The Case of the Crooked Candle

Chapter 8

The Hotel Cornish was one of the less pretentious hotels tucked away on the fringes of the business district. The night clerk, a man somewhere in the late sixties, with a high forehead, fuzzy hair that bristled out on each side above the ears, looked at Perry Mason and Della Street through rimless glasses and said shortly, “Full up. There isn’t a room in the house.”

Mason said, “You have a Harry Van Nuys registered here?”

“That’s right. Van Nuys, Las Vegas, Nevada, room 618. Want to leave a message?”

“I’d like to have you call him and let him know I’m here.”

“He expecting you?”

“Not exactly.”

“It’s late.”

“I know what time it is.”

The clerk hesitated, then with somewhat poor grace plugged in a line and said, “A lady and a gentleman down here to see you.”

He waited a moment then turned his head over his shoulder.

“What’s that name again?” he asked.

“Mason.”

The clerk said into the telephone. “It’s a Mr. Mason... Very well. I wasn’t certain whether you had retired.”

The clerk pulled out the plug, said somewhat ungraciously, “You can go up.”

Mason nodded to Della Street.

It was an automatic elevator and it seemed to take an interminable time rattling and swaying up to the sixth floor.

Harry Van Nuys was waiting for them at the door of 618.

Mason had an opportunity to size up the man as slender fingers clasped about Mason’s. “Mr. Mason, I believe,” Van Nuys exclaimed cordially. “And is this Mrs. Mason?”

“Miss Street.”

“Oh — I beg pardon. Do come in, both of you. You’ll excuse the appearance of the room. I was hardly expecting visitors and things are somewhat littered around. Do take that chair, Miss Street, you’ll find it very comfortable. I’ll get the magazines and newspapers out of it.”

The voice was suave, pleasant, well modulated and expressive.

The restless eyes were so black that it was hard to detect expression in them, but his voice more than made up for it. Here was no man who talked in a conversational monotone, but one whose every word seemed alive with expression. His motions as he moved about straightening up the room were graceful, well-timed and effective.

Mason asked jokingly, “Are you this hospitable to all your visitors? We might be selling books or soliciting for charitable donations, you know.”

Van Nuys smiled cordially. “What if you are, Mr. Mason? You have taken the trouble to come and see me at a rather unconventional hour. I take it that any errand which is important enough to cause that sacrifice of time on your part certainly entitles you to my courteous attention. I’m in the selling game myself, and I always claim anyone is entitled to a respectful hearing.”

“Well,” Mason admitted, “that’s one way of looking at it. You don’t know who I am — what I do?”

“No.”

“I’m an attorney.”

“Mason... Mason... Not Perry Mason.”

“That’s right.”

“Indeed, I’ve heard of you, Mr. Mason! Daphne told me that you had called.”

“Daphne?” Mason asked.

“Mrs. Milfield.”

“Oh yes. It’s because of her that I’m making this visit.”

“Indeed.”

“You know her quite well?”

“Oh yes.”

“And you knew her husband?”

“Very well indeed, Mr. Mason.”

“Then why,” Mason asked abruptly, “did she change her mind about flying to San Francisco Friday afternoon?”

Van Nuys was unable to keep expression from his voice although his eyes and face remained a mask. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, and his tone showed he was genuinely embarrassed. “I didn’t know anyone knew about that.”

“May I ask for an explanation?” Mason asked.

“I’m afraid it has absolutely nothing to do with anything in which you’re interested, Mr. Mason.”

“Meaning that it’s none of my business?”

“No, no. Please don’t get me wrong on that, Mr. Mason. I... I just don’t feel free to tell you all of the ramifications.”

“Why not?”

“Well, to begin with, there’s a personal element. I was the one who went to the airport, made her return. And then again it has, in a way, an indirect connection with my friend, who might or might not have given me permission to tell you about it if he had remained alive, but as it is... Well, he can’t ever give me that permission now.”

“You mean Fred Milfield?”

“Yes.”

“Why, is it connected with him?”

“Well, it’s a domestic problem.”

Mason said, “Look here. Van Nuys, I’m not going to beat around the bush. The police are investigating a murder. They’re not going to leave any stone unturned. I’m investigating that same murder, and I don’t propose to leave any stone unturned.”

“May I ask how you happened to know about what took place at the airport?” Van Nuys asked abruptly.

Mason said, “Because I’m investigating Milfield’s murder, and I think that canceled trip may have some bearing on it.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I’d prefer to be the judge of that.”

“You’re still not telling me how you knew about it.”

“All right. I’m not going to tell you how I knew about it, or how it happens I knew about your connection with it. I don’t have to.”

“I’m sorry, I disagree.”

Mason said, “Damn it, I try to tell you in a nice way, and you make me drive it home with a sledge hammer. What I’m trying to tell you is that if you don’t tell me what it’s all about, and give me a satisfactory explanation, then my only recourse is to go to the police and let them get the explanation.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m representing some people who are interested in having the mystery of Fred Milfield’s death cleaned up.”

“I’m interested in it myself. If this had any bearing on it, I’d tell you.”

“Tell me anyway,” Mason said. “I’ll decide whether it has any bearing.”

Van Nuys glanced at Della Street, uncrossed his knees, then after a moment crossed them again, took a hammered-silver cigarette case from his pocket. “Smoke?” he asked.

“Thanks,” Della said.

Mason also took one. They lit up and Mason said, “That business with the cigarette should have given you all the time you needed to think up an explanation.”

“It gave me the time,” Van Nuys admitted ruefully, “but it hasn’t shown me what to do.”

“Take your time,” Mason said, settling back in the chair.

“All right,” Van Nuys blurted. “Do you know anything about Daphne, about her background?”

“Not a thing in the world.”

“She’s peculiar. She’s emotionally unstable.”

“What does that mean?”

“She’s subject to certain emotional vagaries.”

“Are you trying to tell me in a nice way that she’s a tramp?” Mason asked.

“No, no — definitely not. She’s... she’s more of an emotional gypsy.”

“And just what is meant by being an emotional gypsy?”

“Well, she’s subject to devastating emotional storms. She usually recovers from them quickly. They’re short, severe and violent.”

“And she’s suffering from one at the present time?”

“She was.”

“An affair with you?”

“With me!” Van Nuys laughed. “I’m just a friend of the family. I know her too well, and she knows me too well. I’m only the shoulder she cries on — and that’s all I want to be. No, this man was a chap in San Francisco. She had decided to burn her bridges. She had left Fred the usual note that the husband receives under such circumstances, and was about to leave for San Francisco, join her lover and let Fred get a divorce, or do anything else he damn pleased. That’s Daphne. She goes completely overboard when she falls. You have to hand it to her for that. She’s thorough.”

“You speak as though it were a habit.”

“Not a habit,” Van Nuys said. “It’s difficult to explain, Mr. Mason.”

“So it would seem.”

“Daphne is a woman who has to be violently, madly in love with someone every minute of the time.”

“She has a husband,” Mason suggested.

“Come, come, Mr. Mason, you’re a realist, or you should be. Marriage is a working relationship. It has its moments of genuine, downright boredom. That’s the trouble with Daphne. She can’t stand being bored. She has to be in love — madly in love, and it’s difficult to be madly in love with a husband three hundred and sixty-five days of the year.”

“You seem to stick up for her,” Mason said.

“I want you to understand her.”

“All right, I’ll take your word for it. She’s an emotional gypsy. She was starting for San Francisco. What did you do?”

“I stopped it.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew she’d be more unhappy if she went than if she didn’t.”

“You caught up with her at the airport and told her she had to come back?”

“That’s right.”

“So she came back to Los Angeles with you, and you did what?”

“I talked with her. I told her exactly how much of a fool she was about to make of herself.”

“And what did she do?”

“Cried at first, then finally agreed with me and told me I was the best friend she’d ever had.”

“What time was this?”

“Right after I left the airport.”

“You drove her home?”

“Yes.”

“How long did it take?”

“Twenty to twenty-five minutes.”

“How long were you there after you drove her home?”

“About half or three-quarters of an hour.”

“How did you know you’d find her at the airport?”

“That’s rather a peculiar coincidence.”

“Peculiar coincidences are my meat,” Mason told him.

“Fred and I have a — had a certain business association. We divided up the work.”

“You mean you were working with Milfield on this Skinner Hills Karakul Company?”

“In a way, yes. My connection was somewhat indirect.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, I was... I was working on other interests than the... Oh well, let it go at that, Mr. Mason. There are certain business matters I can’t discuss.”

“You mean you were working on the oil angle and...”

“Now please, Mr. Mason, don’t put words in my mouth. All I can say is that I was associated with Fred. He asked me to go to his house and get a brief case containing certain papers. He told me exactly where I would find it. Just in case Daphne wasn’t home, he gave me his key to the place. He thought that Daphne might be out shopping or something.”

“What time was this?” Mason asked.

“Right around noon, a little after.”

“Why didn’t Milfield get the papers himself?”

“He had an important luncheon engagement.”

“And you were to meet him after lunch?”

“No. About four o’clock.”

“Do you know where he intended to go then? What he intended to do with the papers?”

“They were papers he wanted to show to Mr. Burbank. Mr. Burbank was expecting him — aboard his yacht.”

“But didn’t Burbank insist upon absolute privacy on his yacht — refuse to let anyone bother him with business matters?”

“As a rule, yes. This was a very exceptional case. Mr. Burbank wanted to see Fred. In fact, he’d told him to come to his yacht.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

“Suppose it should develop that Roger Burbank wasn’t aboard the yacht Friday afternoon, and had no intention of being there?”

Van Nuys smiled and shook his head. Both the smile and the gesture were confident. “I think you’ll find such is not the case, Mr. Mason.”

Mason started to say something, then changed his mind. He gave Van Nuys’ answer thoughtful consideration for a few moments, then said, “All right, you went to get the papers. What happened?”

“This note was pinned to a pillow on the davenport.”

“What did you do with it — read it and then leave it there?”

“Certainly not. I was afraid Fred might come rushing in. I picked it up and pocketed it.”

“The note was meant for Fred?”

“Yes.”

“You have that note with you?”

“Really, Mr. Mason, this inquiry is drifting rather far afield, don’t you think?”

“No.”

“That note, Mr. Mason, affects the happiness of...”

“That note,” Mason interrupted, “is evidence. At least of an angle of the case that I’m investigating. If you’re at all interested in avoiding publicity, I think you will find the best way to do it is to give me the information I’m after.”

Van Nuys hesitated for a moment, glanced questioningly at Della Street, and Della, nodding at him, said, “It’s the best way. You should be able to see that.”

“Oh, all right,” Van Nuys surrendered. “Perhaps after all it is best to have the true facts in your possession, Mr. Mason.”

He opened a brief case, took out a sheet of paper and handed it to Mason.

It had, Mason observed, been pinned to some cloth. And the double pin hole in the top and the somewhat rumpled appearance of the paper were the natural result of such pinning.

The note was written in pen and ink in a smooth, even handwriting:

“A nice note,” Mason said.

“She meant it — meant every word of it,” Van Nuys said.

“I dare say she did. Who’s Doug?”

“The man she was going to meet in San Francisco.”

“How delightfully definite! What’s the rest of his name?”

Van Nuys smiled and shook his head, “Really, Mr. Mason, there is a limit, you know.”

“Limit to what?”

“Limit to how far we can go in dragging others into this thing.”

“Oh bosh! You’re in a murder case now. Who’s Doug?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to give you that information.” Van Nuys was formal and dignified now.

Mason abruptly pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “All right, Van Nuys, thanks for what you’ve given me.”

“Can I trust you to keep it confidential?”

“Not in the least.”

“I understood you were going to.”

“Then you misunderstood me.”

“I thought you said that the alternative was that you’d give the information to the police.”

“That’s absolutely correct.”

“You’re not going to give it to them?”

“Certainly I’m going to give it to them. The only thing that would prevent me from doing so would be a very definite feeling that there was some reason why I shouldn’t.”

“I tell you all of this has absolutely nothing to do with Fred’s death. That’s a matter between him and — well, between him and someone else.”

“You say this man’s in San Francisco?”

“Yes.”

“Has he ever written her?”

Van Nuys avoided Mason’s eyes.

Mason said, “Phooey! The police will smoke all this out. There’s no mystery about it. They’ll ask her to account for all her motions Friday afternoon. If she lies, she’ll put herself in an awful mess.”

“There are no letters the police will ever find,” Van Nuys said.

“You mean they’ve been destroyed?”

“I mean the police will never find them.”

Abruptly Mason reached over and took possession of the brief case that Van Nuys had placed by the side of his chair. “You mean,” he said, “that you have them?”

“Mr. Mason, please! That’s my brief case.”

Mason said to Della Street, “Call Lieutenant Tragg.”

There was a moment of tense silence. Della got up and moved toward the telephone.

Van Nuys waited until she had picked up the receiver, then he said suddenly, “Hang up the phone, Miss Street. The letters are in the right-hand compartment of the brief case, Mr. Mason.”

Della hung up the telephone. Mason opened the brief case, took out the letters, glanced at them, thrust them in his pocket.

“What are you going to do with those?” Van Nuys asked in alarm.

“I’m going to study them,” Mason said, “and if your contention seems to be correct and they aren’t connected with the case, I’m going to give them back to you.”

“Otherwise?” Van Nuys asked.

“Otherwise,” Mason said, “I’m going to keep them.”

Mason started for the door, paused, said, “So when you found this note you rushed to the airport.”

“Yes.”

“Without keeping your appointment with Milfield?”

“No. I took him the papers he wanted, and then rushed to the airport.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“Out in front of this hotel. He was in a hurry to leave for the yacht club. He was half an hour late. He was in something of an emotional state.”

“Over what?”

“Some business problem. He said someone had been lying about him.”

“Lies that had been told to Burbank?”

“So I understood. However, I had too much on my own mind to ask for particulars just then. Fred was in a hurry because he was late and was afraid he was going to miss meeting Burbank. — That’s a point on which you seem to be in error, Mr. Mason. Burbank and Milfield had a five o‘clock appointment at the yacht club. Burbank was going to bring his dinghy with the outboard motor in to the mooring float at exactly five o’clock.”

“I see. So you had to wait here at the hotel for half an hour before Milfield showed up?”

“That’s right — thirty-five minutes to be exact. I stood out in front, waiting.”

“What made him late?”

“I don’t know. He was terribly worked up.”

“And Mrs. Milfield was still at the airport when you got there?”

“Fortunately yes. She hadn’t been able to secure a ticket. She’d waited on a stand-by arrangement whereby they’d assign her the first vacant seat in case of a last minute cancellation.”

“So you drove her back?”

“Yes.”

“Showed her the note you’d found?”

“Yes, of course.”

Mason said, “I’ll want to think this over a bit.”

Van Nuys said with dignity, “I’m sorry, Mr. Mason, that you can’t seem to see Mrs. Milfield as I see her.”

Mason said, “I’m going to do a little thinking about her.”

“And I don’t think you’ve really tried to,” Van Nuys said.

“Perhaps I haven’t,” Mason admitted. “I don’t want to see people as other people see them, I want to see them as I see them. Good night.”