Mason smiled. “I’m waiting right here.”
“You just think you are.”
“You,” Mason told him, “are guarding the room. You’re not guarding the corridor.”
“You don’t have any business here.”
“I’m going to have.”
There was a moment of silence, while the officer contemplated the situation in frowning belligerence. Once more, there was the sound of angry voices raised behind the door. A few moments later, Sergeant Holcomb suddenly pushed the door open and said, “All right, Mason, come in.”
Mason entered the room. A court reporter was seated at a small table, a shorthand notebook spread out in front of him, a fountain pen held poised over the page. Larry Sampson, a deputy district attorney, was standing by the foot of the bed with his hands jammed down in his coat pockets. Over by the window, Dr. Gifford stood professionally aloof. Beside him stood a red-headed nurse with large brown eyes, a peaches-and-cream complexion, and a mouth which was a hard, straight line of determination. Lying on the hospital bed, the back of which had been raised a few inches, so as to prop up her bandaged head, Sarah Breel surveyed them with calm, untroubled eyes. A rope attached to the broken leg ran from underneath the covers, up over a pulley, and terminated in a weight which dangled over the foot of the bed.
Dr. Gifford said, “Gentlemen, I want to repeat, all of this argument is getting us nowhere. My patient has sustained a severe nervous shock. I am not going to permit her health to be jeopardized by any sustained questioning, or any browbeating.”
“Oh, forget it!” Sergeant Holcomb said irritably. “No one’s trying to browbeat her.”
“The minute I see any indication of it,” Dr. Gifford said, “the interview will be terminated.”
Sarah Breel smiled at Perry Mason. It was rather a lop-sided smile, what with the bandages about her head and a swelling on one side of her face. “Good morning, Mr. Mason,” she said, “I want you as my lawyer.”
Mason nodded. “I understand,” she went on, “that I’m accused of murder. I’ve refused to make any statement until my lawyer was present.”
Sergeant Holcomb said, “You understand, Mrs. Breel, that your failure to deny the charges against you...”
“Let me handle it, Sergeant,” Larry Sampson interrupted. “I may explain once more to Mrs. Breel, and for the benefit of Mr. Mason, that the object of this interview is not to try to trap Mrs. Breel into making any admissions. The circumstantial evidence, standing by itself, is sufficiently black against her to more than justify the charge of first-degree murder. Now then, if she’s innocent and can explain the evidence in the case, we’ll withdraw the charge. This is an opportunity we’re giving her to avoid newspaper publicity and the stigma of a public trial.”
“Bunk!” Mason said. “That’s the old line of hooey, Mrs. Breel. Having once filed a first-degree murder charge against you, it’ll take a miracle to make them quit. All this business about giving you a chance to explain is simply an excuse to get you talking, so they can catch discrepancies in your story and trap you into an admission.”
Sampson flushed. Sergeant Holcomb said, “You start cracking wise, and you’ll go out of here on your ear.”
Mason said, “I have a right to see my client. It’s my duty to advise her. I’m advising her.”
“Advising her not to answer questions?” Sampson asked.
“Not at all,” Mason said. “I was merely correcting the inaccuracies in your statement. My client can do anything she wants to. I consider it my duty, however, to advise her that she doesn’t have to answer any questions, and if she is at all nervous or emotionally upset, she can postpone this interview until after she has talked with me.”
“You mean until after you’ve told her what to say,” Sergeant Holcomb sneered.
“I meant exactly what I said,” Mason told him.
“Well,” Mrs. Breel interrupted. “There’s no use arguing about it. I’m going to make a full and complete statement. I just wanted my attorney here when I did it.”
“That’s better,” Sampson told her. “You’re a woman of understanding. You can appreciate the damaging effect of letting this circumstantial evidence stand uncontradicted.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about when you refer to circumstantial evidence,” Mrs. Breel said.
Sampson said, “Mrs. Breel, I’m going to be frank with you, perhaps brutally frank. I’m doing it for your own good. When you were struck by that automobile last night, there was a thirty-eight caliber revolver in your bag. The police have discharged a test bullet from that revolver. They have made micro-photographs of that bullet. They have also recovered the fatal bullet which killed Austin Cullens. They have made micro-photographs of that bullet. The two bullets, compared side by side under a powerful microscope, and as shown in the micro-photographs, are not only identical bullets, but moreover, they were both discharged from the same gun. In other words, Mrs. Breel, the gun which you had in your possession in your handbag last night fired the bullet which killed Austin Cullens.”
Mrs. Breel regarded him sternly. “Young man,” she said, “are you sure that a gun was found in my bag?”
“Absolutely,” Larry Sampson said. “The bag was lying on the pavement near you when...”
“But that doesn’t indicate that it was my bag,” Mrs. Breel said. “I was unconscious at the time. You can’t hold me responsible for a bag which was found near me. I don’t know who put it there.”
Mason grinned and flashed a wink at Dr. Gifford. Sergeant Holcomb said disgustedly to the doctor, “And this is the woman you said shouldn’t answer questions because her thoughts might not be coherent.”
Larry Sampson hesitated a moment, then opened a leather handbag which was on the floor near the corner. “Mrs. Breel,” he said, “I’m going to show you a handbag. I’m going to ask you to say whether this is your handbag.”
Dramatically, he jerked out the handbag with the two imitation jade rings, and whirled to hold it out in front of him. Mrs. Breel surveyed the bag with an appraisal which was almost disinterested. “I think,” she said, “that I did have a bag like that once, but I can’t be certain. However, young man, I most certainly can’t say that that is my bag... You see, I had it some time ago.”
Sampson looked nonplused. Abruptly, he reached into the bag and pulled out the partially knitted garment. “Try and deny the ownership of this,” he said. “This is yours, isn’t it?”
She looked at it with a perfectly blank countenance, “Is it?” she asked.
“You know it is.”
She shook her head and said, “No, I don’t know it is.”
Sampson said, “Now, look here, Mrs. Breel, this isn’t a game. This is a serious matter. You’re charged with the crime of first-degree murder, which is the most serious crime known to our law. The questions which I am asking, and the answers which you are giving, are being taken down in shorthand. They can be used against you at any time. Now then, Mrs. Breel, I am not going to take an unfair advantage of you. I am going to state to you frankly in the presence of your counsel that the circumstantial evidence against you looks very black. I am going to state further, however, that the evidence is largely circumstantial; that perhaps some of that evidence can be explained away. If you cooperate with the authorities, if you make every effort to assist us in uncovering the truth in this matter, it will go a long Way toward establishing your innocence. If you make a single false statement, and it can be proven that statement is false, it is going to crucify you so far as this charge is concerned. Mr. Perry Mason, your own lawyer, is present. He will tell you that I am telling you the truth. Now then, if you deny the ownership of this bag, and we can prove that it really is your bag, that statement will absolutely pillory you. Now, Mrs. Breel, I am asking you: Is that your bag?”