The Case of the Curious Bride

Chapter 3

Perry Mason stared somberly down into Della Street 's flushed face.

"How did he know," she asked, "that I was holding your hand? I moved it before the door opened, and…"

"Just a shot in the dark," Mason told her, his voice preoccupied. "Something in your facial expression, probably… Della, I'm going to give that girl a break. I'm going to back up. If we accepted a retainer from her we're going to see it through."

"But we can't do it. You don't know what she wanted you to do."

Perry Mason nodded and said grimly, "That's all right; she was in some sort of trouble. I'll get in touch with her, find out what it is and either give her her retainer back or help her. What's her address?"

Della Street took a sheet of yellow paper from the file.

"Her name," she said, "is Helen Crocker. She lives at 496 East Pelton Avenue, and the telephone number is Drenton 68942." Without waiting for comment from Mason, she plugged in a line and spun the dial on the telephone. The receiver made noise, and Della Street frowned. "Drenton sixeightninefourtwo," she said.

Once more, the receiver made squawking noises. There was a moment's pause, then Della Street spoke into the transmitter. "I am looking for a telephone listed under the name of Crocker. The initials I'm not certain about. The former number was Drenton sixeightninefourtwo. That number has been disconnected, but it was listed under her name." The receiver made more sound. Della Street said, "The address is four ninetysix East Pelton Avenue. What have you listed there?… Thanks very much—probably a mistake in the number."

She dropped the receiver into place, pulled out the plug and shook her head at Perry Mason. "Drenton sixeightninefourtwo," she said, "was listed under the name of Tucker, was disconnected more than thirty days ago. There isn't any four ninetysix East Pelton Avenue. Pelton Avenue is a street only two blocks long. The highest number on it is two hundred and ninetyeight."

Perry Mason jerked open the door of his private office, and said over his shoulder, "She'll get in touch with us again somehow. She forgot about leaving that retainer. Whenever she calls see that I have a chance to speak with her." He strode through the door, glowered savagely at the big leather chair in which the young woman had sat while she told her story. Light streaming in from the window caught something metallic. Mason stopped to stare, then walked to the chair and bent forward. A brown purse had slipped down between the cushions, only the clasp visible. Perry Mason pulled it out. It was heavy. He weighed it speculatively in his hand, turned and jerked open the door. "Come in, Della," he said. "Bring a notebook. Our caller left a purse behind her. I'm going to open it. I want you to inventory the contents as I open it."

She jumped to wordless obedience, bringing notebook and pencil, pulling out the leaf of the desk in a matteroffact manner, opening the notebook, holding the pencil poised.

"One white lacebordered handkerchief," Perry Mason said. The pencil made pothooks over the pages. "One.32 caliber Colt automatic, number threeeightninefoursixtwoone."

Della Street 's pencil flew over the pages of the notebook, but she raised startled eyes to the lawyer. Perry Mason's voice droned on mechanically. "Magazine clip for automatic, filled with cartridges containing steeljacketed, softnosed bullets. A cartridge in the firing chamber of the gun. Barrel seems to be clean. No odor of powder discernible."

He snapped the magazine clip back into the gun, closed the mechanism, replaced the ejected shell in the firing chamber, went on in the same droning monotone: "Coin purse containing one hundred and fiftytwo dollars and sixtyfive cents. A bottle of tablets marked 'IPRAL. One pair brown gloves, one lipstick, one compact, one telegram addressed to R. Montaine, 128 East Pelton Avenue. Telegram reading as follows:

A package of Spud cigarettes, a package of matches bearing advertising imprint ‘Golden Eagle Cafè, 25 West FortyThird Street.’

Perry Mason's voice ceased the droning inventory. He held the purse upside down over the desk, tapped on the bottom with his fingers. "That seems to be all," he remarked.

Della Street looked up from the notebook. "Good heavens!" she said, "what did that girl want with a gun?"

"What does any one want with a gun?" Perry Mason inquired, taking a handkerchief and removing any fingerprints which might have been on the weapon. He dropped the gun into the purse, picked up the other articles with his handkerchiefcovered fingers, polished them one at a time, dropped them back into the purse. The telegram he held for a moment then thrust it into his pocket. "Della," he said, "if she comes back, make her wait. I'm going out."

"How long will you be gone, chief?"

"I don't know. I'll give you a ring if I'm not back within an hour."

"Suppose she won't wait?"

"Make her wait. Tell her anything you want to. Go so far as to tell her I'm sorry for the way I treated her, if you want to. That girl's in trouble. She came to me for help. What I'm really afraid of is that she may not come back."

He stuck the purse into his side pocket, pulled his hat down on his forehead, strode to the door. His pounding steps echoed along the corridor. He speared the elevator signal with his forefinger, caught a down cage and signaled a cab at the sidewalk. " One twentyeight East Pelton Avenue," he said.

Mason reclined in the cushions as the cab lurched forward, closed his eyes, folded his arms across his chest and remained in that position for the twentyodd minutes that it took the cab to make the run to East Pelton Avenue. "Wait here," he told the driver as the cab swung in to the curb.

Mason walked rapidly up a cement walk, mounted three stairs to a stoop and held an insistent thumb against the bell button. There was the sound of steps approaching the door. Mason took the telegram from his pocket, folded the message so that the name and address were visible through the tissuecovered «window» in the envelope.

The door opened. A young woman with tired eyes regarded Perry Mason in expressionless appraisal. "Telegram for R. Montaine," said Perry Mason, holding the telegram in his hand. The young woman's eyes dropped to the address. She nodded her head. "You'll have to sign," Perry Mason told her.

The eyes regarded him with curiosity that, as yet, had not ripened into suspicion. "You're not a regular messenger," she observed, glancing past Mason to the cab that waited at the curb.

"I'm the branch manager," he told her. "I thought I could get the wire here quicker than by messenger. I was going this way on another matter."

He took a notebook from his pocket, whipped out a pencil, handed both pencil and notebook to the young woman. "Sign on the top line."

She wrote "R. Montaine," handed the book back to him. "Wait a minute," Mason said, "are you R. Montaine?"

She hesitated a moment, then answered, "I'm receiving messages for R. Montaine."

Perry Mason indicated the notebook. "Then you'll have to sign your own name below that of R. Montaine."

"I haven't had to before," she objected.

"I'm sorry," he told her. "Sometimes the messengers don't understand these things. I'm the branch manager."

She drew back the hand which contained the notebook, hesitated for an appreciable interval and then wrote, "Nell Brinley" under the "R. Montaine" she had previously signed.

"Now," said Perry Mason as she handed back the book and pencil, "I want to talk with you."

He slipped the telegram back into his side pocket before the snatching fingers could grab it from his hand.

Suspicion and panic filled the eyes of the woman who stood in the doorway. "I'm coming in," Mason told her.

She had no makeup on her face, was attired in a house dress and slippers. Her face went white to the lips.

Perry Mason moved past her, walked along the corridor, stepped into the living room with calm assurance, sat down in a chair and crossed his legs. Nell Brinley came to the doorway and stood staring at him, as though afraid either to enter the room or to leave him in sole possession. "Come in," Mason told her, "and sit down."

She stood still for a matter of seconds, then came toward him. "Just who do you think you are?" she asked in a voice that she strove to make vibrant with indignation, but which quavered with fear.

Mason's voice showed grim insistence. "I'm checking on the activities of R. Montaine. Tell me exactly what you know about her."

"I don't know anything."

"You were signing for telegrams."

"No. As a matter of fact, I thought the name R. Montaine was a mistake. I've been expecting a telegram. I thought that it must be mine. I was going to read it. If it hadn't been for me, I was going to give it back to you."

Mason's laugh was scornful. "Try again."

"I don't have to," she said. "I'm telling you the truth."

Mason took the telegram from his pocket, spread it out on his knee. "This is the telegram," he pointed out, "that was received here at nine fiftythree this morning. You signed for it and delivered it to R. Montaine."

"I did no such thing."

"The records show that you signed for it."

"The signature," she said, "is that of R. Montaine."

"In the same handwriting," Mason insisted, "as that in this notebook, which I saw you sign and under which appears your signature—Nell Brinley. That's your name, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Look here," Mason told her, "as a matter of fact, I'm friendly with R. Montaine."

"You don't even know whether it's a man or a woman," she challenged.

"It's a woman," he told her, watching her narrowly.

"If you're a friend of hers, why don't you get in touch with her?" Nell Brinley asked.

"That's what I'm trying to do."

"If you're a friend of hers, you'd know where to find her."

"I'm going to find her through you," Mason said doggedly.

"I don't know anything about her."

"You gave her this telegram?"

"No."

"Then," said Perry Mason, "it becomes necessary for me to disclose my real identity. I am a detective working for the telegraph company. There have been complaints of unauthorized persons receiving and reading telegrams. You probably don't realize it, but it's a felony under our state law. I'm going to ask you to get your things on and come to the district attorney's office with me for questioning."

She gave a quick, gasping intake of breath. "No, no!" she said. "I'm acting for Rhoda. I gave her the telegram."

"And why," asked Perry Mason, "couldn't Rhoda receive telegrams at her own house?"

"She couldn't."

"Why not?"

"If you knew Rhoda, you'd know."

"You mean on account of her husband? Married women shouldn't have secrets from their husbands—especially brides."

"Oh, you know that, then?"

"What?"

"About her being a bride."

"Of course," Mason said, laughing.

Nell Brinley lowered her eyes, thinking. Mason said nothing, letting her think the matter over.

"You're not a detective from the telegraph company, are you?" she asked.

"No. I'm a friend of Rhoda's, but she doesn't know it."

Abruptly, she looked up and said, "I'm going to tell you the truth."

"It always helps," Mason commented dryly.

"I'm a nurse," she said. "I'm very friendly with Rhoda. I've known her for years. Rhoda wanted to get some telegrams and some mail at this address. She lived with me here before her marriage. I told her it would be quite all right."

"Where does she live now?" Mason asked.

Nell Brinley shook her head and said, "She hasn't given me the address." Mason's laugh was scornful. "Oh, I'm telling you the truth," she said. "Rhoda is one of the most secretive women I have ever known in my life. I lived with her for more than a year. We kept this little house together, and yet I don't know the man she married or where she lives. I know that his name is Montaine. That's all that I know about him."

"Know his first name?" Mason asked.

"No."

"How do you know his name is Montaine?"

"Only because Rhoda had the telegrams come here addressed to that name."

"What was her maiden name?"

"Rhoda Lorton."

"How long's she been married?"

"Less than a week."

"How did you get this telegram to her?"

"She called up and asked if there was any mail. I told her about the telegram. She came out and got it."

"What's your telephone number?"

"Drenton ninefourtwosixeight."

"You're a nurse?"

"Yes."

"A trained nurse?"

"Yes."

"You're called out on cases?"

"Yes."

"When was your last case?"

"I came in yesterday. I was special nurse on an operative case."

Mason got up, smiled. "Do you think Rhoda will call up again?" he asked.

"Probably, but I'm not sure. She's very queer, very secretive. There's something in her life that she's concealing. I don't know just what it is. She's never given me her full confidence."

"When she rings up," Mason said, "tell her that she must go back to the lawyer she called on today, that he has something of the greatest importance to tell her. Do you think you can remember that message?"

"Yes. How about the telegram?" she asked, her eyes on Mason's pocket. "It's addressed to Rhoda."

"It's the same telegram you delivered to her this morning," he said.

"I know that, but how did you get it?"

"That," Mason said, "is a professional secret."

"Who are you?"

Mason's smile was baffling. "I am the man who left you the message for Rhoda Montaine to go back to the attorney she called on earlier in the day." He walked through the corridor. She called some questions after him, but he banged the front door, moved rapidly down the steps, across the strip of cement sidewalk, and, as the cab driver pulled open the door of the cab, jumped inside. "Snappy!" he said. "Around the corner. Stop at the first place where there's a telephone." Nell Brinley came to the door and stood staring at the cab as it lurched into motion and swung around the corner.

The cab driver swung toward the curb in front of a candy store which exhibited a public telephone sign. "How will this do?" he asked.

"Fine," Mason said. The cab stopped. Mason strode into the candy store, dropped a coin into the telephone, held his mouth close to the transmitter and cupped his fingers over the hard rubber mouthpiece so as to muffle his voice. He gave the number of his office, and, when he heard Della Street 's voice on the line, said, "Take a pencil and notebook, Della."

"Okay," she said.

"In about twenty minutes, ring up Nell Brinley at Drenton ninefourtwosixeight. Tell her that when Rhoda Montaine comes in she is to call you at once. Give her a fake name. Tell her that it is a message from Gregory."

"Okay, chief, what do I do when she calls?"

"When she calls, tell her who you are. Tell her that she left her purse in my office. Tell her that I want to see her at once. Now, here's something else for you. Check over the marriage licenses. Find out if a marriage license was issued to a man by the name of Montaine, in which the name of the bride was Rhoda Lorton. Have Paul Drake send one of his men to the water, light and gas companies and see if they have made a service connection for a Montaine recently. When you get the right initials from the marriage license, check up with the telephone company and see if there's a telephone in his name. Have Drake put a man on addresses and see if he can run down the address of the bridegroom from the marriage license. Have him get in touch with the Colt arms people and see if he can trace the number on that gun. You've the number there in your notebook. Keep all of this stuff under cover. I want to get a line on that woman."

"Why," she asked, "has anything happened?"

"No," he told her, "but it's going to if I can't get in touch with her."

"You'll call me again to pick up what information I've received?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Okay, chief."

Mason hung up, returned to the cab.