The Case of the Crooked Candle

Chapter 10

Douglas Burwell proved to be a tall man, about thirty, prominent cheekbones, large, limpid dark eyes, and a somewhat tubercular appearance, with dark wavy hair. There were circles under his eyes. His hair was rumpled in disarray, and the ash tray on the table beside the most comfortable chair in the room was filled to overflowing with cigarettes, none of which seemed to have been smoked to more than half its length.

His voice showed the emotional tension under which he was laboring, and his manner had none of the cordial hospitality which had characterized Harry Van Nuys.

“Well, what is it?” he demanded shortly.

Mason, giving him the benefit of a searching glance, lashed out without any preliminaries, “I want to ask you some questions about Mrs. Milfield.”

If Mason had, without warning, struck the man in the stomach, his reactions could not have indicated any greater dismay or surprise. “About... about...”

“About Mrs. Milfield,” Mason said, kicking the door shut and indicating the comfortable chair. “Sit down, Della.”

“But I don’t know anything about Mrs. Milfield.”

“Know Fred Milfield?” Mason asked.

“I have met him, yes.”

“Business?”

“Yes.”

“When did you meet his wife?”

“I... why, I think I only met her once, Mr... What did you say your name was?”

“Mason.”

“I only met her once, Mr. Mason. And may I ask the reason for all of this? I don’t appreciate your barging into my room and throwing questions like this at me. Are you connected with the police?”

“You heard her husband had been murdered?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know he was murdered?”

“She told me.”

“Oh, you’ve seen her then?”

His voice was cautious now, and dignified. “I rang up the house to try and get in touch with Mr. Milfield. She told me what had happened.”

“That was the only reason you rang up the house?”

“Yes.”

“And you aren’t particularly friendly with his wife?”

“Mr. Mason, I tell you I’ve only seen the woman once. She impressed me as being a very attractive woman, but for the life of me, I couldn’t describe her to you. She went in one eye and out the other.”

Mason said, “That’s fine. That gives me a perfect case.”

“What do you mean?” Burwell asked.

Mason said, “You have a good action against someone and I want to represent you in that action.”

“You’re an attorney?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. I thought you were connected with the police.”

“Not directly,” Mason said. “But the police will naturally expect you to take some action and I’m in a position to represent you.”

“Take some action! What do you mean?”

“In the prosecution for forgery.”

“Prosecuting whom for forgery?”

Mason reached in his pocket and pulled out the stack of six letters. “The person,” he said, “who forged your name to these letters. The person who wrote these very interesting, somewhat naive and rather passionate letters to Mrs. Fred Milfield and signed your name to them.”

Resistance oozed out of Burwell as air from a punctured tire. “My letters!” he exclaimed.

“Your letters?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you said you hardly knew the woman.”

“Mr. Mason, where did you get those letters?”

“Does that need to enter into it?”

“Yes.”

“They were given to me,” Mason said.

“By whom?”

“It might have been the police,” Mason said, “or it might have been a newspaper reporter, or it might have been a client. I can’t tell you where I received them. But I can tell you what I’m going to do with them.”

“What?”

“I’m going to give them to the police.”

“Mr. Mason, please don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“The newspapers would get hold of them.”

“I can’t help that. I have no right to keep evidence from the police.”

“Evidence!”

“Yes.”

“Of what?”

“Evidence connecting you with the murder of Fred Milfield.”

“Mr. Mason, are you stark, staring crazy?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What possible connection do those letters have...?”

Mason said, “Listen, Burwell, why don’t you come clean? Mrs. Milfield was on her way to San Francisco to join you. She was going to run away with you. She was stopped by a friend. She...”

“It was a friend who stopped her!” Burwell exclaimed.

Mason nodded.

“No. That wasn’t it. She just changed her mind. She told me over the telephone that she’d decided not to come. She... Mr. Mason, this isn’t another trap. You’re not trying to trap me, are you?”

Mason indicated the telephone, “Ring her up and ask her.”

Burwell started toward the telephone, then changed his mind. “No, I... No, I won’t do that... not now.”

“All right,” Mason said, “do it later then. She started to go to San Francisco. A friend of her husband made her change her mind, and so you came down here. And Fred Milfield had found out about the whole affair. He was aboard Burbank’s yacht. You were just young enough and crazy enough to go down there to see him. You two men had it out, and he made a swing at you. You hit him, and...”

“Stop!” Burwell exclaimed. “You have absolutely no grounds for making any such statement. Fred Milfield was nothing in my life. I had no reason to see him. I didn’t want to see him. He was a hard, tyrannical husband. He was absolutely callous to the emotional needs of his wife. He left her completely starved for affection while he devoted himself to the everlasting pursuit of the almighty dollar. He wasn’t worthy to touch the hem of her garment. He wasn’t...”

Mason said, “You’ve been reading the old-fashioned romances. Why don’t you get yourself up to date?”

There was misery in Burwell’s eyes.

“All right,” Mason said, taking sympathy on the man’s quite evident distress, “you came to Los Angeles. You got in touch with Mrs. Milfield. What did she say?”

“She told me...”

“Yes?” Mason asked.

“Well,” Burwell blurted, “she told me her husband bad been killed, and that I mustn’t try to see her because the police would become suspicious.”

“And what time was this?” Mason asked.

“Shortly after I got off the train.”

Mason veiled his glance at Della Street, said rather unconcernedly, “You came down on the Lark, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you call her from the depot or from the hotel?”

“From my hotel.”

“About what time?”

“Oh, somewhere right around ten o’clock.”

“I see,” Mason said very carelessly. “And she told you her husband had been murdered?”

“Not then. I couldn’t get her on the phone when I first called.”

Mason slipped the letters back into his pocket. “You got her later?”

“Yes. When I finally got hold of her, she told me about her husband’s death.”

“Told you he had been murdered?”

“Well, not in so many words. She said there’d been an unfortunate accident and he had been killed, and that the police were investigating.”

“What did she tell you to do?”

“Told me to keep away from the place, to make no effort to see her, and to take the next train back to San Francisco.”

“And you didn’t do that?”

“No.”

“You came down on the Lark?” Mason asked.

“That’s right.”

“And as I understand your story, you called Mrs. Milfield as soon as you got to town?”

“I tried to call her, yes. She didn’t answer until shortly after noon.”

“Shortly after noon, eh,” Mason said somewhat musingly, “You don’t think it was as late as one o’clock?”

“Oh, no. It was right around noon sometime.”

Mason glanced at Della Street and said very casually, “That was the first, you had heard about it?”

“Yes.”

“And she told you some of the details?”

“She said the body had been found on Mr. Burbank’s yacht, and that I wasn’t to say anything about it.”

“You didn’t go back to San Francisco?”

“Certainly not. I want to be here. I want to be near her in case there’s anything I can do to help, in case...”

“There isn’t,” Mason interrupted.

“Oh, I know! My reason tells me that’s the case; but I can’t bring myself to leave.”

“You keep hoping you may have a chance to see her, don’t you?”

“Well, yes.”

“Did you,” Mason asked, “know Roger Burbank?”

“No.”

Mason said, “I may get in touch with you again. In the meantime, if I were you, I’d make no attempt to communicate with Mrs. Milfield in any way.”

“Mr. Mason, can’t you tell me how she is? Can’t you tell me how she’s looking — how she’s standing up? This is a terrific strain. This is...”

Mason interrupted him to say, “Do you get talkative when you get drunk?”

Burwell laughed nervously, “No. I get dizzy and go to sleep.” There was something almost apologetic in the statement.

Mason held the door open for Della Street. “My advice to you then,” he said, his voice firm to the point of command, “is to start in without delay and get yourself quite drunk. Good night.”