“Apparently not,” Drake said. “There were people along just a few minutes afterwards. Mrs. Breel was lying unconscious on the ground.”
Mason said, “Check on Diggers. Find out everything you can about him. I’m on my way.”
“Can I help, Chief?” Della Street asked.
“No,” he told her. “They’ll have a shorthand reporter. I’ll stand more of a chance of crashing the gate alone.”
He clamped his hat on his head, shot through the door and sprinted for the elevator. He caught a cruising cab and said, “Dearborn Memorial Hospital, and what I mean, make it snappy.” In the taxicab, Mason turned over in his mind the various bits of information which had been given him. Undoubtedly, the revolver found in Mrs. Breel’s handbag had been the determining factor in influencing the district attorney’s office to advise her arrest. Had that weapon not discharged the bullet which had caused Cullens’ death, the circumstantial evidence of the stained shoe would not have been sufficient. On the other hand, given the shoe, the gun with which the murder had been committed, and the indisputable evidence which placed Mrs. Breel at the scene of the crime at approximately the time of the murder, the district attorney had a case which, unexplained, would go far toward trapping Mrs. Breel in a net of circumstantial evidence. At the Dearborn Memorial Hospital, Mason took an elevator to the sixth floor, and found Mrs. Breel’s room without difficulty. An officer was on guard in the corridor. From within the room, Mason could hear the sound of excited voices. Mason started to push open the door. The officer interposed a stalwart arm. “No, you don’t, buddy,” he said.
Mason said with dignity, “I wish to see Mrs. Breel. She has asked for me.”
“I don’t care who she’s asked for,” the officer said. “You get in here on a pass, or you stay out.”
“Who’s in there?” Mason asked.
“The doctor, a deputy D.A., a court reporter, Sergeant Holcomb, and a few others.”
“Well, I’m Mrs. Breel’s lawyer.”