“Pull the seat out and take a look,” Mason said.
Hogan pulled out the seat. Back of it, and in such a position that it had been concealed by the seat cushion, was a small, round hole. Hogan looked at the back of the chair. There was no hole in the back of the chair.
“If that’s a bullet,” Mason said cheerfully, “and it looks like a bullet, it’s still in the chair. Suppose we find out.”
Hogan said, “I think we’d better have some photographs of this before we go any farther.”
Newspaper photographers were only too willing to oblige. They pushed forward and shot a dozen pictures.
Hogan opened a sharp-bladed knife, took a pair of long-nosed pliers from his pocket and said, “Here we go.”
He cut back the upholstery of the chair, pulled out some hair stuffing. A bullet was embedded in the oak frame of the chair. “How about it,” Hogan asked Sampson, “do I dig this bullet out?”
“Better photograph it first,” Mason suggested, “and then dig it out. That’s what we want. We want to see the rifling marks.”
Once more, there was a succession of flashes as newspaper photographers took pictures. Reporters disappeared down the corridor to rush flashes to their papers. Hogan calmly set about digging out the bullet, taking care not to touch the lead with the point of his knife. The oak was hard. The cutting was slow. But, eventually, Hogan twisted the point of his knife in behind the bullet and worked it out. “There’s going to be no question that this bullet was substituted,” he said taking an envelope from his pocket. “I’m going to seal this envelope and have both of you men write your names across the flap. The bullet will be on the inside.”
Mason pulled out his fountain pen. “Fair enough,” he said. Mason and Sampson wrote their names across the flap of the envelope, which was sealed and put in Hogan’s pocket. “If you don’t mind,” Mason told him, “I’m going to follow this bullet to its ultimate destination — at least until we’ve made micro-photographs.”