The Case of the Dubious Bridegroom

Nineteen

Up in Perry Mason’s suite in the U. S. Grant Hotel in San Diego, Lorraine Garvin looked across the table at Perry Mason. Her eyes were desperate, angry, and defiant.

In the chair at Mason’s right sat Paul Drake, watching her with shrewd eyes while Della Street was taking down in her shorthand notebook every word that was said.

“I tell you I didn’t leave that hotel,” Lorraine said desperately.

Mason’s eyes were cold and hard. “You had to leave that hotel,” he said. “Of all the people who were there, there were just two persons who were interested in Ethel Garvin. You and your husband.

“Now then, thanks to the testimony which has been dug up by the district attorney we can prove that your husband got up, took his car and drove away. It would not have been possible for him to have changed automobiles. He was seen in his own car at Oceanside. He was seen there at a time that indicates unmistakably he must have been driving his own car from the time he was seen to leave the Hotel Vista de la Mesa in Tijuana. Now then, here’s what happened. You knew what he was going to do. He’d been discussing it with you. When he left you knew that he was going up to see his ex-wife. You knew that you were in the position of being a bigamous wife until you could get her out of the way and have a legal ceremony.”

Her lips clamped in a firm line. “I’m not going to sit here and talk with you any longer,” she said. “I’m going to see my attorney.”

“I think you’d better,” Mason said. “You know what happened. You got up, dressed hurriedly, went out to the office, got the keys to my car, jumped in, crossed the border, and drove like a bat out of hell. You passed your husband before lie had gone halfway to Oceanside. You made contact with Ethel, murdered her...”

“I tell you I didn’t!”

“And I say you must have. You didn’t care too much whether you merely got her out of the way so your husband would be free to remarry you, or whether you caused him to be suspected of the murder and had him disposed of via the gas chamber, which is what you are trying to do now with your fake alibi.”

She pushed back her chair, got to her feet, and said, “No one can force me to stay here and listen to these insults. My husband asked me to lie to give him an alibi. I did. Now I’m going to consult an attorney who will represent me.”

In silence they watched her sweep across the room and go out and slam the door behind her.

Mason said, “Well at last we know what happened, but we have no way of proving it. That blood could have been placed there at any time. All the district attorney needs to do is to adopt the position that we planted the bloodstain by cutting a finger and getting a few drops of human blood on the rubber mat.”

“Then what would happen?” Della Street asked.

“Then,” Mason said, “our whole case against Lorraine Garvin would blow up and we’d be licked.”

Mason got to his feet, started pacing the floor, frowning.

The others watched in silence.

Then suddenly, Mason paused, whirled, looked at Paul Drake.

“What’s the matter?” Drake asked.

Mason said, “There’s another possibility we haven’t explored, Paul.”

“What is it?”

Mason said, “This thing has developed so darned fast, Paul, that we haven’t had time to think it out to a logical conclusion, but when you come right down to it, how did Lorraine Garvin make contact with Ethel?”

“Well, it’s a cinch she did it somehow,” Drake said.

Grabbing his hat, Mason said, “Come on. We’re going to drive to Tijuana. Bring a shorthand notebook, Della.”

The others followed Mason down to the garage where Mason jumped in his car and made time to Tijuana. They found Señora Inocente Miguerinio surrounded by newspapers, ensconced behind the desk in the hotel, her face beaming with pleasure over the realization that the trial of the millionaire miner had given her hotel a great deal of free advertising.

Mason said, “Good afternoon, señora.”

“Buenas tardes, señores, and you, too, señorita,” she said smiling, “and how goes eet weeth the case? You ’ave got your client acquitted, no?”

“No,” Mason said, “and I want to ask you a couple of questions. What about that last room you rented the night of the murder? Who rented it?”

“Eet was a señorita, a nice, sweet girl, with so beautiful curves,” and Señora Miguerinio swept her two hands in a series of curves indicating the contours of a feminine body.

“What color hair?” Mason asked.

“A beautiful blonde. The blonde that ees like platinum, no?”

Mason said, “Did she register? What name did she give?”

“I weel look up the register,” Señora Miguerinio said, and turning the pages of the register, said, “She was the Señorita Carlotta Delano, from Los Angeles.”

“When did she come in?”

“I do not know the time, señor. After all, here in Mexico we do not make so much importance of the time as do you yanquis. Eet was just before I turn out the lights and go to bed.”

Mason turned to regard Paul Drake with frowning concentration.

“What the devil,” Drake asked, “are you getting at?”

Mason said, “Let’s consider the time element, Paul. I left my room and went down to Edward Garvin’s room. During the time I was in his room, Señora Miguerinio must have rented the last room to this blond señorita. She then turned out the lights and went to bed. By the time I retraced my steps back to my room, the lights were out — but some girl was in the adjoining telephone booth putting through a phone call. As I remember it now, there was something significant about that phone call. Now it’s reasonable to suppose that this woman who was putting through the phone call was the woman to whom Señora Miguerinio had rented the last room.”

“Si, si, señor, that ees eet! She asked about the telephone and how she could make a call to Los Angeles.”

“Now then,” Mason said to Drake, “just suppose that this woman was actually our mysterious friend with the gun, the beautiful legs, and the habit of prowling the fire escape. Suppose this was Virginia Bynum telephoning to Los Angeles for instructions. Come on, Paul, we’re going to find out about that telephone call.”

Forty minutes later they had their answer. The call had been placed at nine fifty-five. A woman who gave her name as Miss Virginia Colfax had placed a call to Frank C. Livesey in Los Angeles.

Drake, regarding the sheet which contained the information, gave a low whistle.

Mason said, grimly, “Okay, Paul. Now I’m beginning to see daylight. I think I know who borrowed my automobile.”