“Because,” Holcomb said, “our examination of that gun shows that the last person who handled it had been wearing gloves. Any latent fingerprints which were on it were smudged so they were virtually valueless, and from the manner in which the prints were smudged, our expert figured the gun was last handled by someone with gloves. And it had been handled quite a bit.”
Mason flashed a quick glance at Virginia Trent, then turned back to Sergeant Holcomb. “Go ahead, Sergeant, let’s hear the rest of it.”
Sergeant Holcomb said, “I think you can cooperate with us in this, Mason. You see what happened. Someone removed George Trent’s gun and put another one in its place. Some time Monday morning, that person returned George Trent’s gun to the drawer and took out the one which had been left there.”
“Why do you say Monday morning?” Mason asked.
“Because no one went to the office after six-thirty Saturday night, until eight o’clock Monday morning, with the exception of Miss Trent Saturday evening, and Mrs. Breel Sunday.”
“I see,” Mason said, “and just what do you want us to do?”
Sergeant Holcomb’s tone was almost pleading. “Newspaper reporters are going to be talking with this young woman,” he said. “I don’t want her to say anything about the gun.”
Mason turned to Virginia Trent. “Under the advice of your counsel,” he said, “you’re not to discuss this case with anyone. Do you understand?”
She nodded. Sergeant Holcomb gave Mason his hand. “That,” he said, “is damned white of you, Mason.”
Mason grinned. “Not at all, Sergeant. It’s always a pleasure to cooperate with you.”