“Very well,” Mason said. “I felt there was a great possibility that, if there had been a frame-up — and mind you, I say if, gentlemen, I am not stating that there was a frame-up. I am simply stating that if there had been a frame-up — there is always the possibility that frame-up might have something to do with the Texas Global proxy fight.
“With that in view I did a lot of investigative work last night and I learned that Gifford Farrell had been taking a great interest in a Rose M. Calvert. I learned that the description of this young woman matched perfectly the description of the young woman whose body I had seen in the hotel bedroom. Therefore, I decided to go to see Rose Calvert’s husband and see if I could find some photographs of his wife. I felt that perhaps such a trip would disclose important information.”
“And that is the reason you went to see the husband?” Lt. Tragg asked, suddenly curious.
“That is why I went to see him.”
“How did you get his address?” Tragg asked.
“I was advised,” Mason said, “that there was a letter in the letter box at the Lane Vista Apartments where Rose Calvert has her apartment, addressed to her and bearing the return address of Norton B. Calvert of 6831 Washington Heights, Elsinore.”
“How did you know that letter was there?” Hamilton. Burger asked.
“I was advised it was there.”
“By whom?”
“By a detective.”
“And he looked at that letter?” Burger asked.
“No, sir. I don’t think he did. I think he in turn was advised by another detective, who was shadowing the apartment at the request of still another party.”
“Mrs. Farrell?” Lt. Tragg asked.
“I didn’t say that, Lieutenant. I didn’t mention any names. I am simply trying to tell you how it happened I went to Elsinore. I have been ordered to answer that question and I am trying not to withhold information. I don’t want you to think I am making any accusations. I am only exposing my mental processes.”
“Well, you seem to have had a remarkably brilliant flash of inspiration or intuition, or mental telepathy or psychic ability, or whatever you want to call it,” Hamilton Burger said sarcastically. “The body was that of Rose Calvert, but we didn’t know it until about six o’clock this morning. You evidently had the information some hours before we did, and did nothing about it.”
“I didn’t have the information,” Mason said. “I saw pictures and I noticed that there was quite a resemblance. I told Mr. Calvert that I was very much afraid his wife had been the victim of a tragedy. I felt that if he wanted to pursue the matter further, he would get in touch with the police.
“However, you can appreciate my position. I certainly couldn’t start saying that Rose Calvert had been murdered, and then have it appear the whole thing was a hideous mistake, and Rose Calvert would show up alive and well.
“Making an identification of a corpse whom you have seen only once from snapshots is rather a ticklish matter as you, Lieutenant, undoubtedly realize.”
“You’re being very conservative all at once,” Hamilton Burger said.
“I wanted to be sure,” Mason said.
“Moreover,” Burger went on, “you aren’t telling us the truth about how you secured the husband’s address.”
“What do you mean?”
“There wasn’t any such letter in the mailbox.”
“I was advised that there was.”
“Well, there wasn’t.”
“I’m sorry,” Mason said, “but that’s how I got the address... I was told the letter was there.”
Hamilton Burger turned to Redfield. “Redfield,” he said impatiently, “get to your laboratory and test that gun. Fire test bullets from it. Identify it as the fatal weapon. At least let’s get that done. That’s what you’re here for.”
Redfield made no move to leave his chair. “May I say something, Mr. District Attorney?” he asked.
Hamilton Burger, his patience worn thin, shouted, “Well, what the hell do you want to say? That’s the second time you’ve made that crack.”
“And I was told not to say anything,” Redfield said.
“Well, if you have anything to say, for heaven’s sake, say it and then start checking on that bullet.”
Redfield said, “This gun is not the murder weapon. The fatal bullet which killed Rose Calvert was fired from a Colt revolver. A Colt has six grooves which are inclined to the left. This is a Smith & Wesson revolver and, for your information, it has five grooves which are inclined to the right.
“I knew as soon as Mr. Conway passed over this gun that it couldn’t possibly have been the murder weapon.”
“What?” Hamilton Burger shouted.
Lt. Tragg half-rose from his seat, then settled back.
Mason strove to keep a poker face. He looked sharply at Conway.
Hamilton Burger seemed to be trying to get his ideas oriented.
Suddenly he said, “So that’s it! It’s the same old razzle-dazzle. Mason has taken this murder weapon and switched it. He’s had his client turn in this other gun, and is acting on the assumption that no one can disprove his story without producing the young woman from whom Conway says he took this gun... And the minute that is done, there will be confirmation of Conway’s story... This is a typical Perry Mason razzle-dazzle!”
“I resent that!” Perry Mason said.
“Resent it and be damned!” Hamilton Burger shouted. “I’ve seen too many of your slick substitutions, your sleight of hand, your—”
“Just a minute,” Mason interrupted. “Don’t be foolish. I am perfectly willing to resort to some forms of unconventional action for the purpose of checking the testimony of a witness. However, I certainly would not be party to any substitution of a murder weapon and then have a client tell you a lie about it.”
“Poppycock!” Hamilton Burger said.
For a moment there was a silence. Everyone seemed to be at an impasse. Abruptly Burger picked up the telephone and said, “Bring Gifford Farrell in here, please.”
The door from an anteroom opened, and Sgt, Holcomb of Homicide Squad escorted a debonair individual into the district attorney’s office.
“Mr. Gifford Farrell,” the district attorney announced.
Farrell was in his thirties, a tall, broad-shouldered, thin-waisted, well-dressed individual. His face was bronzed with outdoor living. A hairline mustache emphasized the curve of his upper lip. He had smooth, dark eyebrows, dark, glittering eyes, so dark that it was impossible to distinguish the pupils. His hair was cut so that sideburns ran a couple of inches below his ears. He was wearing a brown plaid sport jacket, and gabardine slacks.
“You know Mr. Conway,” Hamilton Burger said.
Farrell’s thin lips came away from even, white teeth in a smile. “Indeed I do,” he said. “How are you this morning, Jerry?”
“Good morning, Giff,” Conway grunted.
“And this is Mr. Perry Mason,” Hamilton Burger said. “He has just accused you of trying to frame his client, Mr. Conway.”
Farrell’s lips clamped shut, his glittering, dark eyes regarded Mason with cold hostility.
“I have done nothing of the sort,” Mason said smoothly. “I have simply pointed out to the district attorney that I felt my client was the victim of a frame-up.”
“Well, you said that it was a frame-up over this proxy battle in Texas Global,” Burger said.
“I did indeed,” Mason said. “And I am quite willing to state that I think the probabilities are — mind you, gentlemen, I say the probabilities are — that the attempted frame-up was because of that proxy battle, and if there was a frame-up, then I believe there is a possibility Mr. Farrell should be considered suspect.”
“There you are,” Hamilton Burger said.