The Case of the Dubious Bridegroom

Sixteen

When court reconvened the next morning, Hamlin L. Covington, having slept on the events of the previous day, and having made his first appraisal of Mason’s character, was warily watchful as he proceeded to lay the foundation for his knockout punch.

Records were introduced showing the marriage of Edward Charles Garvin to Ethel Carter. Then by witnesses Covington proved the Mexican divorce and the marriage to Lorraine Evans. Then Covington sought to introduce certified copies of the records showing the filing of the complaint charging Garvin with bigamy, the warrant which had been issued for his arrest.

“Now then,” Judge Minden said, as Covington handed up the certified copies of the records which he proposed to introduce in evidence, “I take it this is the point at which we can argue the matter which was touched on in the district attorney’s opening statement. I presume you’d like to have the jury excluded, Mr. Mason, while you make your objection and argue it.”

“On the contrary,” Mason said, smiling at the judge, “after having thought the matter over, and in view of the manner in which the evidence has now been introduced, I think that it is a proper part of the district attorney’s case. It would go to show motive, under the hypotheses claimed by the district attorney, so I’ll make no objection whatever.”

Covington, who had been eagerly looking forward to a courtroom battle wherein he could best Mason on the lawyer’s legal objection, yielded with bad grace. “You made enough commotion about it when I merely touched on it in my opening statement,” he said.

“That was before you had offered orderly proof,” Mason told him in the manner of a teacher rebuking an ignorant and presumptuous pupil. “As the Court pointed out to you, the matter should have been handled in this way. Now that you’re following this procedure I have no objection whatever, Mr. District Attorney.”

“Very well,” Judge Minden said quickly, forestalling the angry reply which was quite evidently trembling on Covington’s lips, “the documents will be received in evidence. Proceed, Mr. District Attorney.”

And Covington proceeded. Slowly, remorselessly, he built up a wall of evidence.

Virginia Bynum testified to having left the gun on the fire escape. Livesey told of bringing it in, handing it to Garvin; of being instructed to put it in the glove compartment of Garvin’s car and of doing so.

George L. Denby told of the gun being brought in and handed to Garvin.

Mason seemed utterly detached, didn’t even bother to cross-examine either Virginia Bynum or Livesey. He did ask Denby on cross-examination, “How do you know it was the same gun?”

“It had the same number, sir.”

“Did you write the number down?”

“No, sir. I looked at it.”

“And remembered it?”

“Yes, sir, I have a photographic memory for numbers. I deal in them so much I get to remember them.”

“That’s all,” Mason snapped.

Covington grinned over at his assistant. “Dropped that one like a hot potato, didn’t lie?”

“I’ll say,” Jarvis gleefully agreed.

Covington went on with the building of a deadly wall of evidence. He showed that Edward Garvin and the woman whom he claimed as his second wife, Lorraine Evans, had stopped in the hotel at La Jolla. Calling the woman who ran the hotel, he showed their abrupt departure; showed that immediately after driving out for dinner they had returned, packed and hastily checked out, and at that time another person had been with them, a visitor who was also driving a convertible somewhat similar in size, color and appearance to Garvin’s automobile.

Covington built to his dramatic climax. “Do you,” he asked the woman who managed the hotel, “know the identity of that other person?”

Mason said quite casually, “Why you don’t need to waste time with that, Mr. District Attorney, I was the driver of that other car. I’m quite willing to admit it.”

Realizing that the testimony had been robbed of much of its dramatic value, Covington, nevertheless, managed to turn Mason’s admission to good account. “Exactly,” he said smiling, “and immediately after your visit, the defendant, and the person to whom he then claimed he was married, went dashing off to Mexico.”

“Do you,” Mason asked, “want to be sworn as a witness and state that as a fact?”

“No,” Covington said, smiling serenely at Mason. “I will prove it by a competent witness whom you may cross-examine, Mr. Mason. Call Señora Inocente Miguerinio.”

The fleshy, good-natured proprietor of the Vista de la Mesa Hotel rolled seductive hips as she walked to the stand, readily identified the defendant and the auburn-haired woman who was seated in the chair beside him; told how the pair had come to stay at her hotel on the night before the murder.

Covington looked at the clock so that he could explode his bombshell in time for the afternoon editions.

“Call Howard B. Scanlon.”

Howard Scanlon, a spare, rangy man in the early fifties, whose face with high cheekbones, long, determined mouth, and faded blue eyes, showed a singular lack of self-consciousness, came striding forward, held up his hand, and was sworn.

Covington glanced at the clock, then settled back in his chair.

Scanlon gave his name and address to the court reporter, then looked up to face Covington, awaiting the opening of his questioning.

Covington managed to make his manner elaborately casual. “What’s your occupation, Mr. Scanlon?”

“I’m a painter, sir.”

“Exactly. And on the night of September twenty-first, where were you?”

“I was in Tijuana, staying at the Hotel Vista de la Mesa.”

“Anything in particular that fixes that time in your mind, Mr. Scanlon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What?”

“I’d been looking for the right kind of a job. My wife was in Portland, Oregon. That’s where I’d been before I came to Southern California, and I made up my mind that if I could get the kind of a job...”

“Now just a moment,” Covington interrupted with fatherly benevolence, “don’t tell us what you thought, don’t tell us anything about your own business problems, Mr. Scanlon, just try and answer the question. Is there anything that fixes the night of the twenty-first day of September in your mind?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now just what is it? Just tell us just what fixes that date in your mind.”

“Well, I tried to telephone my wife to get her to come down here.”

“I see. Now, where was your wife?”

“In Portland, Oregon.”

“And you were trying to place a telephone call to her?”

“Yes.”

“At what time?”

“Well, I’d been calling her all during the evening, but she hadn’t been home. She was out with friends at a movie and...”

“Now just don’t testify to anything that you don’t know. Nothing that your wife may have told you later, Mr. Scanlon, just what you did. Now you have stated that the date is fixed in your mind because you were trying to telephone your wife.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you talk with your wife?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What time?”

“That was at about ten minutes past ten when my call came through.”

“Now did you notice the time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now while you were waiting for that call to come through, immediately prior to ten-ten, where were you?”

“I was in the telephone booth.”

“Where?”

“At this hotel, the Vista de la Mesa, in Tijuana.”

“There’s more than one booth there?”

“Yes, there is.”

“Now how long did you wait before your party came on the line?”

“About five minutes, I think.”

“And during the time you were waiting there, did someone have occasion to enter the other telephone booth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where?”

“There in the hotel in Tijuana.”

“At what time?”

“Just before ten-ten. I’d guess about ten-five, something like that.”

“You know that it was before ten-ten?”

“Yes, sir, because my call came through at ten-ten.”

“And how long was it before your call came through that someone entered the other booth?”

“Not over five minutes.”

“Now did you see this person?”

“Not then. I did later.”

“How much later?”

“About two or three minutes later when he left the booth.”

“You did see him then?”

“When he was leaving the booth, yes, sir.”

“Who was he, if you know?”

The witness raised a pointing forefinger. “That man sitting there.”

“You are pointing at Edward Charles Garvin, the defendant in this action?”

“Yes, sir, that man sitting right beside Mr. Mason, the lawyer.”

“And you saw this man Garvin emerging from the adjoining booth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what did he do while lie was in there, if you know?”

“He put through a long-distance call.”

“How do you know?”

“I could hear him.”

“You could hear his voice coming through the partition from the other booth?”

“That’s right. I was sitting there right next to the partition and...”

“And what did he say?”

“I heard him say that he wanted to place a long-distance call. I remember he said he wanted to talk with Ethel Garvin at the Monolith Apartments in Los Angeles, and then a moment later I heard him put in money, and then start talking, and he said: ‘Ethel, this is Edward. There’s no use our throwing a lot of money away on lawyers. I’m down in Tijuana now and you can’t touch me here. I’m going to drive up to Oceanside. Suppose you jump in your car and drive down there and meet me. We’ll talk things over, and work out something that’ll be satisfactory.’ And then he was silent for a while and then he said: ‘Now don’t be like that. I’m not a fool. I wouldn’t be calling you unless I had plenty on you. Remember that man you were playing around with in Nevada? Well I know all about him. I know where he is right this minute.’ And then he went on to tell her where this man was and how to get to his ranch. I’ve forgotten just what the directions were, but it was some place out of Oceanside.”

“Did he mention the name of this man?”

“No, sir, I don’t think he did. If he did, I don’t remember that. Just the man she had been playing around with in Nevada.”

“And then what did he say, if anything?”

“He said: ‘You’d better come to Oceanside. I’ll meet you on the lot we used to own there, the place where we were going to build our house. I’ll drive up there and meet you. I’ll be there with my car, and I’ll leave the lights on so you’ll know it’s me.’ ”

“And then what else did he say?”

“Nothing. He just said he was glad she was being sensible and hung up.”

“And then what?” Covington asked.

“And then the man walked out of the booth.”

“Cross-examine,” Covington snapped at Perry Mason.

Mason looked at the clock. It was eleven-thirty-two, too early to ask the court to take a noon adjournment. Too late to suggest that the court might give him a few minutes by way of recess.

Mason managed a smile which masked his feelings, said casually, and in a voice which was so low as to be hardly audible, “Rather keen of hearing, Mr. Scanlon?”

“Yes, sir, I am,” Scanlon said, “I always have been. I could hear things pretty well.”

“Now when you repeated what this man said,” Mason said, “you quoted his exact words.”

“Well, I can’t say they’re his exact words, but that’s about what he said.”

“You’ve talked with Mr. Covington, the district attorney, before you came to court?”

“Yes, sir, I have.”

“And did you discuss your testimony with Mr. Covington?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Several times?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was that the way you repeated the conversation when you first talked with him — the way you’re telling it now?”

“Well, he told me I had to say what the man said. He said I couldn’t just say the general effect of what he said, that I had to use the man’s exact words as nearly as I could remember what they were. So that’s what I tried to do.”

Mason said, “You were spending the night at the Hotel Vista de la Mesa?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long had you been there?”

“Two days.”

“In other words this conversation took place on the second night that you stayed there?... Or was it the third?”

“It was the second.”

“Now you had been trying to get your wife earlier in the evening?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was there any particular reason why you hadn’t called her earlier during the day?”

“Yes, sir, there was. I had work in San Ysidro but I couldn’t find a place to live. I simply couldn’t find a house either to buy or rent. Then I found out that I might be able to live across the border in Tijuana and commute back and forth.

“I went across the border and stayed at this hotel while I was looking around for a place that I could rent. I had to get permission from the Mexican authorities and I finally had things all fixed up, so I wanted to telephone my wife and tell her to bring our things down. Naturally I wanted her to get started just as soon as possible, because I couldn’t maintain two homes and I wanted to be reunited with my family.”

“I see,” Mason said. “So you went in there to the booth to telephone her?”

“That’s right.”

“Now, did you hear the clock chime?”

“Yes, sir, there was a clock that chimed.”

“Did you hear the clock chime at ten o’clock?”

“I did, yes, sir.”

“Where were you at that time?”

“I was just coming down the hall to the telephone booth. I’d called my wife earlier in the evening — oh, three or four times, and no one had answered. I felt certain she would be back by ten o’clock, so as it approached the hour of ten I decided to go telephone once more.”

“Now the lights were burning brightly in the lobby at that time?” Mason asked conversationally.

“No, sir, they were not.”

“They weren’t?” Mason asked, apparently surprised.

“No, sir, those lights were turned off sometime shortly before ten o’clock when the woman who runs the hotel rented the last room.”

Mason said with a smile, “Just what you know, please. Don’t testify to what she subsequently told you. You don’t know of your own knowledge why the lights were turned off.”

“Yes, sir, as it happens I do. I was in the lobby when the last room was rented. A young woman traveling by herself rented the room and I heard t he conversation at the time when the Mexican woman who runs the place told her that this was the last room in the house, and she was going to close up the place and turn off the lights. I actually saw her turn out the lights.”

“What time was that?”

“It was just — well, I don’t know. It was a few minutes before ten o’clock. Oh, perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, something like that. I can’t be certain of the time. I was sort of killing time waiting for ten o’clock to come. I made up my mind that I’d try to put through my call again at ten o’clock.”

“Well,” Mason said, as though Scanlon’s testimony had ruined his last chance of cross-examination, “apparently you had every occasion to remember everything about the events of that evening.”

“I did, yes, sir.”

“So the lights were turned out sometime before ten?”

“That’s right.”

“No lights at all in the lobby?”

“Oh, yes, there was a night light. It was rather dim.”

“I see,” Mason said casually. “Then you saw this man who had put in the telephone call from the booth next to you as he left the booth. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You remained in the telephone booth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Opened the door and looked out?”

“Yes, sir, that’s right.”

“Didn’t open it all the way?”

“No, sir, just a crack.”

“Now, do you mean just a crack or do you mean several inches?”

“Just a crack.”

Mason smiled and said, “You’re certain of that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now if the door was only opened a crack,” Mason said, “it would have been possible for you to have seen through that crack with only one eye, whereas if it had been opened several inches you could have seen with two eyes. Now think very carefully. Was it merely a crack, or was the door open several inches?”

“Just a crack.”

“Then you only saw this figure leaving the telephone booth with one eye. Is that right?”

“Well, I guess so, yes. I hadn’t stopped to consider it before, but I remember I had the door opened just a crack. I guess I only did see him with one eye.”

“And this man left the booth and then went down the corridor toward the rooms?”

“No, sir, he didn’t. He went out of the front door.”

“What door?”

“The exit door, out to where the cars were parked, and drove away.”

“How do you know he drove away?” Mason asked.

“Well, I... I guess I don’t actually know that he drove away but I saw him walk out, and just a few seconds after that I heard a car being started out there in the driveway. Then headlights came on and shone in the lobby for a second or two and furnished a bright illumination. Then the car swung around and the beam of light from the headlights swept across the lobby and disappeared.”

“And you didn’t see that man again until you entered this courtroom today to testify?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“Where did you see him?”

“The officers arranged to put him in a place where I could see him.”

“After he was arrested?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anyone else with him?” Mason asked. “Did the officers use a line-up so that there were several men in your line of vision and then ask you to pick out the man you had seen?”

“No, sir, they didn’t. There was just this one man there, but they contrived to have him walk around so I could see the way he walked, his gait, and his general build, and things of that sort.”

“By the way,” Mason said casually, “do you know what color clothes the man had on when you saw him leaving the booth? Was it a brown suit?”

“Sort of a brown, I think, yes, sir.”

“What color shoes?”

“Dark, I think.”

“And his necktie?”

“His necktie was... let me see. No, I never saw his necktie.”

“You don’t know whether he had a necktie on or not?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because I never had a front view of this man.”

“You didn’t see his features then?”

“No, sir.”

“Was he wearing a hat?”

“I... I can’t remember.”

“You don’t remember whether this man was wearing a hat?” Mason asked.

“No, sir.”

“You know what color socks he had on?”

“No, sir,” Scanlon said, smiling.

“Or the color of his shirt?”

“It was... I think it was... No, sir, I don’t know.”

“So,” Mason said, “you are identifying a man whom you saw with one eye through a crack in the door in a dark lobby, a man whose face you had never seen in your life until the police pointed him out to you in the jail and...”

“No, sir, that’s not right. I pointed him out to the police.”

“In the jail?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were with the police at the time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many other prisoners were in sight?”

“Just this one. There were no others in the place where I saw this man.”

“And yet you say the police didn’t point him out to you?” Mason asked sarcastically. “They did tell you they were going to show you a man they wanted you to identify, didn’t they?”

“Well, they said they’d like to have to look at this man and see if I could, identify him.”

“And then this one man was brought in to the yard or shadow box or whatever place it was where you were given an opportunity to look at him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And do you mean to tell me that one of the police officers didn’t say to you at that time in effect, ‘There he is. Take a good look at him. Look at the way he walks. Look at him when his back’s turned’?”

“Well, yes, they did say something like that.”

“And you identified this man before the officer said that?”

“No, sir,” Scanlon said. “It was afterwards.”

“How long afterwards?”

“After he’d walked around for a little while.”

“I see. Just as soon as the officer told you that he wanted you to identify this man you pointed your finger and said, ‘That’s the man,’ didn’t you?”

“No, sir, I didn’t. I looked him over a good long while before I identified him.”

“A long while,” Mason said scornfully, “ten or fifteen or twenty seconds, I presume.”

“No, sir,” Scanlon insisted, “it was a minute or two.”

“As much as two minutes?” Mason asked.

“Yes, I’m certain it was.”

“Could it have been longer than that?”

“It could have been.”

“As much as three minutes?”

“I’ll say it could have been. I think perhaps it was. I wanted to be sure.”

“In other words,” Mason said, “it took you three minutes of careful study of this defendant under conditions of good visibility to make up your mind that he was the man.”

“Well, it could have been three minutes.”

“Now, when you saw this man whom you observed in Tijuana that night,” Mason said, “you saw him after he had left the telephone booth and while he was walking across the lobby?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How fast was he walking? Was he moving rather rapidly?”

“Well, he was walking right along.”

“And you didn’t see him until after he had passed a few feet from the telephone booth?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“Ten feet?” Mason asked.

“Perhaps.”

“And you couldn’t see him after he had passed through the outer door and gone out into the yard where the cars were parked?”

“No, sir.”

“Now, how many feet is it across that lobby?”

“Oh, I’d say it was perhaps twenty-five feet.”

“So you only saw this man while he was walking rather rapidly for a distance of fifteen feet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you observed him with one eye?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In semi-darkness.”

“Yes, sir.”

“With his back turned toward you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that’s why it was so difficult for you to be absolutely certain when you made your subsequent identification, wasn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

Mason said, “That’s why you studied the matter for some three minutes before you were able subsequently to identify this man and say to the officers, ‘Yes, that’s the man.’ ”

“Yes, sir, that’s right.”

“Now, how long do you suppose it took that man to walk the fifteen feet?” Mason asked.

“I don’t know. I hadn’t figured it. A little while.”

“Do you know how many miles an hour a man covers at an ordinary walk?”

“Well, if you want to put it in miles an hour,” Scanlon said, “while he was going that fifteen feet I’d say he was walking — oh probably three miles an hour.”

“All right,” Mason said, “let’s do a little mathematical computation.”

He whipped a small slide rule from his pocket, manipulated it quickly, said, “For your information, Mr. Scanlon, a person walking one mile an hour covers about .46 feet per second, so at the rate of three miles an hour that man would cover approximately 4.4 feet per second.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Scanlon said, smiling.

Mason said, “So in walking fifteen feet at the rate of speed you mention, the man would have covered the distance in something less than three and one-half seconds. Therefore, unless you are mistaken, you saw this individual for approximately three and one-half seconds with one eye under conditions of dim light.”

“Well, I guess that’s right if you say so.”

“I’m simply making the necessary mathematical computations from what you yourself have told me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you now think that’s right, do you, Mr. Scanlon, that you saw this man for about three and a half seconds?”

“Well, I thought it was longer than that but if that’s the way it figures out why I guess that’s right.”

“Saw him three and a half seconds under conditions of very poor visibility with one eye, looking at his back,” Mason said, “but when you wanted to identify him for the police, when you wanted to be sure, it took you three minutes under conditions of broad daylight looking at him where you could see his face, his figure and everything about him?”

“Well, I wanted to be sure.”

“So in order to be sure of the man’s identity you had to look at him for three minutes with both eyes and in full daylight?”

“Well, to be absolutely certain.”

“Then,” Mason said, with a friendly, disarming smile, “when you saw him under conditions of poor visibility for only three and a half seconds looking at him with only one eye, you naturally weren’t absolutely certain of his identity, were you? Not at that time, at the end of the three-and-a-half-second interval?”

“No, I wasn’t certain of it then,” Scanlon conceded, “not absolutely. But I was after I saw him there in the jail.”

“I thought so,” Mason said, with a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Scanlon, that’s all.”

“That’s all,” Covington snapped angrily.

Judge Minden looked at the clock. I’ve said, “It appears to be approximately the hour for the noon adjournment. We’ll take our usual adjournment until two o’clock this afternoon. The jury will remember the admonition of the Court and refrain from discussing the case or permitting it to be discussed in their presence, nor will they form or express any opinion concerning the guilt or innocence of the defendant until the case is finally submitted.

“Court will take a recess until two o’clock.”

Edward Garvin reached out and caught Mason’s arm. His fingers pressed into the flesh of the lawyer’s arm. “Mason,” he said, “for God’s sake I...”

Mason turned to smile reassuringly at his client, but the smile was only on the lawyer’s lips. His eyes were cold and hard.

“Smile,” Mason said.

“I...”

“Smile, damn it,” Mason said in a low half-whisper, “smile.”

A travesty of a grin twisted Garvin’s features.

“Do better than that,” Mason said, “smile and keep that smile on your face until the jury have filed out.”

Mason watched expression struggling on Garvin’s face, laughed good-naturedly, patted Garvin on the shoulder, said, “Well, let’s get some eats,” and turned casually away.

“Mason, I’ve got to see you,” Garvin whispered.

Mason said over his shoulder in a low voice, “Try to see me now and with the jury looking at you, and with that expression on your face, and you’ll be buying a one-way ticket to the death cell in San Quentin.”

And with that the lawyer walked casually out of the courtroom, his brief case tucked under his arm, an expression of smiling unconcern on his countenance.

Della Street joined Perry Mason in the corridor. “Good lord, chief,” she said in a whisper, “could he be telling the truth?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “I’m going to find out later, but I don’t dare to let the spectators or the jurors see me holding any hurried conference with my client at this moment.”

“What do we do now?” she asked.

“Get Paul Drake and eat,” Mason said. “It’s all we can do.”

Drake came pushing his way out of the crowd milling around the door of the courtroom, a crowd that looked curiously at Mason.

Drake grabbed Mason’s arm and squeezed it. “Boy,” he said, “you did a great job of cross-examination there, Perry. You made the guy admit that it took him three minutes to identify a man under good light and yet he only saw him three seconds when he was looking at his back in the dark.”

“Just the same,” Mason said, “there’s something about that witness that bothers me. He’s prejudiced, he’s testifying to a composite of what he thinks he saw, what he thinks he remembered, and what he thinks must have happened, and he’s now testifying positively; but somehow there’s a certain underlying sincerity, a rugged sense of fairness the guy has that bothers me.”

“You don’t suppose your client did go out and do any nocturnal wandering around, do you?”

“How the devil would I know?” Mason said. “Every so often a client lies to you. But in this case we have an ace up our sleeve.”

“You mean his wife’s testimony?”

“That’s right. Of course the jury will probably figure she’d back her husband regardless, but they’re not going to send a newlywed to San Quentin and leave a beautiful bride languishing for her lover if they can avoid it. I’m hoping that Mrs. Garvin’s alibi will overcome Scanlon’s testimony.”

“She’s certain of the time?” Drake asked.

“Sure she is,” Mason said. “That’s the advantage of having a clock that chimes.”

“Loud chimes?”

“Sure, I heard it. I heard it chime ten o’clock that night when I went to bed. I...”

He broke off as he saw Señora Miguerinio emerge from an elevator and come rolling down the corridor with an enormous clock under her arm. She flashed a good-natured smile at Perry Mason, and said, “How do you theenk, Meester Mason? Does the husband come back to his wife and again make the honeymoon in my little hacienda, no?”

“Oh sure,” Mason said, with an air of great confidence. “What are you doing with the clock, Señora?”

“The deestrict attorney he wants those clock.”

“Why?” Mason asked.

“Because he ees to show heem to the jury.”

“What clock is it?” Mason asked, keeping his manner exceedingly casual.

“Thees ees the clock from my hotel, the clock that I have to tell the time.”

“The one that strikes the chimes?” Mason asked.

“Sure, strikes the chimes,” she said, and then added, “during the day it strike the chimes.”

“During the day?” Mason inquired.

She nodded. “Sure, during day, yes. During the night, no. He wake the guests up. People like to hear the chime of the clock in Mexico during the daytime but at night and the chimes go off, no?”

“And what happens to the chimes during the night?” Mason asked.

“Thees ees electric clock,” she said, “weeth chimes. Here ees a sweech on the side of the clock. When you don’t want the chimes you pool thees sweech like thees and the chimes go off, no?”

“You mean when you pull this switch the chimes don’t sound any more?”

“That’s right. You pool the sweech and the chimes he don’t go until you pool the sweech back up. Every night when I go to bed, just before I go into my bed, I pool the sweech down and the chimes he don’t sound no more. Then in the morning when ees time for people to get up and ees nice and sunny and warm, why then I pool the sweech up and the chimes start once more.”

“So the district attorney wants to see the clock?”

“Sure, the clock ees to be sold to the government. He shows heem to the jury and then have to put heem in court and the law ees going to buy me a new clock to take the place of thees one. I tell them I am a poor widow woman and I cannot afford to buy a new clock, I cannot bring thees clock in unless I have one for my hotel. You cannot run a hotel without a clock. No?”

“Certainly not,” Mason said.

“Well,” she said, “I have to go see the deestrict attorney. He tole me to come just as soon as court ees out because he wants to talk weeth me about my testimony. I have to go back on the weetness stand weeth the clock.”

“Well,” Mason said, “we’ll go on to lunch.”

“You enjoy your lunch, señor,” she said.

“Oh sure,” Mason told her, “we will. Thank you.”

They turned and resumed their walk down the corridor.

Drake muttered an exclamation under his breath.

“Good heavens, chief,” Della said in a hushed whisper.

“Enjoy your lunch,” Mason repeated sarcastically.