breel, I am asking you: Is that your bag?”

  “I don’t know,” she said calmly.

  “Look at it,” Sampson said, “examine it. Take it in your hands. Look it over and then tell us whether it is your bag.”

  “I tell you I don’t know.”

  “Do you mean you can’t tell whether this is your bag or whether this is not your bag?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You were carrying a bag last night, weren’t you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you mean to say that you don’t know whether you were carrying a bag in your hand when you went to call on Mr. Austin Cullens?”

  “That’s right—I don’t even know that I went to call on Mr. Austin Cullens.”

  “You don’t know that?”

  “No,” she said placidly. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been trying to cudgel my brains ever since I regained consciousness. I can remember yesterday morning, that is, I guess it was yesterday.” She turned to Perry Mason and said, “This is Tuesday, isn’t it, Mr. Mason?”

  He nodded. “Yes,” she said, “it was yesterday morning. I can remember yesterday morning. I can remember everything that happened. I can remember receiving the keys to my brother’s car. I remember going and getting the car. I can remember putting it in the garage. I can remember waiting in the shoe department of a department store. I remember, later on, being accused of shoplifting. I remember having lunch with Mr. Mason…. And I can’t remember one single thing that happened after I left that store.”

  “Oh,” Sampson said, sneering, “you’re going to pull that old stuff, that your mind’s a blank, are you?”

  Mason said, “That isn’t a question, Sampson, that’s an argument.”

  “Well, suppose it is an argument?”

  Dr. Gifford said, “I think Mr. Mason is right. Within reasonable limits, you may question my patient, but you certainly aren’t going to argue with her, or attempt to browbeat her.”

  “That old alibi has whiskers on it a foot long,” Sergeant Holcomb said sneeringly.

  Dr. Gifford said, “As a matter of fact, in case you gentlemen are interested, it quite frequently happens that following a concussion, there’s a complete lapse of memory covering a period of from hours to sometimes days prior to the shock. Occasionally, with the passing of time, that memory slowly returns.”

  “How much time, would you say, would have to elapse in this case,” Sampson asked sarcastically, “before Mrs. Breel would recover her memory?”

  “I don’t know,” Dr. Gilford said. “It depends upon a variety of factors which are outside of my consideration.”

  “I’ll say it does,” Sampson said disgustedly.

  Mason said, “Let me ask you, Dr. Gifford, is there anything particularly unusual in this lapse of memory in connection with a concussion history such as we have in the present case?”

  “Nothing whatever,” Dr. Gifford said.

  Sampson pulled the knitting from the bag. “Look here, Mrs. Breel,” he said. “Can’t you recognize your own knitting?”

  She said, “May I see it, please?”

  Sampson extended it to her. She looked it over critically and said, “Rather a nice job of knitting. Whoever did this was very expert.”

  “You knit, don’t you?” Sampson asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you consider yourself an expert knitter?”

  “I am very good,” she said.

  “Do you recognize that as your knitting?”

  “No.”

  “Would you say that it was not your knitting?”

  “No.”

  “Would you say that if you were knitting a blue garment, of that sort, you would knit it in about that manner?”

  “I think any expert knitter would.”

  “That isn’t answering my question. Would you knit in that way?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “And you won’t say that is your knitting?”

  “No. I don’t remember ever having seen it before.”

  Sampson exchanged an exasperated glance with Sergeant Holcomb, then dug down into the bag and said, “All right, Mrs. Breel, I’m going to show you something else and see if this refreshes your recollection.” He unwrapped the paper from the diamonds, “Did you ever see this jewelry before?”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t tell you,” she said.

  “You can’t tell us?”

  “No. I cannot remember ever having seen it before. But, until I completely recover my memory, I wouldn’t care to make a positive statement.”

  “Oh, no, certainly not,” Sampson said sarcastically. “You want to give us every assistance in the world, don’t you?”

  Dr. Gilford said, “May I remind you once more, Mr. Sampson, that this woman has suffered a very severe nerve shock?”

  Sampson said sarcastically, “She seems to need a mental guardian, all right. It’s too bad about her being such a babe in the woods.”

  Mason said, “As Mrs. Breel’s lawyer, I am going to ask you gentlemen to complete this examination as quickly as is humanly possible. Are there any further questions you wish to ask of Mrs. Breel?”

  “Yes,” Sergeant Holcomb said. “Mrs. Breel, you went out there to Austin Cullens’ house, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You knew where Austin Cullens lived, didn’t you?”

  “I can’t even remember that.”

  “His name’s on the address book at your brother’s office, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so, yes…. Come to think of it, I believe I’ve mailed a few letters to him at his address … out on St. Rupert Boulevard, I believe.”

  “That’s right. Now, you went out there last night, at about what time?”

  “I tell you that I don’t know that I went out there.”

  “You entered that house,” Sergeant Holcomb said, “and you entered it surreptitiously. You unscrewed one of the electric light globes and placed a copper penny inside the socket so that in case Cullens should come home and press the light switch, the copper coin would short-circuit the wires and burn out every fuse on the circuit, didn’t you?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  “You don’t remember doing that?”

  “Most certainly not. I tell you the last thing I remember was shaking hands with Mr. Mason in the department store.”

  “Then,” Holcomb said triumphantly, “if you can’t remember where you were or what you did, you can’t positively swear that you didn’t take a thirty-eight caliber revolver and shoot Mr. Austin Cullens last night about seven-thirty, can you?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “I can’t tell you what I did, and it follows that I can’t tell you what I didn’t. I may have assassinated the President. I may have wrecked a train. I may have forged a check. I might have got married. I don’t know what I did or what I didn’t do.”

  “Then you won’t deny that you killed Austin Cullens, will you?”

  “I most certainly have no recollection of having killed Austin Cullens.”

  “But you won’t deny that you did it?”

  “I can’t remember having done so.”

  “But you may have done so.”

  “That,” she said, “is another matter. I’m cerain that I can’t tell what might have happened. I only know that I never killed anyone before yesterday afternoon, and I have no reason to believe that yesterday afternoon was any different from any other afternoon in my life.”

  “You were worried about your brother, weren’t you?”

  “No more so than I have been on other occasions.”

  “You knew he’d gone out to get drunk?”

  “Yes. I surmised that.”

  “Let me ask you this,” Larry Sampson said. “Do you remember doing any shoplifting?”

  She hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where? When?”

  “Yesterday afternoon, or rather yesterday noon, just before I met Mr. Mason.”

  “And you did do what is generally known as shoplifting?”

  “Yes. You see, my brother had gone on one of his periodical toots. I was worried about him. Sunday I went to the office to check on the contents of the vault. I couldn’t find the diamonds which had been given to my brother Saturday morning by Austin Cullens. It occurred to me that my brother must have taken them with him. Cullens knows all about George’s periodical sprees. He’s absolutely the only one who does—aside from my neice and myself. I was afraid Mr. Cullens might want his stones before George sobered up. I was afraid it might make something of a scandal, so I decided to cover up for George. I thought I could pretend I’d developed a kleptomania. Looking back on it, it seems very foolish now, but at the time it seemed the only thing to do, the only way I could stall things along until I could find George and sober him up.”