Unicorn point piers an.., p.22
The Case of the Shoplifter's Shoe, page 22
“What have the empty shells got to do with it?” Sampson asked sneeringly.
“Simply this,” Lieutenant Ogilby said. “Before the science of ballistics learned that bullets fired from a gun could be identified by marks made by the rifling, the only method of determining whether a shell had been fired from a given gun was to center the firing pin on the percussion cap. Firing pins, theoretically, strike in the center of the percussion cap. Actually, they do no such thing. Furthermore, in the course of use, each firing pin develops little peculiarities of its own. There is not only the position of the indentation made by the firing pin on the percussion cap, but there are also little irregularities in that impression which are distinctive. I satisfied myself that each one of those shells had been fired from this same gun.”
“You didn’t have the gun to compare those shells with,” Sampson said.
“No, but I had a photograph of the cylinder of this gun which was furnished me by a newspaper, and which I have every reason to believe was authentic. But just a minute, Mr. Sampson, if you wish, I’ll make that check right here and now.”
He produced a discharged shell from his pocket, took the gun from Hogan, opened it and said to Hogan, “You’re an expert. You can see for yourself.”
Hogan leaned forward, and Sampson said, “I object to that form of examination. Let the witness answer the question so the jury can get it.”
Mason grinned and said, “He’s your own expert. Take him away if you don’t want him there.”
Hogan stepped back, looked at Sampson, and nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Just step up to the jury,” Mason said to Lieutenant Ogilby, “and show them the marks made by the firing pin on the discharged shell which is in the cylinder of the weapon, and the discharged shell which you hold in your hand and which you picked up where you had been engaging in target practice.”
Lieutenant Ogilby stepped over to the jury rail. The jurors crowded forward. The lieutenant pointed out the points of similarity made by the mark of the firing pin.
Sampson engaged in a brief whispered conversation with Hogan, the firearms expert of the homicide squad, and then said lamely, “That’s all. There are no further questions on cross-examination.”
His head was in a whirl. Facts shot through his mind in a confused procession. He tried to arrest them long enough to follow his ideas to their logical conclusion, but the confusion was too great. He felt as though he had been standing at the local station in a subway, watching express trains thundering past, and trying ineffectively to stop them. He was aware that people were looking at him, aware that Judge Barnes was frowning in puzzled concentration; that Mason was smiling; that the jurors were staring. He felt mental vertigo amounting almost to nausea. There was a dry taste in his mouth.
He heard Mason saying, “Now, if the Court please, having demonstrated that George Trent could not have been killed with the so-called Trent gun, he must have been killed by the Cullens gun, since it is established beyond question that there are only two guns, the Trent gun and the Cullens gun, and only two fatal bullets, the Trent bullet and the Cullens bullet. The bullet taken from Trent’s body matched the test bullet fired from one of the guns in the possession of the ballistics department. Since that couldn’t have been the bullet fired from the Trent gun, it must have been the bullet fired from the Breel gun.
“Now then, your Honor, in view of the circumstances, I now ask that the jury be permitted to go to the house of Austin Cullens for the purpose of viewing the premises.”
Sampson’s only instinct was to fight. He jumped to his feet and said, “For what purpose, your Honor? Surely, nothing can be gained by having the jurors make such an inspection.”
“What is there there you don’t want them to see?” Mason asked.
“Nothing,” Sampson said lamely.
“Then why not let them go?”
Judge Barnes took a hand. “Just a moment, Mr. Mason,” he said, “you will please refrain from arguing with counsel, and address yourself to the Court. Just what reason have you for asking that the jurors go to these premises?”
“Simply this,” Mason said; “the gun, which the witness Diggers says was found in the Breel handbag, actually came from the hip pocket of Austin Cullens. You will note, from Sergeant Holcomb’s testimony, that there was nothing whatever in the right-hand hip pocket of Austin Cullens’ trousers. The reason there was nothing there is that Cullens was in the habit of carrying a gun there. In that pocket, he carried a gun which killed George Trent. That is the gun which the witness Diggers claims was found in the handbag of the defendant in this case. Now then, your Honor, note the significant portion of the testimony given by the witnesses, Golding and Tannis. They, both of them, state there were two shots. The testimony of the autopsy surgeon is that there was only one bullet found in the body of Austin Cullens. There has been no explanation of what gun fired the other shot. Under the circumstances, the defendant feels that the jury should be given an opportunity to view the premises for themselves, and, if they desire, make some investigation to find out if there’s another bullet …”
Judge Barnes shook his head. “I don’t think that it’s a fair-interpretation of the privilege of viewing premises to make the jurors witnesses to the discovery of some fact which may have a vital bearing on the case. However, the Court will appoint a disinterested investigator to make such a search if Counsel so desires, and that investigator can be accompanied by Counsel for both sides, and report to the Court in the morning.”
“That is quite satisfactory to me,” Mason said, “and in order to show that my desire is only to establish pertinent facts, I will suggest that the Court appoint Carl Ernest Hogan, the ballistics expert of the police department, to make this investigation forthwith in the presence of Mr. Sampson from the district attorney’s office, and myself as the representative of Sarah Breel.”
Judge Barnes nodded. “It is so ordered,” he said, “and Court will adjourn until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
An uproar gripped the courtroom.
Chapter 17
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 microphotographs.”
“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 Ione 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 any way.”
“I expect to connect it up,” Mason said.
“I don’t see just what you have in mind,” Judge Barnes remarked.
Mason said, “If the Court please, this is rather an unusual case. Ordinarily, it is incumbent upon the Prosecution to prove the defendant guilty beyond all reasonable doubt. It is not incumbent upon the defendant to prove himself or herself innocent. However, in this case, since the Prosecution has really proved how the murder could not have happened, the Defense is going to show how the murder could have been perpetrated.”
“And you expect to connect this evidence up?” Judge Barnes asked dubiously.
Mason said, “I do, Your Honor.”
“I’ll permit it,” Judge Barnes said, “at least for the present. But it will be subject to a motion on the part of the Prosecution to strike out in the event it isn’t connected in a way which the Court deems pertinent and relevant.”
“That is quite satisfactory,” Mason said. “Answer the question, Mr. Drake.”
Drake said, “Yes.”
“You shadowed this woman?”
“Yes.”
“From where?”
“From police headquarters.”
“Where she had been taken and where she had failed to identify the stones in this bag as being her property?”
Sampson, on his feet, shouted, “Your Honor, I object. That question is leading and suggestive, it calls for hearsay testimony, it’s incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial, it doesn’t make any difference what …”
“The objection is sustained as to what she had done or failed to do,” Judge Barnes ruled. “The witness may state where and when he followed her.”
