The Case of the Curious Bride

Chapter 6

Perry Mason emerged from the garage where he kept his car, started to walk the half block to his office. A newsboy on the corner whipped a newspaper from under his arm, twisted it in a double fold. "Read all about it!" he screamed. "She hit him and he died! Read about it."

Mason purchased the newspaper, unfolded it, glanced at the headlines which streamed across the top of the page.

Mason folded the newspaper, pushed his way into the stream of pedestrians converging on the skyscraper entrance. As he entered a crowded elevator, a man touched his arm. "Good morning, Counselor," he said. "Have you read about it?"

Perry Mason shook his head. "I seldom read crime news. I see enough of it at first hand."

"Clever stunt you pulled in that last case of yours, Counselor."

Mason smiled his thanks mechanically. The man, having broken the conversational ice, was showing symptoms of that type of loquacity which is so well known to those who are in the public eye, a loquacity which is caused not so much by a desire to convey any particular idea, as to lay a foundation for repeating the conversation to friends, beginning in a carefully casual manner, "The other day when I was talking things over with Perry Mason, I suggested to him…"

"Nice of you," murmured Mason, as the elevator stopped at his floor.

"I tell you what I'd do, Counselor, if I were handling this case. The first thing I'd do would be to…"

Mason never knew when he might have that man sitting in a jury box as a juror, long after Mason himself had forgotten about the conversation, so his smile was cordial as the elevator door cut off the suggestion, but a look of relief flooded his features as he walked briskly down the corridor to his office and opened the door.

Della Street 's eyes were dark with concern. "Have you seen it, chief?" she asked.

He raised his brows. She indicated the paper under his arm. "Just the headlines," he told her. "Some confidence man bumped off. Was it some one we know?"

Della Street 's face was more eloquent than words.

Perry Mason pushed on to his private office, spread the newspaper out on the desk and read the account:

"While occupants of the Bellaire Apartments at 308 Norwalk Avenue frantically telephoned for police at an early hour this morning, Gregory Moxley, thirtysix, residing at the Colemont Apartments, 316 Norwalk Avenue, lay dying from skull injuries inflicted by an unidentified assailant who may have been a woman.

"The police received a telephone call at 2:27 A.M. The call was relayed over the radio, and car 62, operated by Officers Harry Exter and Bob Milton, made a fast run to the Colemont Apartments, where they forced the door of Apartment B on the upper floor and found Gregory Moxley alive but unconscious. The occupant of the apartment was fully clothed, although the bed had been slept in. He was lying face downward on the floor, hands clutching at the carpet. An iron poker lying nearby, with blood stains on it, had evidently been used to strike at least one terrific blow. It had crushed the man's skull.

"The radio officers put in a hurried call for an ambulance, but Moxley died on the way to the hospital without regaining consciousness.

"At headquarters, police identified the body as being that of Gregory Carey, alias Gregory Lorton, a notorious confidence man whose activities were well known to the police. His method of operation was to fascinate an attractive but not too beautiful young woman of the working class who had saved some money. Using an assumed name, Moxley would court his victim. His suave manner, pleasing personality, welltailored clothes and glib tongue made women fall easy prey to the wiles of the swindler and usually resulted in money being turned over for 'investment. When it became necessary to do so, the confidence man had no hesitancy about going through a marriage ceremony under one of many aliases. Police state that he may have married large numbers of young women, many of whom never made complaint when Moxley subsequently disappeared.

"That his assailant may well have been a woman is indicated by the statement of Benjamin Crandall, owner of a chain of service stations, who, with his wife, occupies Apartment 269 in the Bellaire Apartments. Between this apartment and the one occupied by the murdered man in the Colemont Apartments to the north there is an air line distance of less than twenty feet. The night was very warm and windows in both apartments were open.

"Some time during the night Crandall and his wife were awakened by the insistent ringing of a telephone bell. They then heard Moxley's voice pleading with some one for 'a little more time.

"Neither Crandall nor his wife can place the exact time of the conversation, although it must have been after midnight, because they did not retire until 11:50, and it was probably before two o'clock in the morning, because Moxley told the party at the other end of the telephone wire that he had an appointment with 'Rhoda' for two o'clock in the morning and that she would undoubtedly bring him more than sufficient funds to take care of his obligations.

"Both Crandall and his wife remember the name of 'Rhoda. Crandall thinks the woman's surname was also mentioned, that it may have been a foreign name; that it ended in 'ayne' or 'ane. The first part of the name was spoken very rapidly and he did not hear it distinctly.

"Following the telephone conversation, Crandall and his wife expressed annoyance at the disturbance and there was some talk of closing the window. Nothing, however, was done and, as Crandall stated to the police: 'I drifted off to sleep, was sort of half dozing when I heard conversations in Moxley's apartment. Then I heard a masculine voice that seemed to be raised in argument. There was a sound that may have been a blow, and then the sound of something falling with a jar.

"During this time, and at the very moment the blow was struck, the doorbell in Moxley's apartment was ringing as though some one was trying to get Moxley to open the street door. I drifted off to sleep once more and was awakened by my wife, who insisted that I should call the police. I went to the window, looked across to Moxley's apartment. I could see that the lights were on and in a wall mirror I could see the feet of a man who was apparently lying on the floor. I went to the telephone and called the police. The time was then approximately twentyfive minutes past two.

"Mrs. Crandall says she did not go back to sleep after she was awakened by the ringing of the telephone bell in Moxley's apartment; that she heard the conversation over the telephone concerning the woman named Rhoda; that thereafter she lay 'just dozing, not fully awake and not asleep, that she heard the sound of low voices coming from Moxley's apartment and then the sound of a woman's voice, apparently that of a rather young woman, speaking rapidly; that she heard Moxley's voice raised in anger, then a sound that she feels certain was that of a blow, the noise of something thudding to the floor and then silence; that immediately preceding the sound of the blow, the doorbell in Moxley's apartment was ringing with steady, insistent rings, as though some one were holding his thumb against the bell, ringing steadily for long intervals, pausing for a moment and then ringing again. She says that the ringing continued for some minutes after the sound of the blow and that she thinks the party who was ringing secured admittance, because she heard whispers coming from the apartment, followed by a noise that may have been the gentle closing of the door and then silence. She lay for fifteen or twenty minutes, trying to go back to sleep, and then, feeling that the police should be notified, awakened her husband and suggested that he make an investigation.

"Police have a very definite clue as to the identity of the slayer. The woman who entered Moxley's apartment and who either inflicted the blow which caused death or who was present when the blows were struck dropped from her gloved hands a leather key container containing the key to a padlock which police feel certain is used to lock the doors of a private garage, as well as keys to two closed cars. From the make of these keys, police have ascertained that one car is a Chevrolet and one is a Plymouth. They are, therefore, checking the automobile registrations to list all persons who own both Chevrolets and Plymouths, as well as taking steps to identify the garage key. Because of the fact that the woman evidently had access to two cars, police are inclined to think she is a married woman whose husband maintains two cars for the use of his family. Photographic reproductions of the keys appear on page 3.

"Because of the absence of fingerprints on the murder weapon, police feel that it was wielded by a woman who wore gloves. They are slightly puzzled by the fact that there are no fingerprints of any sort on either the murder weapon or the knob of the door. Police feel, however, that in this case fingerprints are secondary in importance to the positive identification of the mysterious visitor through the padlock key which was left in the room.

"Moxley's police record shows that his real name is Gregory Carey, that on September 15, 1929, he was sentenced to San Quentin for the term of four years for… (Continued on page 2, column 1)."

Perry Mason was turning to page two when Della Street knocked perfunctorily and slipped quietly into the private office, closing the door carefully behind her. Perry Mason looked up with a frown.

"Her husband's in the office," she said.

"Montaine?" asked Perry Mason. She nodded. Perry Mason half closed his eyes in thought. "Could you get any statement from him about what he wanted, Della?"

"No. He said he'd have to talk with you; that it was a matter of life and death."

"Did he try to find out if his wife had been here yesterday?"

"No."

"How does he seem?"

"Nervous," Della Street said. "He's pale as a ghost. There are dark rings under his eyes. He hasn't shaved this morning, and his collar is wilted at the top, as though he'd been perspiring."

"What kind of a looking chap is he, Della?"

"He's short and smallboned. His clothes are expensive, but he doesn't wear them well. His mouth is weak. I have an idea he may be a year or two younger than she is. He's the sort of man who could be petulant if he wasn't frightened. He hasn't lived enough to be sure of himself or of any one else."

Perry Mason smiled. "Della," he said, "some day I'm going to let you sit beside me when I'm picking a jury. So far you've never failed to call the turn."

"You know about him?" she asked.

"Darn near all about him," the lawyer admitted. "Do you think we can keep him waiting while I finish this newspaper article?"

She shook her head swiftly. "That's why I came in to see you. He's frightfully impatient. I wouldn't be surprised if he left the office if you tried to keep him waiting."

Mason reluctantly folded the paper, thrust it in the drawer of his desk. "Send him in," he said.

Della Street held the door open. "Mr. Mason will see you Mr. Montaine."

A man slightly below medium height entered the office with quick, restless steps, walked to the edge of Perry Mason's desk, and waited for Della Street to close the door before he spoke. Then he spilled words with the rattling speed of a child reciting poetry. "My name is Carl W. Montaine. I'm the son of C. Phillip Montaine, the Chicago multimillionaire. You've probably heard of him."

The lawyer shook his head.

"You've seen the morning papers?" Montaine asked.

"I've looked at the headlines," Mason said. "I haven't had a chance to read the paper thoroughly. Sit down."

Montaine crossed to the big leather chair, sat on the extreme end of it, leaning forward. A mop of hair hung over his forehead. He brushed it back with an impatient gesture of his palm. "Did you read about the murder?"

Perry Mason wrinkled his brow, as though trying to focus some vague recollection in his memory. "Yes, I noticed it in the headlines. Why?"

Montaine came even closer to the edge of the chair, until he seemed almost ready to slide to the floor. "My wife," he said, "is going to be accused of that murder."

"Did she do it?"

"No." Mason studied the young man in silent appraisal. "She couldn't have done it," Montaine said forcefully. "She isn't capable of it. She's mixed up in it some way, though. She knows who did do it. If she doesn't know, she suspects. I think she knows, and she's shielding him. She's been his tool all along. Unless we can save her, this man will get her in such a position that no one can save her. Right now she's trying to shield him. He's hiding behind her skirts. She'll lie to protect him, and then he will gradually get her in deeper and deeper. You've got to save her."

"The murder," Mason reminded him, "was committed around two o'clock in the morning. Wasn't your wife home then?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

"It's a long story. I'd have to begin at the beginning."

Mason's tone was crisply definite. "Begin, then, at the beginning," he commanded. "Sit back in the chair and relax. Tell me the whole thing from the very beginning."

Montaine slid back into the recesses of the leather chair, whipped his hand to his forehead with that quick, nervous gesture of brushing his hair back. His eyes were a reddishbrown. They were fastened on Perry Mason's face, as the eyes of a crippled dog might fasten themselves upon a veterinary.

"Go ahead," Mason said.

"My name is Carl Montaine. I'm the son of C. Phillip Montaine, the Chicago multimillionaire."

"You told me that before," the lawyer said.

"I finished college," Montaine said. "My father wanted me to go into business. I wanted to see something of the world. I traveled for a year. Then I came here. I was very nervous. I had acute appendicitis. It was necessary for me to be operated on immediately. My father was tied up with a very involved financial matter. There were many thousands of dollars involved. He couldn't come here. I went to the Sunnyside Hospital and had the best medical attention that money could buy. My father saw to that. I had a special nurse night and day. The night nurse was named Lorton—Rhoda Lorton." Montaine stopped impressively, as though the words would convey some significance to Perry Mason.

"Go ahead," the lawyer said.

Montaine dug his elbows into the leather arms of the chair, hitched himself farther forward. "I married her," he blurted. His manner was that of a man who has confessed to some crime.

"I see," Mason remarked, as though marrying nurses was the customary procedure of all convalescents.

Montaine hitched forward to the edge of the chair once more and pushed back his hair. "You can imagine how that must have seemed to my father," he said. "I am an only child. The Montaine line must be carried on through me. I had married a nurse."

"What's wrong with marrying a nurse?" the lawyer asked.

"Nothing. You don't understand. I'm trying to explain this from my father's viewpoint."

"Why bother about your father's viewpoint?"

"Because it's important."

"All right, then, go ahead."

"Out of a clear sky, my father gets a telegram announcing that I have married Rhoda Lorton, the nurse who was employed on the case."

"You didn't tell him you intended to marry her?"

"No, I hardly knew, myself. It was one of those impulses."

"Why didn't you become engaged to her and notify him of that?"

"Because he would have objected. He would have made a great deal of trouble. I wanted to marry her more than I had ever wanted anything in the world. I knew that if I gave him any notice of my intentions, I could never carry them out. He would have discontinued my allowance, ordered me to come home, done almost anything."

"Go ahead," Mason said.

"Well, I married her. I wired my father. He was very nice about it. He was still working on the business deal I spoke of and couldn't leave. He wanted us to come to Chicago to visit him. But Rhoda didn't want to go right away. She wanted to wait a little while."

"So you didn't go."

"No, we didn't go."

"Your father didn't like that?"

"I don't think he liked it."

"You wanted to tell me about a murder," Mason prompted.

"Have you a morning paper here in the office?" Mason opened the drawer of his desk, took out the newspaper he had been reading when Della Street had announced Carl Montaine. "Turn to page three, please," Montaine said.

Mason turned to the third page of the newspaper. The photograph of a key, reproduced in its exact size, appeared in the center of the third page. Below the picture appeared the words:

Montaine took a leather key container from his pocket, detached a key, handed it to Perry Mason. "Compare them," he said.

Mason held the key over the photograph, then placed the key on the other side of the paper, made a pencil tracing, slowly nodded his head. "How does it happen," he inquired, "that you have this key? I understood the police were holding it."

Montaine shook his head and said, "Not this key. This is my key. The one that's pictured there is my wife's key. We've got duplicate keys to the garage and to the two automobiles. She dropped her keys when she…" His voice trailed into silence.

He opened the leather key container, spread it on the desk and indicated the keys. "The door keys to the Chevrolet coupe and the Plymouth sedan. My wife usually drives the Chevrolet. I drive the sedan. But sometimes we change off, so, to simplify matters, we each have duplicate keys to the doors and then leave ignition keys right in the locks."

"You've talked with your wife before coming here? She knows you're consulting me?"

"No."

"Why?"

"I don't know just how to explain it so you'll understand."

"I don't know how I can understand unless you do explain it."

"I'd have to begin at the beginning and tell you the whole story."

"I thought that's what you were doing."

"I was trying to."

"Well, go ahead."

"She tried to drug me."

"Tried to what?"

"Tried to drug me."

"Look here," Mason said, "where is she now?"

"Home."

"Does she know that you know about this?"

Montaine shook his head.

"Well, let's hear the story," Mason said impatiently.

"It starts with when I came home from the hospital. That is, it really starts before that time. I had been very nervous. I started taking what I thought was a sedative. I didn't know it was habitforming. It turned out it was habitforming. My wife told me I must break it off. She got some Ipral to give me. She said that would help me cure myself."

"What's Ipral?"

"It's a hypnotic. That's what they call it."

"What's a hypnotic? Is it habitforming?"

"It isn't habitforming. It cures nervousness and insomnia. You can take two tablets and go to sleep and wake up in the morning without feeling dopey."

"Do you take it all the time?"

"No, of course not. That's the reason I took it, to quiet my nerves when I had one of those fits of nervous sleeplessness."

"You say your wife tried to drug you?"

"Yes. Last night my wife asked me if I would like some hot chocolate before I went to bed. She said she thought it would be good for me. I thought it would be fine. I was undressing in the bedroom. There was a mirror in the bathroom, and a door opened through to the kitchen. By looking in the bathroom mirror, I could see my wife fixing the chocolate. I noticed her fumbling with her purse. I thought that was strange so I stood still, watching her in the mirror.

"I saw her take out the Ipral bottle and shake tablets into the chocolate. I don't know how many tablets she put in. It must have been more than the usual dose."

"You were watching her in the mirror?"

"Yes."

"Then what happened?"

"Then she brought the chocolate in to me."

"And you told her you'd seen her drugging the drink?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. I wanted to find out why she was doing it."

"What did you do?"

"I slipped into the bathroom and poured the drink down the bowl. Then I washed out the cup with water, filled it with cold water and took it into the bedroom with me. We have twin beds. I sat on the edge of my bed and sipped the water as though it had been chocolate."

"She didn't see you were drinking water instead of chocolate?"

"No, I was sitting where she couldn't see into the cup, and I sipped it slowly, as though it had been chocolate."

"Then what did you do?"

"Then I pretended to be very sleepy. I lay perfectly motionless, waiting to see what happened."

"Well, what did happen?"

Montaine lowered his voice impressively. "At one thirtyfive in the morning my wife slipped out of bed and dressed quietly in the dark."

Mason's eyes showed interest. "Then what did she do?"

"She left the house."

"Then what?"

"Then I heard her open the door of the garage and back her car out. Then she stopped the car and closed the garage door."

"What kind of a door?" Mason asked.

"A sliding door."

"A double garage?"

"Yes."

"And," Mason asked, "the only reason she stopped and closed that door was to keep any one from seeing her car was gone?"

Montaine nodded eagerly and said, "Now you've got the point. That's right!"

"Now then," Mason went on, "have you any reason to think any one was keeping a casual eye on the garage?"

"Why, no. Not that I know of."

"But your wife evidently thought some one might be looking at the garage—a night watchman perhaps."

"No. I think it was to keep me from looking out of the window and seeing the door was open."

"But you were supposed to have been drugged."

"Yes… I guess so."

"Then she must have been careful to close the door for another reason."

"I guess that's right. I hadn't thought of it in that way."

Mason asked thoughtfully, "How do the doors slide?"

"There are two tracks, one just outside of the other. Either door can slide all the way back and forth across the entire front of the garage. In that way, either car can be taken out. That is, you can take out the car on the left by sliding both doors to the right, or the car on the right by sliding both doors to the left. Then, when you close the garage, you simply leave one door on the left, slide the other back to the right and lock it with a padlock."

Perry Mason's fingers tapped the key which lay on his desk. "And this is your key to the padlock?"

"Yes."

Mason indicated the newspaper photograph. "And this is your wife's key?"

"Yes."

"How do you know?"

"Because there are only three keys. One of them I keep in the desk, one of them in my key container, and the other is in my wife's key container."

"And you have looked in the desk, to make sure that the third key isn't missing?"

"Yes."

"All right, go on. What happened after your wife closed the garage door?"

"She backed her car out, just as I've told you. Then she closed the garage door."

"Did she," asked Perry Mason, "lock the garage door?"

"Yes… No, I guess she didn't… no, she couldn't have."

"The point I'm getting at," Mason said with slow emphasis, "is that if she dropped her keys while she was out, she couldn't have unlocked the garage door when she returned. I take it she did return, since you say she is home now."

"That's right. She couldn't have locked the garage door."

"What happened after she left?"

"I tried to dress," Montaine said, "so that I could follow her. I wanted to know where she was going. As soon as she left the room, I started getting into my clothes, but I couldn't make it. She had driven away before I had my shoes on."

"Did you make any effort to follow her?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I knew I couldn't catch up with her."

"So you waited up until she came in?"

"No, I got back into bed."

"What time did she come back?"

"Some time after two thirty, and before three o'clock."

"Did she open the garage doors then?"

"Yes, she opened them and drove her car in."

"Then did she close them?"

"She tried to."

"But she didn't?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Well, sometimes when the doors are slid back, the brace on the inside of one of the doors catches on the bumper of the other car in the garage. When that happens you have to lift the doors back away from the bumper."

"The doors caught this time?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't she lift them away?"

"She wasn't strong enough."

"So she left the garage door open?"

"Yes."

"How did you know all this? You were lying in bed, weren't you?"

"But I could hear her tugging at the door. And then, when I went out to look this morning, I saw what had happened."

"All right, go on."

"I lay in bed, pretending to be asleep."

"When she came in?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you confront her as she came in the room and ask her where the hell she'd been?"

"I don't know. I was afraid she'd tell me."

"Afraid she'd tell you what?"

"Afraid she'd tell me something that would—would —"

Perry Mason stared steadily at the reddishbrown eyes. "You'd better," he said slowly, "finish that sentence."

Montaine took a deep breath. "If," he said, "your wife went out at one thirty in the morning, and…"

"I'm a bachelor," Perry Mason said, "so leave me out of it. Tell me the facts."

Montaine fidgeted on the edge of the chair, pushed his hair back with his spread fingers. "My wife," he said, "is rather mysterious, rather secretive. I think she acquired that habit from the fact that she's been supporting herself and wasn't accountable to any one. She isn't the type to volunteer explanations."

"That still doesn't tell me anything."

"She was," Montaine said, "that is, she really is… What I mean to say is… well, she's very friendly with a doctor—a physician who does quite a bit of operative work at the Sunnyside Hospital."

"What's his name?"

"Doctor Millsap—Doctor Claude Millsap."

"And you thought she went to meet this Doctor Millsap?" Montaine nodded, shook his head, then nodded again.

"And you were afraid to question her because you didn't want to have your suspicions confirmed?"

"I was afraid to ask her at the time, yes."

"Then what happened?"

"Then this morning I realized what must have happened."

"When did you realize what must have happened?"

"When I saw the paper."

"When did you see the paper?"

"About an hour ago."

"Where?"

"In a little allnight restaurant, where I stopped to get some breakfast."

"You hadn't had breakfast before that?"

"Yes, I got up early this morning. I didn't know just what time it was. I made some coffee and drank three or four cups of it. Then I went for a long walk, and stopped in at the restaurant on the way back. That was when I saw the newspaper."

"Did your wife know you had gone?"

"Yes, she got up when I was making the coffee."

"Did she say anything?"

"She asked me how I'd slept."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her I'd slept so soundly I hadn't heard a thing all night; that I hadn't even rolled over in bed."

"Did she make any statements?"

"Yes, she said she'd slept very well, herself; that it must have been the chocolate that made us sleep so soundly. She said she went to bed and didn't know anything from the time her head hit the pillow until she woke up."

"And did your wife sleep well—after she came in?" Mason asked.

"No. She took something, a hypodermic I think it was. She's a nurse, you know. I heard her in the bathroom, moving around, opening the medicine chest. Even then she didn't sleep. She did a lot of twisting and turning."

"How did she look this morning?"

"She looked like the very devil."

"But she told you she'd slept well?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't question her statement?"

"No."

"Did you make any comment whatever?"

"No."

"And you made the coffee as soon as you got up?"

Montaine lowered his eyes. "It sounds bad when I tell it," he said, "but it was really the most natural thing in the world. I looked around, of course, when I got up, and I saw my wife's purse lying on the dressingroom table. She was lying quietly then, drugged, you know. I opened it and looked inside."

"Why?"

"I thought I might find some clew."

"Clew to what?"

"To where she'd been."

"But you didn't ask her because you were afraid she'd tell you," Mason said.

"By that time," Montaine blurted, "I was in an awful mental state. You don't know anything about the agonies I suffered during the still hours of the night. Remember that I had to pretend that I was drugged. I couldn't turn and twist in the bed. I just had to lie in the one position without moving. It was agony. I heard the clock strike every hour, and…"

"What did you find in her purse?" Mason asked.

"I found a telegram addressed to R. Montaine at one twentyeight East Pelton Avenue. The telegram was signed 'Gregory' and said, 'Awaiting your final answer five o'clock today extreme limit. "

"You didn't take the telegram?"

"No, I put it back in her purse. But I haven't told you all about it yet."

"Tell me all about it then. Get started. I don't want to have to drag it out of you a bit at a time."

"There was a name and address penciled on the telegram. It was Gregory Moxley, three sixteen Norwalk Avenue."

"The name and address of the man who was killed," Mason said thoughtfully. Montaine nodded his head in quick acquiescence. "Did you," Mason asked, "notice whether her keys were in her purse at the time?"

"No, I didn't. You see, at that time there was nothing to make me notice that particularly. I found the telegram, and, as soon as I read it, I thought that I understood why she'd gone out."

"Then it wasn't Doctor Millsap that she went to meet?"

"Yes, I think it was Millsap, but I didn't think so at the time."

"What makes you think it was Millsap?"

"I'm coming to that."

"For God's sake, go ahead and come to it, then."

"After my wife went out, I was in agony. I finally decided to call Doctor Millsap and let him know that I knew of his friendship with my wife."

"What good would that have done?"

"I don't know."

"Anyway, you called Doctor Millsap?"

"Yes."

"What time?"

"Around two o'clock."

"What happened?"

"I could hear the ringing noise of the telephone, and then, after a while, a Japanese servant answered the telephone. I told him I must speak with Doctor Millsap at once, that I was desperately ill."

"Did you give him your name?"

"No."

"What did the Jap say?"

"He said Doctor Millsap was out on a call."

"Did you leave word for the Doctor to call when he came back?"

"No, I hung up the telephone. I didn't want him to know who was calling."

Mason shook his head, took a deep breath. "Would you kindly tell me," he said, "why the devil you didn't have the matter out with your wife? Why you didn't confront her when she returned to the house? Why you didn't ask her what she meant when she handed you the drugged chocolate? Why you didn't…"

The young man drew himself up with dignity. "Because," he said, "I am a Montaine. We don't do things that way."

"What way?"

"We don't brawl. There are more dignified ways of settling those matters."

"Well," Mason said wearily, "you saw the newspaper this morning, and then what happened?"

"Then I realized what Rhoda… what my wife must have done."

"What?"

"She must have gone to meet Moxley. Doctor Millsap must have been there. There was a fight. Doctor Millsap murdered Moxley. My wife was mixed up in it in some way. She was in the room at the time. Her key container was left there. The police will trace it to her. She'll try to shield Millsap."

"What makes you think so?"

"I feel positive that she will."

"Did you say anything to your wife about the garage doors being open?"

"Yes," Montaine said; "from the kitchen window it's possible to look over to the garage. I called her attention to the garage doors when I was making the coffee."

"What did she say?"

"She said she didn't know anything about it at first, and then, later on, she said she 'remembered' that she had left her purse in her car and had locked up the garage. She said that just before she went to bed she remembered it and went out to get the purse."

"How did she get in if she didn't have her keys?"

"That's what I asked her," Montaine said. "You see, she's rather forgetful about her purse. She's left it around two or three times. Once she lost over a hundred dollars. And she keeps her keys in her purse. So I asked her how it happened she could have opened the door if her purse was locked in the car?"

"What did she say?"

"She said she got the extra key out of the desk."

"Did she seem to be lying?"

"No, she looked me straight in the eye and said it very convincingly."

Mason made drumming noises on the edge of his desk with the tips of his fingers. "Exactly what is it," he asked, "that you want me to do?"

"I want you to represent my wife," Montaine said. "I want you to promise me that you'll see to it she doesn't get herself into this thing trying to shield Doctor Millsap. That's first. The second thing I want is for you to protect my father."

"Your father?"

"Yes."

"How does he come into it?"

"It will kill him if our name is involved in a murder case. I want you to keep the Montaine name out of it just as much as possible. I want you to keep him… er… in the background."

"That," Mason said, "is rather a large order. What else is it you want me to do?"

"I want you to assist in prosecuting Millsap if it should turn out that he's guilty."

"Suppose the prosecution of Millsap should involve your wife?"

"Then, of course, you'd have to see that he wasn't prosecuted."

Mason stared steadily at Carl Montaine. "There's a pretty good chance," he said, with slow emphasis, "that the police may not know anything about this garage key. They'll check down the list of persons owning Plymouth and Chevrolet cars. But if they should find your name, go to your garage and find that there wasn't any padlock on it or find a different padlock, they might not even question you or your wife."

Montaine drew himself up once more. "The police," he said, "are going to know about it."

"What makes you so positive?" Mason inquired.

"Because," Montaine said, "I am going to tell them. It is my duty. I don't care if she is my wife, I can't conceal facts. I can't stand between her and the law."

"Suppose she's innocent?"

"Of course, she's innocent," Montaine flared. "That's what I'm telling you. It's this man, Millsap, that's guilty. You can put two and two together. She was out. He was out. Moxley was murdered. She'll try to protect him. He'll sell her out. The police must be notified and…"

"Look here, Montaine," Mason interrupted, "you're jealous. That makes your mental perspective cockeyed. You'd better forget Millsap. Go to your wife. Get her explanation. Don't say a word to the police until…"

Montaine got to his feet, stood very dignified and very reserved, his heroic manner marred somewhat by the mop of hair which was slumped down over his forehead. "The very thing Millsap would want," he said. "He has primed my wife with a lot of lies. She'd try to keep me from notifying the police. Then when the police did discover about the keys where would I be? No, Counselor, my mind is made up; I must maintain my integrity. I will be firm with my wife, firm but sympathetic. To Millsap I shall be an avenging fury."

"For God's sake," Mason exploded, "quit that damned posing and come down to earth. You've sympathized with yourself so much that you've gone goofy and built up a mock heroic attitude…"

Montaine interrupted, his face flushed. "That will do," he said with the forceful dignity of one who is saturated with selfrighteousness. "My mind is made up, Counselor. I am going to notify the police. I feel it is for the best interests of all concerned that I do so. Millsap can dominate my wife. He can't dominate the police."

"You'd better go easy on that Millsap business," Mason warned. "You haven't a thing against him."

"He was out—at the very time the murder was being committed."

"He may have been out on a call. If you insist on telling the police about your wife, that's one thing. But you start spilling stuff about Millsap and you'll find yourself in a jam."

"Very well," Montaine agreed, "I will think over what you say. In the meantime you will represent my wife. You may send me a bill for your services. And please don't forget about my father. I want you to protect him in every way you can."

"I can't divide my allegiance," Mason said grimly. "I'll represent your wife first. If Millsap gets in the way, he'll be smashed. I don't see where your father needs any protection. But if I'm going to represent your wife I'm not going to have my hands tied. What's more, I'm going to make your father come across with some coin. This business about 'sending a bill' doesn't sound good to me."

Montaine said slowly, "Of course, I can see how you feel… My wife must come first… that's the way I want it."

"Before your father?" asked Mason.

Montaine lowered his eyes, said very faintly, "If it comes to that, yes."

"Well, it won't come to that. Your father isn't mixed up in it. But he does control the purse strings. I'm going to make him pay me for what I do."

"He won't. He hates Rhoda. I'll get the money somewhere, somehow. He won't pay a cent."

"When are you going to notify the police?" Mason asked, changing the subject abruptly.

"Now."

"Over the telephone?"

"No. I'm going to see them personally."

Montaine turned toward the door, then, suddenly remembering something, spun about and approached Mason's desk with outstretched palm. "My key, Counselor," he said. "I almost forgot that."

Perry Mason heaved a sigh, picked up the key from the desk and reluctantly dropped it into Montaine's palm. "I wish," he said, "you'd hold off doing anything until…" But Montaine marched to the corridor door, his manner oozing selfrighteous determination.