Sergeant Holcomb said, “I’ll show you,” and swung.
Sampson jumped back. Gifford said, “Gentlemen, I’m going to order hospital attendants to clear this room. This is a disgraceful scene, and it’s having a most harmful effect on my patient.”
Sampson said, “Don’t be a damn fool, Holcomb. Can’t you see that if you...”
Holcomb, still facing Sampson with his fists doubled, said, “Stand up and fight, you little rat! You can be taken in by all this flim-flam, but I’m not being taken in by it.” Still holding his fists doubled, and keeping Sampson away from him, he turned around to face the bed. “All right, Mrs. Breel,” he said, “let’s see how you take this... Your brother’s body was found in his office. He’d been shot by a thirty-eight caliber revolver and the body jammed in a packing case.”
Mrs. Breel might not have heard him. With her eyes closed, her face utterly without expression, she breathed steadily and deeply, as though sleeping. Sampson said sarcastically, “All right, flat-foot, now you’ve done it! You’ve played the one trump card we had at a time when she was under the influence of a narcotic.”
“She’s no more under the influence of a narcotic than I am,” Sergeant Holcomb said, but his voice somehow lacked conviction.
“No?” Sampson said. “Well, you’ll never be able to surprise her with that bit of information now. You’ve put your cards on the table. She’ll sleep that hypodermic off and decide how she wants to play her cards after she wakes up.”
Mason said, “Now that there’s a lull in the furious recriminations, I want the court reporter to be quite certain that he has noted the time at which Dr. Gifford gave the patient the hypodermic. I want him to note that, notwithstanding the nervous condition of the patient, the deputy district attorney and the sergeant of the homicide squad engaged in a fist fight, across the foot of the bed...”
“There wasn’t any fist fight,” Sampson said. “Don’t be a fool, Mason.”
“I considered it a fist fight,” Mason observed.