The Case of the Dubious Bridegroom

Eight

From somewhere outside the west window there came a series of metallic, strident sounds emanating from some semitropical bird Mason could not, for the moment, place.

But, to add to the strangeness of the phenomenon, the bird seemed to have the habits of the woodpecker and kept up a steady tapping against the side of the building.

At length Mason’s irritation triumphed over the forces of slumber. The lawyer threw back the covers, sat up in bed and scowled at the window through which could be seen the dry, barren landscape, the first rays of early morning sun turning the mesa to gold.

At that point the lawyer realized that the steady, persistent tapping was not on the side of his room and was not made by a bird, but was a quiet, persistent tap-tap-tap-tap on his door.

In bare feet he padded across to the door and opened it.

A wooden-faced Mexican boy stood on the threshold. “Señor Mason?”

Mason nodded.

“Telefono,” the boy said, and moved away, sandaled feet sliding along the waxed red tiles of the floor.

“Hey, come back here,” Mason said. “Who is it? What?...”

“Telefono,” the boy called over his shoulder, and kept on walking.

Mason laughed, then he put on trousers and coat over his pajamas, and, without bothering with socks, thrust his bare feet into his shoes, and in a state of unlaced disarray marched down the corridor to the lobby.

The lobby was deserted but the door of one of the telephone booths was standing open, and the receiver was off the hook and on the shelf.

Mason entered the telephone booth, picked up the receiver, and said dubiously, “Hello.”

An impatient voice said, “Is this Mr. Mason?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Perry Mason?”

“Yes.”

“Los Angeles is calling. Hold the line, please.”

Mason reached out and pulled the door shut. A moment later Paul Drake’s voice on the line said, “Hello, Perry?”

“Yes,” Mason said. “Hello, Paul.”

“I’ve had the devil of a time getting you,” Drake said. “I’ve been trying ever since five o’clock this morning. I couldn’t get any answer down there until just a few minutes ago. Then they said they could get you but the talk was in Spanish and had to be relayed, translated and garbled. Why the devil don’t you stay someplace where there’s telephone service?”

“What’s the trouble?” Mason asked.

Drake said, “I am up against something that I thought you should know about. One of my men made a mistake. It’s an understandable mistake, but nevertheless it’s resulted in a botched-up job.”

“What happened?” Mason asked.

“We’ve lost Ethel Garvin.”

“The devil you have.”

“That’s right.”

“How did it happen?”

Drake said, “It’s a long story if you want it the long way and the easy way. If you want it the short way and the hard way we lost her, and that’s that.”

Mason thought for a moment, then said, “Give it to me the long and easy way... No, wait a minute, Paul. The wall between this telephone booth and the next one is thin as paper. Just a moment, let me check. Hold the line.”

Mason put down the receiver, opened the door of the telephone booth, jerked open the door of the adjoining booth, saw that it was empty, then returned to the telephone and said, “Okay, Paul. I was just checking — I overheard snatches of a telephone conversation last night through the wall of the adjoining booth. Now, tell me what happened.”

“After ten o’clock,” Drake said, “I cut down to one man. By that time there wasn’t much doing, and not many people going in and out of the apartment house. I told my man to keep an eye on anyone who looked as though he might be important, simply to check license numbers on the cars, times of arrival and times of departure.

“That’s where I made my mistake, Perry. I tried to have one man do too much work.

“My man, of course, had his car parked in a good spot right across from the front door of the apartment house. There isn’t a garage in the neighborhood and the tenants leave their cars on the street.”

“Go ahead,” Mason said, impatiently.

“You wanted it the long way,” Drake said. “I’m giving it to you. Here’s what happened. A rather well-dressed man, driving a Buick, circled the block, cruising around, evidently looking for a parking place. From the way he acted my man didn’t think he lived in the apartment house. The chap finally found a parking place half a block away, eased the car into the parking place, turned out the lights, and hurried across to the apartment house. For some reason my operative had a hunch he was about the type that might be calling on our party. He was well dressed and seemed in a hurry, as though he might be trying to keep from being late for an appointment. Putting two and two together, my man decided to go get his license number.

“As I have explained, my man didn’t dare to drive around to check up on that license number for fear he’d lose his own parking place, so he jumped out of the car and walked rapidly down the block toward the Buick.

“Well, he’d just got to the Buick when a taxicab swung around the corner and came to a stop in front of the Monolith Apartments. Ethel Garvin must have been in the lobby, waiting. She stepped out of the apartment house door and into the taxi, and they were off — as luck would have it, of course, in the wrong direction.

“My man sprinted back to his car, jumped in, but was in too much of a hurry to start the bus while the motor was cold, managed to flood the carburetor, and — well, what the hell. He lost her. He knows it was a Yellow Cab, but because it went in the wrong direction, he couldn’t get the number, and that’s that.

“He hurried to a phone and reported at once to the office. My night man got on the job, covering the Yellow Cabs, trying to find where she’d gone. It took us fifteen or twenty minutes to get that information. By that time it was too late. She’d gone to the garage where she keeps her car, a snappy club coupe that can make miles per hour. She didn’t even mention where she was going. She had an overnight bag with her. She was wearing some sort of a dark outfit, a jacket and a skirt, and my man thinks she had a little hat tipped over on the left side, but he can’t really be certain about that.”

“What was the time?” Mason asked.

“Ten-nineteen.”

“My man started checking in the apartment house. He claimed it was a cab he’d ordered. The clerk at the switchboard insisted she’d telephoned for that taxi, then had come downstairs to wait for it. He said she’d been in the lobby for some three or four minutes. He’s not particularly communicative. In fact right now, what with one thing and another, he’s damned suspicious of the whole setup. Trying to pry information out of him would be like trying to pry into a locked safe with a toothpick.”

Mason frowned and gave that information consideration.

“You still on the line?” Drake asked.

“I’m here,” Mason said. “Did you keep the apartment house covered?”

“Sure.”

“Then she hasn’t been back?”

“No. Now, wait a minute,” Drake said, “We’ve got one piece of information out of the clerk that I forgot to tell you. She came downstairs to the lobby, and while she was waiting for the taxicab she took two dollars over to the clerk and asked him if he could give her some quarters, two dimes and a nickel. She didn’t want anything larger than quarters... Now, there must have been some reason for that.”

“I get you,” Mason said. “She was going to telephone from a pay station.”

“That’s right, she had a phone call to make, long distance.”

“That’s interesting,” Mason said.

“Now, unfortunately,” Drake went on, “my night secretary is a little too thoughtful sometimes. She knew that I was tired and needed rest and she wouldn’t let them call me until around five o’clock this morning. I have a night manager on duty who’s a veteran and who did all of the usual things. He got busy with the garage, got a description of her automobile, the make, model, license number, and all that, and found out that the gas tank was only about half full when she took it out. That may mean something.

“When I got on the job at five o’clock this morning,” Drake said, “I put another operator in a car and started him for Oceanside. I told him to take a look in a very quiet discreet way around Hackley’s house down there and see if he could find any trace of the car. If he couldn’t, to circle around Oceanside and see if any of the stations that were open all night had remembered about servicing a car of that description. It may give us a lead. I should be hearing from my man pretty quick now.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “It looks as though you’ve done the best you can. Anything else?”

“That’s all to date.”

“Stay with it,” Mason said. “I’ll be right here. I guess I can arrange to have them call me — it’s pretty early and no one seems to be stirring, but call me back if anything develops, and if I don’t hear from you, I’ll call you in an hour.”

“Okay,” Drake said. “I’m sorry, Perry.”

“It’s all right,” Mason told him. “That’s one of the things that you just can’t guard against.”

“I’ll call you if anything new turns up,” Drake promised.

The lawyer hung up, looked around the lobby, could find no one, went to the front door, opened it and looked out into the driveway and parking space.

There were some half dozen cars in addition to Mason’s and Garvin’s in the driveway. The wooden-faced Mexican boy who had aroused Mason was sitting on the upper step soaking up the morning sunlight.

“What’s your name?” Mason asked.

“Pancho,” the boy said, without looking around.

Mason took a dollar from his pocket, stepped forward, and the young man promptly shoved out an expectant palm. Mason dropped the dollar.

“Gracias,” the boy said, without getting up.

Mason smiled, “You’re not so dumb as you look. If you answered that telephone, found out what my room number was and called me, you’re a pretty smart boy. You sit right there and listen for that telephone. If it rings again, answer it. If it’s for me, you come and call me quick. Understand?”

“Si, señor.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Mason said. “You got me all right? You understand English?”

“Si, señor.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “If the phone rings again and it’s for me, you get another dollar.”

Mason retraced his steps through the lobby to his room, showered, shaved, put on clean clothes and was just ready to inquire about breakfast when he heard sandals in the corridor, and a gentle tap-tap-tap on the door.

Mason opened the door.

The same boy stood in the corridor. “Telefono,” he said.

“Momentito,” Mason said, grinning.

The boy paused.

Mason took another dollar from his pocket.

The boy’s face lit in a smile. “Gracias,” he said, and shuffled off down the corridor.

Mason followed along behind, found the door of the telephone booth open, took the precaution of making certain the adjoining booth was empty, then picked up the receiver, said “Hello,” and waited again until he heard Paul Drake’s voice on the line.

“Hello, Paul,” Mason said. “What’s new?”

Drake’s voice came over the wire so fast that the words seemed to telescope each other in rattling their way through the receiver.

“Get this, Perry,” Drake said. “Get it fast. We’re sitting on a keg of dynamite. My man found Ethel Garvin.”

“Where?” Mason asked.

“Oceanside. About two miles south of town, sitting in her automobile parked about fifty or seventy-five feet off the road on the ocean side, dead as a mackerel, a bullet hole in her left temple. From the angle, there’s not much chance the wound could have been self-inflicted. She’s slumped over the steering wheel and it’s rather messy, quite a bit of blood and all that. The window by the steering wheel is rolled down, and the gun, apparently the one with which the crime was committed, is lying on the ground directly beneath the window.

“She could have twisted the gun around and managed to fire the weapon herself by holding it upside down, but it’s an unnatural position and an unnatural angle for a woman to fire a gun in a suicide attempt.”

“What about the police?” Mason asked.

“That’s just the point,” Drake said. “My man’s on the job. He discovered the body. No one else knows it’s there — yet. My operative managed to notify me. He’s notifying the police but he’s notifying them the long way around, calling the sheriff’s office in San Diego. It’s outside of the city limits of Oceanside, so technically he’s within his rights in calling the sheriff’s office and the coroner... Now get me on this, Perry. My man was too smart to touch the gun or disturb any of the evidence but he’s sure been taking in an eyeful. It looks as though two cars had been parked there, side by side, and the other car had driven away — and by bending down my man was able to get the number on the gun. It’s a Smith and Wesson .38 and the number is on the tang which crosses the grip on the gun. It’s S64805. I’m working my head off trying to trace that gun before the police get all the information. We may be just one jump ahead of them.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “I’m on my way. Get one jump ahead of them and stay one jump ahead of them.”

“Garvin and his wife are there with you?”

“Here,” Mason said, “but they’re not with me.”

“What do you want to do about them?”

“Hell,” Mason said irritably, “I don’t want to do anything about them. I want them to stay right here. Garvin can’t get across to the United States without being arrested on a bigamy charge. I don’t want to have that happen.”

Drake said, “I’ve had a little trouble getting this call through. I guess on account of getting a call across the border... Now, I took it on myself to do something, Perry, that I hope is all right.”

“What?”

“I called Della Street as soon as I got the flash and told her to jump into some clothes, grab her car and beat it down to Oceanside just as fast as she could... Now my man’s playing pretty dumb down there. The way he put the call in and everything there’s a pretty good chance there’ll be a delay. When he called the sheriff’s office in San Diego, he was going to make it sound like a suicide, sort of a routine affair. The sheriff’s office probably has some deputy in Oceanside. They’ll telephone that deputy to go out and cover the thing. Then the deputy will find it looks like a murder and call back to the sheriff’s office and all in all it will be some time before the sheriff and the coroner get there. The body won’t be moved until the coroner’s office arrives. Now, that’s going to give you a chance if you hurry.”

“Hell’s bells,” Mason said, “ ‘hurry’ is my middle name. I’m glad you got Della started. I may want some notes taken.”

“I told her to look around and cover everything she could,” Drake said. “You should be able to get there from Tijuana just as soon as she can get on the job from Los Angeles, maybe sooner, depending on traffic conditions, and in view of the delay in my getting this call through.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “I’ll get going.”

He hung up the receiver, ran down the corridor to his room, threw things in his bag, then sprinted out for the lobby.

Pancho was seated on the front steps.

Mason said, “Pancho, I have two friends here, a Mr. and Mrs. Garvin. They’re in Rooms 5 and 6. When they get up, tell them that I had to go away on business, tell them that someone we both know is dead, and that they’re to wait right here until they hear from me. They aren’t to go anywhere. Tell them to wait right here. You understand?”

“Si, señor.”

Mason said, “I haven’t paid my hotel bill. Here’s twenty dollars. See that the woman who runs the place gets the money for my room, will you?”

“Si, señor.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “I’m on my way.”

He flung his suitcase into the car, opened the door, jumped in and was fumbling with the ignition switch when Pancho emerged from the office, grinning, and said in excellent English, “Your keys, Mr. Mason. You leave them in the cash drawer in the desk so that as yard boy I can move the cars in the morning if necessary — only my aunt, Señora Inocente Miguerinio, is very careful to take all of the cash out of the cash drawer when she goes to bed.”

Mason grinned, took the keys and said, “You do speak good English, don’t you, Pancho?”

“What the hell do you think I go to school for?” Pancho asked.