“Oh, no,” Mason said affably, “the Court remarked that Hogan was to be the Court’s disinterested viewer. We were permitted to accompany him to see fair play. Nothing was said about the others.”
“Well, I don’t want them in there.”
“All right,” Mason said, laughing, “you take the responsibility of keeping them out — you know how the newspaper reporters will feel about that.”
“Why don’t you keep them out?” Sampson asked. “You know, I’m holding a political office. I can’t very well antagonize the press.”
“I’d just as soon have them in,” Mason said.
And so it was that as Hogan entered the room where the body of Austin Cullens had been found, newspaper reporters crowded in the hallway. Photographers snapped pictures as flash bulbs exploded, and those photographs, subsequently published in the morning papers, showed Perry Mason smiling, affable, good-natured, while the deputy district attorney’s expression showed only too plainly the worry which was gnawing away the last underpinning of his self-possession.
Hogan went about his business with calm efficiency. “The body,” he said, “as I understand it, was lying about here. Now, it’s your contention, Mason, that this bullet had been fired by Cullens from a gun which he took from his pocket. Therefore, Cullens must have been facing in approximately this direction when he was killed. The bullet might be anywhere from the level of the floor to a point, say, six feet from the floor level... I see no evidence of any such bullet.”
“Well, let’s keep looking,” Mason said. “I feel the gun must have been discharged about as I pointed out. It’s the only logical explanation which accounts for the facts. However, it’s certain the bullet hole isn’t where it could be readily detected or it would have been seen... What’s this in the chair?”
Hogan dropped to his knees to inspect an opening between the arm of a leather-upholstered chair and the seat cover. On the under side of the seat was a peculiar rip, the edges stained with black.
“That,” Hogan said, “ might be something.”