Dr. Ritchie’s smirk was lost in indignation. “Certainly not! That is an unwarranted question.”
It was Mason’s turn to smile. “Your making up of a list of chances, Doctor, indicated a knowledge not usually possessed by the physician. May I ask if your ‘book’ on the time of death based on the number of chances out of fifty is merely a casual estimate, or founded on mathematical calculations.”
Dr. Ritchie hesitated while he mentally canvassed the possibilities of standing up to a cross-examination on the laws of probability. “An offhand estimate,” he admitted sheepishly.
“And an estimate entirely outside the medical field?”
“Only in a manner of speaking.”
“You have never had any experience in making book or determining the mathematical laws of chance?”
“Well... no.”
“So you made an offhand estimate which is probably erroneous?”
“Well, it was a guess.”
“So you were willing to make a guess, and swear to it as a fact?”
“Well, it was an estimate.”
Mason bowed. “Thank you very much, Doctor. That is all.”
Judge Canfield, somewhat by way of explanation, said to the jury, “Mr. Perry Mason is representing the defendant, Milicent Hardisty. Dr. Jefferson Macon is acting as his own counsel. I will, therefore, ask Dr. Macon if he has any questions on cross-examination.”
“Yes,” Dr. Macon said. “How did you determine the presence of scopolamine?”
“I relied principally upon the bromine test of Wormley, although I used both Gerrard’s test and Wasicky’s test.”
“And it is your contention,” Dr. Mason asked indignantly, “that I administered scopolamine to this person in order to make him talk and answer questions before he was murdered?”
Dr. Ritchie turned slightly toward the jury to deliver his answer. “That, Doctor,” he said, “is your own suggestion. I am drawing no inferences. I am merely testifying to the facts that I found.”
Dr. Macon muttered, “That’s all.”
“My next witness,” McNair announced, “will necessarily be a hostile witness. I dislike to call him, but there is no alternative. I will call Vincent P. Blane, the father of the defendant, Milicent Hardisty.”
Blane took the stand. His face showed plainly the effects of worry, but he was still very much master of himself, poised, courteous, dignified.
“Mr. Blane,” McNair said, “because of your relationship to one of the defendants, it’s going to be necessary for me to ask you leading questions.”
Blane inclined his head in a courteous gesture of understanding.
“You knew that your son-in-law, Jack Hardisty, had embezzled money from the Roxbury Bank?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There had been two embezzlements, I believe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“One of ten thousand dollars?”
“That is the approximate amount.”
“And when you refused to hush that up, Hardisty embezzled some ninety thousand dollars in cash, and advised you that if he was going to be short, he would make his embezzlement worth while; that if you kept him from going to jail and made good the ten thousand dollars he would return the ninety thousand dollars?”
“Not in exactly those words.”
“But that was the gist of it?”
“The facts of the matter are, that before the bonding company would issue a bond on Mr. Hardisty, it required certain guarantees. The upshot of the matter was that I virtually agreed with the bonding company that if it would issue the bond, I would indemnify them against any loss.”
“And did you ever recover the ninety thousand dollars?”
“No, sir.”
“Or any part of it?”
“No, sir.”
“That is all.”
There was no cross-examination.
“I will now call another hostile witness,” McNair said. “Adele Blane.”
Adele Blane, plainly nervous, took the witness stand, was duly sworn, gave her name and address, and looked somewhat apprehensively at the vigorous young trial deputy who seemed to have that peculiar quality of focusing the attention of the entire courtroom upon himself.
“You are familiar with the location of the mountain cabin owned by your father, and in which the body of Jack Hardisty was found on October second, Miss Blane?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you were at the cabin on the afternoon of October first?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you see Jack Hardisty there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What time?”
“I can’t tell you the exact time. It was sometime after four o’clock, and, I think, before four-forty-five, perhaps around four-twenty.”
“And that is the best you can do so far as fixing the time is concerned?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you saw Jack Hardisty drive up?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He stopped his car?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you see him take anything from his car?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What?”
“A spade.”
“Could you identify that spade if you saw it again?”
“No, sir.”
“Were you alone at the time?”
“No, sir. A Mr. Raymand was with me.”
“Mr. Harley Raymand?”
“That’s right.”
“And what did you do immediately after seeing Jack Hardisty at the cabin? Just describe your moves, please.”
“Well, I drove back to Kenvale with Mr. Raymand. I took him to the Kenvale Hotel. I—”
“Just a minute,” McNair interrupted. “Aren’t you forgetting something? Didn’t you see the defendant, Mrs. Hardisty, prior to that time?”
“Yes, that’s right. I met her in an automobile.”
“And where was she going?”
“I don’t know.”
“She was, however, driving on the road which led to the mountain cabin?”
“Well, yes.”
“And you had some conversation with her?”
“Yes.”
“You and Mr. Raymand?”
“Yes.”
“And she asked if her husband was up at the cabin?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“And you told her that her husband was up there?”
“Yes.”
“And she promptly started her car and drove away in the direction of the cabin?”
“Well — well, yes.”
“You know she went to the cabin, don’t you, Miss Blane?”
“No, sir. I don’t think she did go to the cabin.”
“You left Mr. Raymand at the hotel, and turned around and speeded up the road to the cabin, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Now, please tell us, Miss Blane, just what you found when you arrived at the cabin — or rather, just before you came to the road which turns off to the cabin.”
“I found my sister.”
“The defendant in this case?”
“Yes.”
“What was she doing?”
“She was standing near an embankment.”
“Did you notice any evidences of emotional upset — any external evidences?”
“She was crying. She was partially hysterical.”
“Did she make any statement to you about a gun?”
Adele Blane looked around her, as though she were actually in a physical trap, instead of merely being on the witness stand under oath to tell the truth, and faced with the probing, searching questions of a vigorous prosecutor.
“Did she say anything about a gun?” McNair repeated.
“She said she had thrown her gun away.”
“What were her exact words? Did she say she had thrown it down the canyon, on the brink of which she was standing?”
“No. She said she had thrown it — I can’t remember.”
“Did she say why?”
Adele looked appealingly at Perry Mason, but Mason sat silent. It was not the silence of defeat, but rather the silence of dignity. His eyes were steady. His face might have been carved from stone. His manner was confident. But, where the ordinary lawyer would have been throwing objections into the record, would have been storming and ranting, fighting for time, seeking to keep out damaging evidence, Mason was merely silent.