Mason shifted his position.
Judge Canfield leaned abruptly forward, resting his elbows on his desk, looking down at the witness. “Doctor, I want to eliminate the possibility of a misunderstanding. Do I understand from your testimony that the red blood corpuscles of the blood on this bullet were one thirty-five hundredth of an inch in diameter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that those of a human being are one thirty-two hundredth of an inch in diameter?”
“That is right.”
“Then do I understand, Doctor, that the blood on this bullet was not human blood?”
“That is correct, Your Honor.”
Judge Canfield looked at the district attorney with an expression of exasperation on his face, settled back in his cushioned chair and said to Mason, “Proceed with the cross-examination, Counselor.”
“Then, since the blood on this bullet was not human blood,” Mason said, “did you determine what blood it was?”
“Yes, sir. It was the blood of a dog. The erythrocyte of a dog measures one thirty-five hundredth of an inch, and, of all the domestic animals, its size is the nearest to that of the human. I satisfied myself by the precipitin test that the blood on this bullet was that of a dog.”
“Then,” Mason went on, feeling his way cautiously, “you would state, would you not, Doctor, that under no possible circumstances could this bullet have been the fatal bullet which brought about the death of Jack Hardisty?”
“Yes. This bullet has had no contact with human flesh. This bullet has been fired into a dog.”
Mason said abruptly, “That is all.”
McNair smiled and bowed at Mason. “Thank you, Counselor, for clarifying my case for me.”
Judge Canfield, plainly irritated, started to make some comment, then checked himself. After all, Perry Mason could very well take care of himself.
“That’s all for the present, Doctor,” McNair said. “I’ll call my next witness, Fred Hermann.”
Fred Hermann came forward and took the witness stand. He, too, it seemed, was on the police force at Roxbury. He was of the stolid, phlegmatic type. Appearing as a witness in this case was, to him, merely another chore which interfered with his daily routine. He acted as indifferent and bored as though he had been called to court to testify in connection with some routine misdemeanor arrest he had made the night before.
When he had given his name, age, residence and occupation, McNair asked him, “You are familiar with the witness, Renfrew, who was on the stand yesterday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you accompany him to the office and residence of the defendant, Dr. Jefferson Macon, on the third day of October of the present year?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Were you with him when he discovered the spade?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will show you that spade which was introduced in evidence, Mr. Hermann, and ask you whether you have ever seen it before.”
The witness took the spade, turned it over slowly, methodically, deliberately, in his big hands, handed it back to the prosecutor. “Yes, sir,” he said, “that’s the one.”
“And where was it that this spade was found?”
“On the north side of the garage. There was a little garden patch there and some freshly dug earth.”
“And what did you do with reference to that earth,” McNair asked, glancing triumphantly at Perry Mason.
“We started digging.”
“And how deep did you dig?”
“About three feet.”
“And what did you find?”
Hermann turned so that he was looking at the jury. “We found,” he announced, “the body of a big dog. There was a bullet hole in the body, but we couldn’t find any bullet; that had been removed.”
McNair was smiling now. “Your witness,” he said to Mason.
“No questions,” Mason announced.
Judge Canfield, looking at the clock, said, “It’s time for the noon recess. Court will reconvene at two o’clock.”
There was a swirl of activity on the part of spectators as Judge Canfield retired to his chambers. Newspaper reporters, rushing forward, took flashlight photographs of McNair, showing him smiling triumphantly. They had Dr. Pringle pose for them on the witness stand. They did not ask Perry Mason for photographs.
Chapter 22
Perry Mason and Della Street sat in the curtained booth of a little restaurant around the corner from Mason’s office, eating a luncheon which consisted mostly of tea and cigarettes.
“I don’t get that about the dog,” Della Street said.
Mason said, “The thing works out mathematically from the district attorney’s point of view. Dr. Macon met Milicent as she was coming back from the cabin. She told him about the new embezzlement, about Jack Hardisty having ninety thousand dollars in cash that he was using as blackmail. Dr. Macon suggested that they return to the cabin, that he give Hardisty a hypodermic of scopolamine that would make him talk, and betray the hiding place of the stolen currency.”
Della Street sipped her tea. “I understand that, all right,” she said. “According to that theory they must have gone back and give him a hypodermic. After that he became violent and one of them shot him. But where does the dog come in?”
“Don’t you see? Dr. Macon would know that they’d recover the fatal bullet, that they’d check it with Milicent’s gun, that then they’d have a dead open-and-shut case. So he extracted the bullet and hid it.”
“But how could he shoot it into a dog after—”
“He didn’t. McNair’s betting that Macon got another gun of the same caliber, killed a dog with it, removed the bullet, buried the dog, and intended to conceal the bullet in the cabin in such a place that it would be found sooner or later. When the authorities found it, they’d think they’d discovered the fatal bullet where it had been concealed by Dr. Macon. They’d test it and find, to their surprise, that it didn’t fit Milicent Hardisty’s gun.”
“Then Dr. Macon was putting the bullet behind the picture, instead of taking it out, when he was apprehended?” Della Street asked.
“Exactly,” Mason said, “and I almost led with my chin by asking on cross-examination if he might not have been putting something in instead of taking something out... I caught myself just in time on that one.”
“What gave you the tip-off?”
“Something in the way McNair was watching me, some expression on the witness’ face... But I walked right into that dog business. I had to. I was in a position where I either had to stop my cross-examination, which would have made it look as though I were afraid of the truth, or go ahead and bring out the point which crucified my client.”
“Why didn’t McNair bring it out under direct examination?”
“Because it hurts my case more when I bring it out on cross-examination... Those are sharp tactics, and I’m going to get even with him.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet,” Mason admitted.
Della Street stirred the few grounds of tea in the bottom of the tea cup. “I could almost cry,” she confessed. “—You can see what happened. If Milicent Hardisty didn’t kill her husband, Dr. Macon at least thinks she did, and tried to protect her. In doing it, he dragged them both into the mess... Or Dr. Macon killed him, and Mrs. Hardisty is trying to protect him. Either way we’re licked — and McNair is so sneering, so soaked up with triumph, that he just makes me sick. I’d like to pull his hair out, a handful at a time. I’d like to—” Rage choked her words.
Mason smiled, “Don’t get excited, Della. Use your head instead... There’s one discrepancy in the evidence that I doubt if McNair’s thought of.”