“Most of it. I fired some shots from what they call a service revolver, but it had too much recoil.”
“Did you,” Mason asked, “tell the officers about all this revolver practice?” She nodded. “Then how were you able to convince them you hadn’t shot your uncle?”
“Partially,” she said, “because of the fact he was killed Saturday afternoon, and, as it happened, I could account for every minute of my time. Tell me, Mr. Mason, are they going to start pounding me with a lot of third-degree stuff again this morning?”
“I don’t think so,” Mason said.
“What makes you think they won’t?”
“Because,” Mason told her, “I’m going to be here.”
“They won’t let you stay,” she said.
Mason grinned and said, “It happens that they have nothing to say about it unless they actually arrest you, charge you with murder, and take you to jail. So far, they’re not ready to do that. I have a court order permitting me, as your attorney, to confer with you. Of course, the nurse has telephoned the news, and... Here they come, now.”
A siren sounded, and Virginia Trent pushed back her coffee cup. “I suppose,” she said wearily, “I can take it, but... well, coming on top of all the other things — and finding Uncle George...”
Mason said, “Promise me you won’t get nervous. Sit tight and let me do the arguing.”