“Since that question was asked you,” persisted Claude Drumm, “have you made such a test under exactly identical circumstances?”

  “I have,” said Don Graves.

  “Describe the circumstances under which that test was conducted, and the result of it,” said Claude Drumm.

  “The test was made at night,” said Don Graves slowly, and in a low tone of voice, while spectators held their breath. “There were three men in Edward Norton’s study and two women. One of the women was dressed in black, and one in pink. One of the men had on a blue serge suit, one had on a tweed suit, and one had on a plaid suit. I knew each one of the men, but had never seen the women before. There were present representatives of the press, and there were present Mr. Drumm, the Deputy District Attorney, also Perry Mason, the attorney for the defense.”

  “Then what happened?” asked Claude Drumm.

  “Then,” said Graves, still speaking in that low, strained voice, “we got in the automobile and went up the winding road which goes over the hills toward the main boulevard. When Judge Purley had the car at the place where it had been the night of the murder, when I gave the exclamation, he told me to look back. I looked back, and continued to look until the car had swung around the curve, and out of sight.”

  “What did you see?” asked Claude Drumm.

  “I saw a woman, the one who had the pink dress on, standing in about the same position that Frances Celane was standing when Mr. Norton was killed, and I saw the man who wore the blue serge suit holding a club over the chair where Mr. Norton had sat on the night of the murder.”

  “Cross-examine the witness,” said Claude Drumm triumphantly.

  Perry Mason’s voice was almost drawling.

  “You haven’t told all that happened there during the test, have you, Mr. Graves?”

  “Yes sir, all of the important points.”

  “Wasn’t there a newspaper reporter there who annoyed you and delayed you somewhat?” asked Perry Mason.

  “Yes sir. There was a chap named Nevers, I believe, who kept insisting upon certain changes in the way the test was being made. I had no authority to make any change in the conditions of the test. Those were agreed upon between Mr. Drumm and yourself, and I told this reporter so. But he kept hanging on to me, even hooking his finger in the buttonhole of my coat, and holding me.”

  “Where were we at that time?” asked Perry Mason.

  “You were down in the automobile.”

  “How did you finally get free from him?” Mason inquired.

  “I called down to Mr. Drumm, and he told me definitely that there were to be no changes in the conditions under which the test was to be conducted. When this reporter heard Mr. Drumm make that statement, he seemed to realize that he was out of order, and let me go.”

  Spectators who had been straining their necks to listen, now glanced curiously at one another.

  “That is a ll,” said Perry Mason.

  “Call your next witness, Mr. Drumm,” said Judge Markham.

  “Just a moment, Your Honor,” interrupted Perry Mason. “Before the prosecution goes on, I would like to recall Arthur Crinston for further cross-examination.”

  “Very well,” said Judge Markham. “The proceeding has been slightly irregular, but, under the circumstances, the matter being entirely in the discretion and control of the court, I will permit you to cross-examine any of the other witnesses that you may care to call. The court is not unmindful of the fact that various new conditions have entered into the case since your very brief cross-examination of the other witnesses.”

  Judge Markham could not resist a slight emphasis upon the words describing the brevity of the cross-examination; an emphasis which was in the nature of a very faint judicial rebuke to counsel who would so lightly dispose of the cross-examination of important witnesses in a murder case.

  Arthur Crinston came forward, his face grave, his eyes solemn.

  “You have already been sworn,” said Perry Mason. “Just take your position in the witness chair, if you please, Mr. Crinston.”

  Mr. Crinston sat down, crossed his legs and turned to look at the jury.

  “Mr. Crinston,” said Perry Mason, “you were in conference with Mr. Norton on the night of the murder?”

  “Yes, sir, I have already testified to that effect.”

  “Yes. You arrived there, I believe, at seven minutes past eleven, and left at about eleven thirty?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Crinston, and went on to volunteer a statement: “I can fix the time of my arrival with certainty because Mr. Norton was a stickler for keeping appointments on time. I was seven minutes late for my appointment, and he pointed that matter out to me rather sarcastically.”

  “Yes,” said Perry Mason. “And from seven minutes past eleven until eleven thirty you were in conference with Mr. Norton?”

  “That is correct, yes sir.”

  “As a matter of fact, Mr. Crinston, wasn’t that conference in the nature of a quarrel?”

  “No sir, I don’t think I can add anything to the statement that I made before, as to what was said at that time.”

  “Mr. Crinston, the partnership has an indebtedness at the Wheeler’s Trust & Savings Bank of some nine hundred thousand dollars?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “With deposits in that bank of only seventy-five thousand dollars.”

  “Yes sir, approximately that amount.”

  “Yet it has deposits of eight hundred and seventy-six odd thousand dollars at the Seaboard Second National Trust Company, and deposits of approximately two hundred and ninety-three thousand dollars at the Farmers & Merchants National Bank?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Now, Mr. Crinston, isn’t it a fact that the indebtedness of nine hundred thousand dollars which was incurred at the Wheeler’s Trust & Savings Bank on a promissory note which bears only your signature, was money that was borrowed without the knowledge of Mr. Norton, and was money that was not used for partnership purposes, but was used solely for your own individual speculations in the stock market?”

  “No sir!” snapped Arthur Crinston. “That is not the case.”

  “Why was it necessary for the partnership to borrow nine hundred thousand dollars from one bank, when it had over a million in liquid assets in other banks?”

  “That was because of certain business policies. We had some large purchases we were intending to make, and we desired to keep cash assets to that amount on deposit in those banks. We didn’t wish to borrow from that particular bank or those particular banks, because we wanted to keep our cash there readily available. If we had made a large note at those banks and checked out all of our cash, there would have been some explanation required. Therefore, inasmuch as the Wheeler’s Trust & Savings Bank had been very anxious to get our account, and had intimated that we could have an unlimited amount of short term credit, we executed the notes there.”

  “It is a fact, Mr. Crinston, is it not, that those notes at the Wheeler’s Trust & Savings Bank came due some two days prior to Mr. Norton’s death?”

  “I believe so, yes sir.”

  “And the bank sent out notices through the mail, did it not?”

  “I believe so, yes sir.”

  “And isn’t it a fact that Mr. Norton received one of those notices on the day that he was killed?”

  “I’m sure I can’t tell you, sir.”

  “Isn’t it a fact that on that day Mr. Norton knew for the first time of the indebtedness at this bank?”

  “No sir.”

  “Isn’t it a fact that Mr. Norton called you into conference that evening in order to tell you that he had given you a certain limited time to make restitution to the partnership, and, you having failed to make such restitution, Mr. Norton was going to notify the police?”

  The spectators could see that Mr. Crinston was visibly worried. His face had turned a few shades whiter, and his knuckles showed white as his hand clenched tightly, but his voice remained even and steady.

  “Absolutely not,” he snapped.

  “And,” persisted Perry Mason in the same even, imperturbable tone, “isn’t it a fact that when you advised Mr. Norton that you had been unable to make restitution, and could not do so, he took down the telephone receiver, called police headquarters and said: ‘This is Edward Norton speaking. I have a criminal matter to report to you,’ or words to that effect?”

  “No sir,” snapped Arthur Crinston, and his voice now, for the first time, showed the strain under which he was laboring.

  “And,” said Perry Mason, slowly rising to his feet, “isn’t it a fact that when he had made that statement, you crashed a club down on his head and caved in his skull?”

  “I object!” shouted Claude Drumm, getting to his feet. “This examination has gone too far afield. There is absolutely no ground for . . . ”

  “The objection is overruled,” snapped Judge Markham. “Answer the question, Mr. Crinston.”

  “No, I did nothing of the kind!” shouted Arthur Crinston.

  Perry Mason stood on his feet, staring at Arthur Crinston until the courtroom had grasped the full significance of the question, and all that it implied, until the spectators, leaning breathlessly forward, had made of the courtroom a vault of silence.

  “And,” said Perry Mason, “isn’t it a fact that you then placed the receiver back on the hook, stared tremblingly about you, and suddenly realized that Edward Norton had given his name to police headquarters when he made his call and stated that he had a criminal matter to report—didn’t you know then that when the body of Edward Norton was discovered, the police would check back and find a record of that call, knowing then the exact time that Mr. Norton had been killed, and being able to surmise something of the motive for his murder?”

  “No sir,” gulped Arthur Crinston, but his forehead was glistening in the light which came from the high windows of the courtroom, as the beads of perspiration oozed through his skin.

  “And isn’t it a fact that with the consciousness of guilt upon you, you knew that it was necessary to explain that call to the police in some way; that you saw the insurance policy lying on his desk; that you knew this insurance policy lay there because Mr. Norton, who was very methodical, had intended to make certain that the insurance had been renewed before the expiration date. Isn’t it a fact that this insurance policy gave you an inspiration, and that you immediately called back the Police Headquarters and stated to the desk sergeant that you were Mr. Norton, who had just called; that you had been cut off, and that you desired to report the theft of an automobile, and that you then and there read the description of the Buick automobile from the insurance policy which lay upon Mr. Norton’s desk?”

  “No sir,” said Arthur Crinston in a tone of mechanical defiance.

  “And isn’t it a fact that then the door opened, and Don Graves came into the room; that Don Graves had been your accomplice and assistant in connection with the embezzlement of the nine hundred thousand odd dollars which you had lost in speculations upon the stock market, using partnership funds to cover your individual losses? And isn’t it a fact that you and Don Graves then and there fixed up a plan by which the murder of Mr. Norton would be blamed upon others?”

  “No sir,” came the same mechanical denial.

  “Isn’t it a fact that you knew that Judge Purley did not know Edward Norton personally, and therefore would not recognize his voice from the voice of any other man? Isn’t it a fact that you and your accomplice, Don Graves, sneaked down to the room of Pete Devoe, the chauffeur, and planted evidence in that room which would have a tendency to connect Devoe with the murder? Isn’t it a fact that you jimmied a window and left footprints in the loam on the soil outside of the window so that it would appear that Mr. Devoe had made a clumsy attempt to divert suspicion from himself?

  “Isn’t it a fact that you then went back to the study where the dead man was slumped across his desk, and that you arranged with Mr. Graves so that you were to go down the stairs and start for Judge Purley’s automobile; that Mr. Graves was to raise the window in Mr. Norton’s study, keeping the desk light well to his back, so that Judge Purley would see nothing but the blurred outline of a human form, and that Mr. Graves, pretending to be Edward Norton, would call down and ask you to take Don Graves in the automobile to your home, and that you then and there arranged that you would go to ask Judge Purley for his permission, and that Don Graves would then move away from the window, rush downstairs, and be standing by your side, while you pretended to call up to Mr. Norton, whom you pretended that you could see in the window, saying that it was all right, and Judge Purley had given his permission?”

  “No sir,” said Arthur Crinston.

  “That,” said Perry Mason, in tones that rang through the courtroom until they seemed to make the rafters in the ceiling vibrate, “is all the cross-examination I have of this witness.”

  Judge Markham glanced at Claude Drumm.

  “Is there any redirect examination, counsellor?” he asked.

  Claude Drumm made a sweeping gesture. “None, Your Honor. A very pretty theory has been advanced, but there has been no evidence to support it. The witness has denied . . .”

  Judge Markham banged his gavel on the desk.

  “Counsellor,” he said, “you will make your argument to the jury at the proper time. The question of the court was whether there was any additional redirect examination. Your answer was in the negative, and the witness will stand aside.”

  “Recall Judge Purley for further cross-examination,” said Perry Mason.

  Judge Purley came to the witness stand. Gone was the judicial assurance which had clothed his manner earlier in the trial. His face was drawn and strained, and there was a haunting doubt in his eyes.

  “You also have been sworn in this case, so there is no necessity for you to be sworn again,” said Perry Mason. “Take your place on the witness stand.”

  Judge Purley heaved his big bulk into the witness chair.

  “When this test was being made over the week end,” said Perry Mason, in the tone of voice of one who is pronouncing a final and solemn judgment, “you sat in your automobile under the window of Edward Norton’s study, in exactly the same place and position as that you occupied on the night of the murder, did you not?”

  “I did, sir, yes, sir.”

  “And from that position, by craning your neck, you could see the study windows in Edward Norton’s house?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But because the top of the automobile was so low as to interfere with your vision, you could only see those windows by craning your neck, is that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And isn’t it a fact, Judge Purley, that while you were seated there in that automobile, in exactly the same position that it occupied on the night of the murder, Don Graves came to the window of the study and called down to you, or to Claude Drumm, who was with you in the car?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Judge Purley, taking a deep breath.

  “And isn’t it a fact,” thundered Perry Mason, extending his rigid forefinger, so that it pointed directly at Judge Purley, “that now the matter has been called to your attention, and your recollection has had an opportunity to check over the circumstances of what happened upon that fateful night of the murder, that you now realize that the voice which called down to you from that second story window on the night of the test, was the same voice which had called down from that window on the night of the murder?”

  Tense, dramatic silence gripped the courtroom.

  Judge Purley’s hands tugged at the arm of the witness chair, and his face writhed in agony.

  “My God!” he said. “I don’t know! I have been asking myself that question for the last ten minutes, and I cannot answer it satisfactorily to my conscience. All I know is that it may have been!”

  Perry Mason turned half around and faced the jury. His steady, unwavering eyes surveyed the faces of the nine men and the three women.

  “That,” he said, in a tone of finality, “is all.”

  For a long moment the courtroom remained silent, then there were rustlings, whispering, half-gasps. Somewhere in the background a woman tittered hysterically.

  Judge Markham banged his gavel down on the desk.

  “Order!” he said.

  Claude Drumm bit his lip in an agony of indecision. Dare he go into the matter on redirect examination, or dare he wait until he could talk privately with the Municipal Judge?

  And, in that moment of indecision, in that moment when the attention of every human being in the courtroom was fastened upon him, Claude Drumm hesitated for one second too long.

  The attention of the crowd shifted.

  Perry Mason, leaning back in his chair, his eyes placidly surveying the sea of faces, saw it shift. Judge Markham, sitting on the bench, wise in the ways of the courtroom, veteran of a hundred murder trials, saw it shift.

  As with one motion, as though actuated by some subtle, psychic command, the eyes of the jurors, the eyes of the spectators, turned away from Claude Drumm, and fastened themselves upon the agonized face of Arthur Crinston.

  It was the silent verdict of the courtroom, and that verdict exonerated the two defendants, and fixed the guilt of Edward Norton’s murder squarely upon Arthur Crinston and his accomplice.

  Chapter 26

  Perry Mason sat in his office. The light from the window streaming in upon his rugged, virile features made him seem somehow older, brought out the strong lines of his face.

  Frances Celane sat in the big black leather chair, her forefinger poking and twisting as she slid it along the smooth arm of the chair. Her eyes were dark and filled with emotion.

  Robert Gleason stood leaning against the book case, his heavy, dark face twisted into that agony of silence which comes to those inarticulate men who have much to say, yet cannot find a means of expression.

  Through the open windows, from the street below, came the cries of the newsboys, shouting their extra edition of the STAR.

  Perry Mason tapped the newspaper on his desk; a paper which was still damp from the presses.

  “That,” he said, “is clever journalism. Nevers had that paper on the street before you had gone from the courthouse to my office. He had the thing all figured out and blocked out. All he needed to do was to add a brief summary of the testimony of Judge Purley, and the headlines.”