The Case of the Curious Bride

Chapter 20

The lights of Perry Mason's private office beat down upon the masklike countenance of C. Phillip Montaine, the granitehard features of Perry Mason. Della Street, obviously excited, held an open notebook on her knee. "Have you seen your son this afternoon, Mr. Montaine?" Mason asked.

Montaine's face was inscrutable, his voice wellmodulated and slightly scornful. "No," he said, "you know that I have not. You know the district attorney has him held in custody as a material witness, that no one can see him."

Mason said, almost casually, "Wasn't it your suggestion, Mr. Montaine, that he be kept in custody?"

"Certainly not."

"Doesn't it impress you as being rather strange," Mason suggested, "that despite the fact the district attorney knows he cannot call Carl Montaine as a witness because of the law which provides a husband cannot be called as a witness against a wife, the district attorney should keep Carl locked up as a material witness?"

"I see no particular significance connected with it," Montaine said. "Certainly, I have had nothing to do with it."

"I was just wondering," Mason said, "if there wasn't something back of all of this; if, perhaps, some one were not trying to keep me from giving Carl a vigorous crossexamination." Montaine said nothing. "Did you know that I saw him this afternoon?" Mason inquired.

"I know you were to take his deposition in a divorce action, yes."

Perry Mason said slowly and impressively, "Mr. Montaine, I am going to ask Della Street to read to you what happened at that deposition." Montaine started to speak, then checked himself. His face was as a mask. "Go ahead," said Perry Mason to Della Street.

"Do you wish me to read just what I have here in my notebook?"

"Yes."

"Both the questions and the answers?"

"Yes, you can read just what you have there."

"'Q. Your name is Carl W. Montaine? A.: Yes.

"'Q.: You are the husband of Rhoda Montaine? A.: Yes.

"'Q.: You understand that Rhoda Montaine has filed a complaint for divorce against you, charging you with cruelty? A.: Yes.

"'Q.: You understand that one of the allegations of that complaint is that you falsely accused her of the murder of Gregory Moxley? A.: Yes.

"'Q.: Was that accusation false? A.: It was not.

"'Q.: You repeat that accusation then? A.: Yes.

"'Q.: What grounds have you for making such an accusation? A.: Plenty of grounds. She tried to drug me in order to keep me in bed while she went to keep an appointment with Moxley. She sneaked her car out of the garage, committed the murder, returned, and crawled into bed as though nothing had happened.

"'Q.: Isn't it a fact that you knew all about Moxley prior to the time your wife slipped out at two o'clock in the morning? A.: No.

"'Q.: Now, wait a minute. Isn't it a fact that you retained a socalled shadow to follow your wife; that this shadow followed her to my office on the day before the murder; that the shadow trailed her to Gregory Moxley's apartment? A.: (The witness hesitates, fails to answer.)

"'Q.: Go ahead and answer that question, and remember you're under oath. Isn't that a fact? A.: Well, I employed a person to shadow her. Yes.

"'Q.: And, when your wife left the garage around one thirty in the morning, there was a flat tire on her car, was there not? A.: So I understand.

"'Q.: And the spare tire had a nail in it, did it not? A.: So I understand.

"'Q.: But the air had not entirely leaked out of that spare tire? A.: I guess that's right. Yes.

"'Q.: Now, will you kindly tell us, Mr. Montaine, how it would be possible for a spare tire on the back of a car, elevated some three feet from the ground, to get a nail in it, unless that nail had been driven into it? A.: I don't know.

"'Q.: Now, when your wife returned her car to the garage, she couldn't get the door closed, is that right? A.: Yes.

"'Q.: Nevertheless, when she left the garage, it was necessary for her to both open and close the sliding door? A.: Yes, I guess so.

"'Q.: You don't have to guess. You know, don't you? You heard her open and close the door. A.: Yes.

"'Q.: Now, that door closed freely when she left the garage? A.: Yes.

"'Q.: And isn't it a fact that the reason the door wouldn't close when your wife tried to close it the second time was that the door caught on the bumper of your automobile, which was also in the garage? A.: Yes.

"'Q.: Therefore, isn't it a fact that your automobile must have been moved during the time your wife's car was absent from the garage, and when it was returned to the garage it wasn't driven in quite far enough to clear the door? A.: I don't think so.

"'Q.: Isn't it a fact that you knew your wife was going out at two o'clock in the morning? A.: No.

"'Q.: You admit that you looked in your wife's purse and found a telegram signed «Gregory»? A.: Yes, that was afterwards.

"'Q.: And isn't it a fact that on that telegram the address of Gregory Moxley was written? A.: Yes.

"'Q.: And didn't you know that your wife intended to go to an appointment with Gregory Moxley? Didn't you determine that you would be in the house where Gregory Moxley resided, in order to see what was taking place between your wife and Moxley. Isn't it, therefore, a fact that you planned to delay your wife after she started so that you would have sufficient time to arrive first on the scene? Didn't you, therefore, let the air out of the right rear tire on her car and drive a nail into the spare tire, making a slow puncture, so that the tire would be flat, but its condition would not be apparent until after it had been put on the car? Didn't you then, after your wife had dressed and left the garage, and while she was at the service station getting the car repaired, jump into your car, and drive to Gregory Moxley's apartment house? Didn't you climb up the back stairs and enter the adjoining apartment on the second floor on the north? Didn't you secrete yourself there until your wife came to keep her appointment with Moxley? Didn't you then climb over the rail separating the back stoops or porches, enter the kitchen in the Moxley apartment, hear Moxley demanding that your wife should get money, even if it became necessary for her to poison you and collect the insurance? Didn't you hear your wife state she was going to telephone me? And then the sounds of struggle? And didn't you, in a sudden panic, lest your name and the name of your family should be dragged into such a mess and bring disgrace or fancied disgrace to your father, pull out the master switch on the switch box in the back of the said apartment, thereby plunging the apartment into darkness? Didn't you then dash into the Moxley apartment, hearing the sound of a blow, and then hearing your wife run from the apartment? Didn't you sneak into the room where Moxley had been, striking a match to see what had happened? Didn't you find Moxley just getting to his feet, having been dazed by a blow which had been struck him on the head with a poker? Didn't you, thereupon, acting upon impulse, pick up the poker, strike Moxley a terrific blow over the head, felling him to the floor? Didn't you, thereupon, start to walk down the corridor, striking matches as you went, the matches being those that you had picked up from a smoking stand in Moxley's apartment? Didn't you then encounter another person in the corridor? A man who had been ringing the doorbell, had received no answer, and who had, therefore, gone around to the back of the house and effected an entrance in the same manner that you had done? Wasn't that person a man named Oscar Pender, from Centerville, who had been trying to force Moxley to give money to his sister? Didn't you two hold a whispered conversation, and didn't you explain to the said Pender that you were both in a very dangerous position? Didn't you state that you had found Moxley dead when you entered the apartment, but that the police would never believe you? Didn't you, therefore, seeking to cover your tracks, take cloths and wipe all fingerprints from the door knobs and the weapon of death? Didn't you, thereupon, start to the back of the house, and didn't you then think that perhaps your wife might have run out through the back door and have climbed into the corridor of the adjoining apartment? Didn't you therefore, walk down the said corridor, striking matches to give you illumination, and, when you found the corridor was empty, return to the Moxley stoop, and having used the last of the matches, toss away this empty match container? Didn't you then throw back the master switch which turned on the lights once more in Moxley's apartment? Didn't both you and Oscar Pender then hastily leave the premises? Didn't you jump in your car, drive hurriedly home, beat your wife there by a matter of seconds, and, in your haste, neglect to put your car far enough in the garage so that both doors would move freely? You could move the door back of your car freely back and forth, but when both doors were pushed over from the other side of the garage one of them would lock into position on your bumper, and isn't that the reason your wife couldn't get the garage door closed?

"'A.: My God, yes! And I've kept it bottled up so long that it's nearly driven me crazy. Only, you're wrong about the killing. I turned out the lights to give Rhoda a break and then I was afraid he might overpower her. I heard the sound of a blow in the dark. I heard some one fall. I struck matches and groped my way through the rooms. I found Moxley on his feet. He wasn't badly hurt, but he was in a murderous rage. He started for me. The poker was lying on a table. I dropped my match, grabbed the poker, and swung in the dark as hard as I could. Then I called to Rhoda. She didn't answer. I didn't have any more matches. I groped around in the dark, and it was then I dropped the garage key and car keys. I must have pulled the leather container out of my pocket. I didn't know it at the time. Then some one else struck a match. That was Pender. The rest of it happened just as you said. I gave Pender money so that he could skip out. I didn't intend to accuse Rhoda at the time. It wasn't until I was almost home that I looked for my garage keys and realized what had happened.

"'Q.: So then you left the garage unlocked, put your car away, went to your bedroom, and, as soon as your wife came in and went to sleep, you got up, opened her purse and took out her garage key and the keys to the cars; and it was her leather key container that you showed to me in my office. Is that right? A.: Yes, sir, that's right. I thought Rhoda would claim selfdefense and a jury would believe her. I came to you before I went to the police because I knew you could get her off.

"'Q.: And, as I understand it… "

Perry Mason raised his hand. "That, Della," he said, "is far enough. Never mind the rest of it. You may leave us."

The secretary shut her notebook, vanished into the outer office. Mason faced C. Phillip Montaine. Montaine's face was white. His hands gripped the arms of the chair. He said nothing. "You have," Perry Mason remarked, "undoubtedly read the afternoon papers. It's been rather clever of you, Montaine, not to attend the trial, but, of course, you know what has happened. The prosecution's own witnesses have given Rhoda Montaine an alibi. A jury will never convict her.

"I believe what your son said," Perry Mason remarked slowly, "but a jury wouldn't—not after the way he's behaved in this case, not after the way he tried to get out from under by shifting the blame to Rhoda's shoulders.

"I know something of Carl's character. I learned it from talking to Rhoda. I know that he's impulsive and I know that he's weak. I know that he fears your disapproval more than anything on earth. I know that he values his family name because he has been taught to value it.

"I know that Moxley needed killing, if ever a man needed killing. I know that your son has never faced any real crisis in his life by himself. He has always had you to lean on. I know that when he first went to Moxley's apartment, he did so because he thought his wife was having an affair with Moxley. After he realized the true facts, he acted upon impulse, returned home in a panic and realized that he had left his garage key in Moxley's apartment. He had left the garage unlocked when he took out his car, and he had sense enough to leave it unlocked when he returned, so that Rhoda would find it unlocked. He knew by that time he had left his keys in Moxley's apartment and he had made his plan to steal Rhoda's keys so that it would appear her key container was the one left in the apartment. When it came down to a real test, your son didn't have guts enough and didn't have manhood enough to stand up and take it on the chin. He passed the buck to Rhoda.

"If your son had had simple manhood enough to have gone to the authorities and told his story, he could doubtless have made out a case of selfdefense. As it stands now, he can't do it. No one will believe him. Personally, I don't blame your son for the killing. I do blame him for trying to pass the buck. You're the one that I blame. I'm satisfied that you either knew what had happened or suspected what had happened. That was the reason you came to me and tried to get me to weaken Rhoda's defense by letting your son testify against her and by tying my hands so that I couldn't rip into him on crossexamination. Frankly, that was one of the first things that aroused my suspicions. I couldn't understand why a man of your character and intelligence would try to bribe me to let a client get a death penalty. I couldn't figure what motive would be powerful enough. And then I suddenly realized the only motive that could have been strong enough to have made you play your cards that way. That motive was a desire to save your son."

Montaine took a deep breath. "I'm licked," he said. "I realize now that I made fatal mistakes in the training I gave Carl. I know that he isn't a particularly strong character. When he wired me that he was married to a nurse I wanted to find out what sort of a woman she was. I wanted to find out in such a way that I could convince my son of his mistake and, at the same time, hold the whip hand over the woman. Therefore, I came to this city while my son thought I was still in Chicago. I had her shadowed night and day. I was kept advised of every move she made. My men were not regular detectives. They were confidential investigators whom I kept constantly in my employ."

Mason puckered his brows thoughtfully. "Why," he said, "the man who shadowed her from this office was the rankest kind of an amateur."

"That, Counselor," Montaine said, "was one of those peculiar coincidences which upset the most carefully laid plans. When Rhoda Montaine left your office she was shadowed by my man. That man was so shrewd even Paul Drake never suspected him. But remember that Carl, also, had become suspicious. He had hired a socalled private detective, who was little more than an amateur, to shadow Rhoda. By the use of that shadow he had discovered something about Doctor Millsap—I don't know just what."

Mason nodded slowly. "Yes," he said, "as soon as Carl told me about Doctor Millsap I felt certain he must have acquired the information by the use of a detective."

"One of my detectives," Montaine went on, "was on the job when Rhoda left the house to keep her appointment with Moxley. He tried to follow her, but she gave him the slip. Remember, it was late and the streets were almost deserted? He didn't dare to follow her too closely. When he lost her, he returned to the house and concealed himself. He was in time to see Carl return to the garage, park his car and enter the house."

"You knew, of course," Mason said, "the importance of this?"

"As soon as my detective made a report to me," Montaine said, "I realized the deadly significance of the information. By that time it was too late to do anything about it. The newspapers were on the street, and Carl had gone to the police. You see, I slept late that morning and my detectives didn't awaken me to give me the information. I had left orders that I wasn't to be disturbed under any circumstances. That was the first really serious blunder this detective had ever made. He obeyed orders."

"And," Mason said, "of course, he didn't appreciate the deadly significance of what he had discovered?"

"Not until after he read the later editions of the newspapers," Montaine said. He made a shrugging gesture with his shoulders. "However, Counselor, all of this is beside the point. I am in your hands. I presume, of course, you want money. Do you want anything else? Do you insist on communicating these facts to the district attorney?"

Perry Mason slowly shook his head. "No," he said, "I'm not going to tell the district attorney anything. This deposition was privately taken. I won't talk, and Della Street won't talk. The attorney who represented your son can't talk because he's bound professionally to protect Carl. It might, however, be a good thing if you would give him a rather substantial retainer to defend Carl in the event it should become necessary.

"Now, then, in regard to money: I want money for the work I did for Rhoda Montaine. I want you to put up that money. That, however, is a minor matter. The main thing I want is money for Rhoda."

"How much money?" Montaine asked.

"Lots of it," Mason said grimly. "Your son did her an irreparable wrong. We can forgive him; he was a weakling. But you did her an irreparable wrong, and, by God, we can't forgive you! You're an intelligent man and a strong man, and you're going to pay." Perry Mason's eyes burned steadily into those of the multimillionaire.

C. Phillip Montaine took out his checkbook. His face was utterly without expression. His lips were compressed into a thin line. "It would seem," he said, "that both my son and myself have, perhaps, taken too much credit because of our ancestors. It would seem to me that it is up to some one to redeem the family."

He took his fountain pen from his pocket, unscrewed the cap, deliberately signed two checks in blank and passed the signed checks over to Perry Mason. "You," he said in a voice that was steady, although his lips were trembling, "can assess the fine, Counselor."