“It is, then, quite possible some other person was in the house at the time, and without your knowledge?”
“Yes,” Driscoll said, but added, “Such a person, however, couldn’t have taken that revolver from my possession, fired three shots into Walter Prescott and returned the revolver to my pocket without my knowing it. In the event Prescott was killed with my gun, he was killed at some time after I had left the house.”
“I understand your point perfectly,” Scanlon said. “That’s all, Mr. Driscoll. You’re excused.”
Less than ten minutes later, the coroner’s jury brought in its verdict, finding that Walter Prescott had been shot to death by person or persons unknown. Rodney Cuff, sauntering over toward Perry Mason, said, “How do you like the verdict, Counselor?”
“Should I like it?” Mason asked.
Cuff nodded and said, “I think so. I like it fine.”
“One thing,” Mason commented, “is that when you see Mr. Dimmick in the morning you can tell him that, in my opinion, he has no cause for worry at the quality of representation you will give young Driscoll. Having him go on the stand and admit the plot to substitute Rita Swaine for Rosalind Prescott is rather a stroke of genius.”
“Yes,” Cuff said, his expression bland. “You see, I’d heard that the district attorney’s investigators had taken charge of the canary, and I deduced that could mean only one thing. Thanks to your clever deductive reasoning, Driscoll knew the jig was up, and told me the circumstances frankly, where he might otherwise have tried to conceal them.”
“How did you know about Weyman as a witness?” Mason asked.
Cuff laughed. “He told his wife, and his wife told Stella Anderson, and she keeps a secret like a sieve holds water. I felt I could call him unexpectedly and make a better impression than if I’d talked with him and introduced him as a willing witness.”