“I wasn’t throwing any dirt,” Mason said. “I was merely trying to clarify your testimony. I think I did that.”
“You sure as hell did,” the sheriff said. “Come on in.”
They trooped in through the gate which the sheriff locked behind him.
Mason said to the men who carried the mine detectors, “Over there in that sandy patch, boys. You can begin over there, and then work around the yard over toward the lawn, and then make a swing around by the landing pier over there.
“Paul, you and Della stay with me.”
The sheriff said, “I don’t know what you want to keep fighting this case for. She’s guilty. We have evidence we’re going to put on that will knock you right out of your chair. If you want to cop a plea you could make a deal with the D. A. for second degree. He’s reasonable about things like that.”
“Are you speaking with authority?” Mason asked.
“Just giving you a friendly tip.”
“Thanks a lot. I’m glad to see you still feel friendly.”
The sheriff lapsed into silence.
Mason, Della Street, Paul Drake, and the sheriff entered the house, walking through the echoing rooms which somehow were still impressed with the silence of death.
“Now in here’s the room where it happened,” the sheriff said. “The bloodstain’s still on the floor. They wiped up the blood, but the stain itself will have to be sanded out.”
“Where’s the room where the dog was kept?” Mason asked.
“Over here.”
The sheriff opened the door.
Mason regarded the scratches on the inside of the door, said, “It’s your understanding he’d been using this room for the dog for some time?”
“That’s right. Whenever he had people coming in, he’d put the dog in that room.”
Mason regarded the scratches on the door. “As you have so aptly pointed out,” he said, “those scratches are all fresh.”
“That’s right. The dog heard a quarrel. He knew his master was in danger, and then he heard the shot. Naturally he wanted to get out to protect his master.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Mason admitted. “Now, the bullet went clean through the body?”
“Clean through,” the sheriff said, “and out those French doors.”
“That,” Mason said, “is something that interests me. You can’t be certain that … “
“Well, you’re not going to make a red herring out of that, not with this jury,” the sheriff said. “I know the people in this county pretty well. I know six of the people on that jury so I call them by their first names. I know how they react to things in this county.”
“I’m quite certain you do, Sheriff.”
They walked back into the main room.
Mason looked the place over with careful scrutiny, then said, “Do you happen to remember whether there was a stepladder around here, Sheriff, a good, fall stepladder?”
“Good lord,” the sheriff groaned, “what do you want with a stepladder?”
Mason pointed to the peaked ceiling. “I want to examine that little place right up there in the ridgepole.”
“What place?”
“Up there where the beam runs into it. It’s a little difficult to see but it…”
“Sure enough, there is something up there,” the sheriff said, “but I don’t know what difference it could make.”
“It might make a great deal.”
“What do you think is up there?”
“It could be a bullet,” Mason said.
The sheriff regarded him with frowning suspicion, then looked up once more at the all but invisible hole on the right-hand side of the ridgepole at a point where the beams had been cut on an angle to join into the two-by- six which served as a ridgepole and to which the heavy rafters had been attached.
“What would a bullet be doing up there?” the sheriff asked.
“Just resting,” Mason said.
“Yeah,” the sheriff told him, his voice heavy with sarcasm, “I get it now. Two guys were in here and they wanted to fight a duel, and they turned their backs and walked ten paces, then turned around to fire simultaneously, only Alder fired straight up in the air because that hole’s right over where his body was found. The other guy shot him through the heart, so it was a duel and the guy acted in self-defense.”
“Any time you get done having your little fun,” Mason said, “we’ll hunt up a ladder and inspect that hole.”
The sheriff seemed vaguely uneasy as he looked up at the hole. “I don’t think that thing was there when we found the body,” he said.
“Why not?” Mason asked.
“If it had been, we’d have seen it. We looked the room over for bullet holes.”
“Sure,” Mason said, “you looked the walls over. You didn’t look at the ceiling.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s a bullet hole anyway. I think there’s a ladder down in the basement.”
“Let’s go get it.”
The sheriff led the way down to the basement. They found a long stepladder and, after some maneuvering, managed to get it up the stairs and into the big spacious study.
They erected the stepladder and the sheriff insisted on his official prerogative of being the first up the ladder.
“Looks like it might be-well, something,” he said, and took a pocketknife from his pocket and opened the blade.
“Just a minute,” Mason said. “I want to warn you, Sheriff, that if that’s a bullet, the markings on it may be of the greatest importance. You go digging around and scratching it with a knife and you may destroy evidence that would be vitally important to the defendant in this case.”
“Yeah, I know,” the sheriff said, opening the small blade of his knife and thrusting it up in the hole, then moving it back and forth.
“Did you take that down, Della?” Mason asked.
Della Street said, “Every word of it.”
“Say, wait a minute,” the sheriff said. “I’m not giving any reported interviews.”
“You just think you’re not,” Mason told him. “I warned you to leave that bullet alone and preserve the evidence intact. I have my statement and your reply. That’s my protection.”
“What protection have I got?” the sheriff asked angrily.
“You don’t need any,” Mason told him. “You’re an officer of the law-but if there’s a bullet up there, Sheriff, you’re going to have to get on the witness stand and tell about finding it and getting it out and account for any scratches or mutilations. It may be vitally important to determine what gun fired that bullet”
“Say, how did you know that bullet was up here?” the sheriff asked.
“I didn’t,” Mason said. “I only surmised that it might be up there. I … “
There was a shout from the ground outside the window. Through the open window, a man could be seen running toward the house.
“Now what?” the sheriff asked angrily, getting down off the stepladder.
“We found itl” the man shouted, as Mason went to the window. “We found a gun.”
The sheriff, angrily indignant, strode to the door, opened it, and ran down the steps. Mason, Paul Drake, and Della Street followed behind.
“Hang it,” the sheriff-said, as they hurried across the yard, “that’s what comes of letting your stooges get out here without anyone watching them. They planted a gun and . .
“I wouldn’t make any accusations, Sheriff,” Mason said.
“Well, it’s just too damned opportune,” the sheriff grumbled.
The men were grouped around a little hole in the sand.
“There she is,” one of the men said. “We didn’t touch it. When we got a squeal out of the doodlebug, we just dug down easy-like to see what was down here and as soon as we saw what it was we left it alone.”
The sheriff bent down, scratched around in the sand, then reached down, picked up a sand-covered revolver, held it up in front of him, and blew the sand off of it.