Judge Barnes said, “The Court, of its own motion, will strike out the remarks of the witness as to what Mrs. Breel must have done, as being a conclusion of the witness and not responsive to the question.”

  “Can you remember what was in the pockets of the corpse?” Mason asked.

  “I can by refreshing my recollection from notes I made at the time.”

  “Do so,” Mason said. Sergeant Holcomb produced a memorandum book. “What was in the upper left-hand vest pocket of the corpse?” Mason asked.

  “A fountain pen and a pocket comb.”

  “What was in the left-hand hip pocket?”

  “A handkerchief and a pen knife.”

  “What was in the right-hand hip pocket?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “That’s right. You heard what I said—nothing.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  Sergeant Holcomb said, “I don’t know how you can have a nothing, unless it’s a nothing at all. When I say nothing, Mr. Mason, I mean nothing.”

  Mason said, “Let’s see, Sergeant, you were present at a post-mortem examination made by Dr. Frankel on the body of Austin Cullens, and immediately following that you were present at the post-mortem made on the body of George Trent. Is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You didn’t leave the room where the post-mortem was conducted, from the time Dr. Frankel started to work on the body of Austin Cullens until he finished with the body of George Trent?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You received one bullet from Dr. Frankel which had been taken from the body of Austin Cullens?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, just to keep the records straight, Sergeant, let’s refer to the bullet which was taken from the body of Austin Cullens as the Cullens bullet, and the thirty-eight caliber revolver, which the witness Diggers says he found in the handbag of Sarah Breel, the defendant in this case, as the Breel gun. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, what did you do with the Cullens bullet?”

  “I put it in my left-hand vest pocket.”

  “Now, a few minutes later you received from Dr. Frankel a bullet which had been taken from the body of George Trent, did you not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, for the purpose of keeping the records straight, let’s refer to that as the Trent bullet. And, since it is claimed that that bullet was fired from a revolver found in the drawer of a desk in Trent’s office, we’ll refer to that gun as the Trent gun. Do you understand, Sergeant?”

  “Certainly.”

  “All right. Now what did you do with the Trent bullet?”

  “I put that in my right-hand vest pocket.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “Then I went at once to the ballistics department, where I had Mr. Hogan fire test shells from the gun.”

  “How did it happen,” Mason asked affably, “that you got those bullets confused?”

  “That I got what?” Sergeant Holcomb roared, half rising from the witness chair. “I didn’t confuse any bullets.”

  “I thought you did,” Mason said. “Didn’t you hand Hogan the Trent bullet to check with the Breel revolver?”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “I thought Hogan said you did.”

  “Well, he didn’t,” Sergeant Holcomb said, sliding over to the extreme edge of the witness chair, in order to emphasize his remarks, “and,” he went on, his face flushed to a brick red, “any insinuation to that effect is a deliberate falsehood. Your …”

  Sampson jumped to his feet to interrupt hastily, “That’s enough, Sergeant, I understand how you feel, but please remember your function here is only that of a witness. Any resentment you may feel for what you consider tactics of obstruction or confusion used by counsel, is to be kept out of the case. You will please be respectful in your answers to Mr. Mason’s questions.”

  Judge Barnes said, impressively, “The witness is a police officer. He is undoubtedly familiar with courtroom procedure. He will answer questions, and refrain from any comments or recriminations.”

  Sergeant Holcomb’s hands were clenched into fists, his eyes glittered dangerously, and his complexion was that of a man who has been holding his breath for several seconds.

  “Proceed, Mr. Mason,” Judge Barnes said.

  Mason inquired casually, “You handed Mr. Hogan the Trent bullet, and asked him to compare that bullet with the test bullet fired from the Breel revolver, didn’t you, Sergeant?”

  “I did nothing of the sort,” Sergeant Holcomb said.

  “Just what did you do, Sergeant?”

  “I took the Trent bullet from my pocket and handed that to Hogan, and told him to compare it. I didn’t say with which gun. Hogan compared it with the test bullet from the Breel gun first. Naturally, the bullets didn’t match. He told me so, and I said, ‘Of course, they don’t. That isn’t the Cullens bullet, that’s the Trent bullet.’ So then he compared the Trent bullet with the test bullet from the Trent gun, and they matched. Then I handed Hogan the Cullens bullet, and he compared that with the test bullet from the Breel gun, and they matched. Now, those are the facts of the case, and you can’t mix me up on ’em, Perry Mason!”

  Judge Barnes said sternly, “That will do, Sergeant Holcomb.”

  Mason said, “Isn’t it a fact, Sergeant, that you confused those bullets? Didn’t you first hand Mr. Hogan the Trent bullet under the impression that it was the Cullens bullet?”

  “No, sir,” Holcomb said, “I told you once, and I’m telling you again, and I’ll tell you a thousand times, that I put the Cullens bullet in my left vest pocket, and the Trent bullet in my right vest pocket.”

  “But when you handed those bullets to the ballistics expert, you first took the bullet from your right waistcoat pocket, did you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s natural for a person to do that when he’s right-handed,” Sergeant Holcomb said.

  Mason smiled. “And, by the same token, Sergeant, and following the same line of reasoning, it’s natural for a right-handed person to put an object given him first in his right-hand pocket, and an object given him after that in his left-hand pocket, isn’t it?”

  Sergeant Holcomb’s face flared into color again. For a moment he was silent. Then he said, “I’m not talking about what’s natural when I tell you where I put those bullets. I know where I put them. I put the Cullens bullet in my left pocket, and the Trent bullet in my right pocket.”

  “Notwithstanding the fact that you received the Cullens bullet first,” Mason said, “and that your natural tendency would be to put that bullet in your right-hand vest pocket, you put that bullet in your left vest pocket?”

  “Notwithstanding anything, and notwithstanding your attempt to confuse the jury about what I’m …”

  Judge Barnes pounded on the desk, “Sergeant Holcomb,” he said, “just one more violation of the Court’s admonition, and you will find yourself fined for contempt. You will answer questions and confine your comments to statements necessary to answer questions. Now, answer Mr. Mason’s question.”

  Sergeant Holcomb said sullenly, “I put the Cullens bullet in my left pocket, and the Trent bullet in my right. I didn’t mix them up.”

  “There’s no chance you could have been mistaken?”

  “None whatever.”

  “Not one chance in a million?”

  “Not one chance in ten hundred thousand million,” Sergeant Holcomb said.

  Mason waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “That,” he said, “is all.”

  Sampson took occasion to smile at the jury. “Call Eva Tannis,” he said.

  Eva Tannis took the stand, and answered Sampson’s questions in a low well-modulated voice. She gave the impression of being a tigress, with her claws momentarily sheathed as she corroborated the testimony of Bill Golding in every detail.

  “Cross-examine,” Sampson said, and braced himself to frame indignant objections should Mason seek to insinuate the witness had, at one time or another, posed as Mrs. Golding. But Mason said quietly, “No questions. No cross-examination at all, Miss Tannis, thank you.”

  The Court thereupon took a brief recess, and Mason, surrounded by newspaper reporters, disclaimed any attempt on his part to confuse Sergeant Holcomb. “I just wanted to establish the facts,” he said, “that’s all.”

  At the end of the brief recess, Sampson announced tersely that the prosecution would rest its case.

  Mason said, “I desire to make a very brief opening statement to the jury.” He arose and walked across the courtroom to stand in front of the mahogany rail which separated the jury box from the courtroom. In a quiet, courteous, almost conversational tone of voice, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am going to ask you to remember that it is not necessary for the defendant to prove herself innocent. She has had neither the time, nor the facilities, to make an investigation which would enable her to establish who actually did murder Austin Cullens. It is encumbent upon the Prosecution to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that she murdered Austin Cullens. In the event the Prosecution fails to do this, the defendant is entitled to an acquittal.

  “Now then, ladies and gentlemen, the entire case of the Prosecution hinges upon the fact that the gun Diggers says he found in Sarah Breel’s handbag, and which we have referred to as the Breel gun, is the one which fired the bullet that killed Austin Cullens. We expect to prove to you that it is a physical impossibility that this gun could have killed Cullens. We expect to prove to you that it is a mathematical certainty that this gun did kill George Trent. And, in the same manner, ladies and gentlemen, we expect to prove to you that the Trent gun killed Austin Cullens.”

  Mason turned from the startled faces of the jurors to glance at Larry Sampson. “Will you, Mr. Sampson,” he asked, “stipulate that George Trent was murdered on the Saturday afternoon in question some time between the hours of two o’clock in the evening; that the best evidence available by your autopsy surgeon is that he met his death at approximately the hour of five o’clock?”

  Sampson hesitated, and was aware that the eyes of the jurors were on him. He knew that he shouldn’t hesitate. His manner should be that of striving to be fair, of asking only for justice. And yet, he sensed a trap. There was a peculiar sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. After all, Sergeant Holcomb might.

  “Because,” Mason went on smoothly, “in the event you do not so stipulate, I will call your own witnesses, one by one, as my witnesses and prove absolutely that George Trent was shot by a thirty-eight caliber revolver at approximately the hour of five o’clock in the afternoon.

  Once more Sampson hesitated. There seemed to be a ringing in his ears, as a confused medley of thoughts crowded his mind, demanding his attention. Suppose Mason should be right … But he couldn’t be right … But could he confuse the issues … Did he dare to stipulate … Suppose he didn’t stipulate … My God, this hesitation was the worst possible trial strategy! It looked as though he had something to conceal. Well, for God’s sake, make up your mind…. But did he dare stipulate … “I am waiting for my answer,” Mason said.

  Larry Sampson took a deep breath. “I will so stipulate,” he said. “But you understand, Mr. Mason, I am not stipulating anything whatever about these bullets or these guns. The Prosecution stands absolutely on the testimony of Sergeant Holcomb.”

  “I so understand,” Mason said courteously. “My first witness will be Lieutenant Ogilby.”

  Lieutenant Ogilby advanced to the stand with military bearing. He testified that he was a Lieutenant in the United States Army; that, as such, he was interested in revolver shooting; that he was friendly with Virginia Trent, a niece of George Trent; that they occasionally took walks in the country; that he had taught her revolver shooting; that his service revolver was too heavy for her, but that her uncle possessed a light thirty-eight caliber revolver, shooting a shell known generally as a thirty-eight short, which suited Miss Trent’s hand. That, under his guidance, she had become an expert shot. That on the Saturday afternoon when George Trent had been murdered, he had called for Virginia Trent in his automobile. That she had taken the gun from the upper right-hand drawer of the desk in George Trent’s office. That at the time, Trent had been out to lunch. That the witness saw Trent eating lunch at a lunch counter near the building where he had his office. That the witness and Virginia Trent had gone out into the hills and had fired some fifty shots at targets. That he had returned the witness to her home at approximately six o’clock in the evening.

  Mason turned to Sampson and said courteously, “Now if the Prosecutor’s office will kindly produce the gun which was found in the drawer of George Trent’s desk, and the gun with which it is claimed George Trent was killed, I will ask the witness to identify that gun.”

  Sampson said, “It will take a few minutes.”

  “Very well,” Mason said, “the Court will perhaps take a brief recess.”

  The Court took its recess. Newspaper reporters crowded around Mason, asking questions. Spectators, feeling that courtroom history was being made, refused to leave their seats. The jurors glanced at Mrs. Breel as they filed out. Their glances no longer contained hostility. There was curiosity, interest, and, here and there, a glance of sympathy. Perry Mason continued to sit at his counsel table. There was about him nothing of the swagger of one who is putting across a tricky play. He had, instead, only the attitude of a disinterested expert who is trying to assist intelligent jurors in discharging their duties.

  Mrs. Breel indicated by a beckoning forefinger that she wished to talk with Perry Mason. He moved his chair over to her side. “Do you,” she asked, “know what you’re doing?”

  “I think so,” Mason said. “I’d hoped, of course, I could keep them from definitely establishing that it was your handbag. Now, I’m having to fall back on my second line of defense.”

  “Well,” she said, weighing the issues as judicially as though her own fate had not been involved, “it seems to me that you’re getting out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

  “Well,” Mason observed, smiling, “that at least will be a change of scenery.”

  She thought for a moment, then said, “Do you know, Mr. Mason, I believe that if I concentrated real hard, I could get some glimmerings of memory about what took place …”

  “Don’t concentrate, then,” Mason said.

  “Why? Don’t you want me to remember?”

  “I don’t think it will be necessary.”

  “Do you think it would hurt anything?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Mason told her. “So far, I’m proceeding simply according to logic. But when we check up on events, it’s sometimes startling to find how illogical events actually are.”

  “Well,” she told him, “you know your own business best, but I don’t think there’s a single person on that jury who believes that the man from the homicide squad got those bullets mixed up. He’s too positive, and he’s had too much experience.”

  “Yes,” Mason said simply.

  “Now, what do you mean by that?” she asked.

  Mason grinned. “That he’s too positive,” he said, “and that he’s had too much experience.”

  Sarah Breel laughed. “Promise me,” she said, “that you’ll be careful.”

  Mason patted her hand. “Leave the worrying to me,” he told her. “I believe that was the bargain, wasn’t it?”

  “No,” she said with a smile, “Virginia took over the worrying concession.”

  “That’s right,” Mason admitted, “perhaps she’s worrying now. Who knows?”

  Sarah Breel flashed him a swift glance of pointed interrogation. But Mason, apparently intending his last remark merely as a pleasantry, moved back to the counsel table and started arranging his papers.

  Court reconvened at the end of five minutes, and Carl Ernest Hogan, the ballistics expert, stepped forward and said, “Let the record show that, purely for the purpose of evidence in this case, I submit for inspection a certain revolver numbered R, nine-three-six-two. And the record can also show that I’m not going to let that gun out of my possession.”

  “That’s quite fair,” Mason said. “I understand that this weapon is being held as evidence in connection with the homicide of George Trent.”

  “That’s right,” Carl Ernest Hogan said.

  “Lieutenant Ogilby, I am going to ask you if you have ever seen this gun before?”

  “I have.”

  “Is that the gun which Virginia Trent had with her on the Saturday afternoon in question?”

  Lieutenant Ogilby snapped open the cylinder, spun it swiftly and said, “It is.”

  “Is that the gun which was fired by her at that time?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mason said to Sampson, “You may cross-examine.”

  Sampson jumped to his feet, as though fairly tearing into the witness. “You say that is the same gun,” he thundered, “and yet you have given it only a casual inspection. You haven’t even looked at the number on the gun.”

  “No, sir,” Lieutenant Ogilby said. “I didn’t make my identification from the number on the gun.”

  “The company which manufactures this revolver makes thousands of absolutely identical revolvers, made by machinery, and alike in every respect, save only that, for the purposes of identification, each one of those revolvers is given a number by the manufacturer. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then how can you presume to recognize this gun and differentiate it from the thousands of other identical guns which have been made, unless you look at the only positive mark of identification, to wit, the number stamped on the gun by the manufacturer?”

  Lieutenant Ogilby smiled. “You’ll pardon me, Mr. Sampson,” he said, “but I happen to know firearms. It’s a hobby of mine. While you are correct in your statement that these firearms are absolutely identical when they’re manufactured, just as automobiles are identical when they leave the factory, before guns have been in use very long, they take on certain individualities. For instance, on this gun, the front sight was a little high. Miss Trent shot low with it. I tried to get her to take a coarse sight, but she couldn’t understand doing that, so I filed the sight down myself. The file marks are quite visible on this sight. Moreover, in order to absolutely check so there could be no question of doubt, I went out to the place where we had done our target shooting, at the request of Mr. Mason, and picked up the empty shells which had been ejected from the gun when I reloaded it.”