The Case of the Dubious Bridegroom

One

Night changed the city’s skyscrapers from hard shafts of steel and concrete to wraithlike fingers etched in light.

The buildings visible from Perry Mason’s office showed, here and there, oblongs of lighted windows, but for the most part were illuminated only by floodlights from without.

Perry Mason, wearied after a hard day in court, had switched out the lights in his office and stretched out in the big arm chair facing his desk. He had intended at first only to rest his eyes, which had become tired from concentrating on the fine print of lawbooks, but fatigue had asserted itself and he had dropped off into the warmth of slumber.

Enough illumination came from the street and alley to show the fire escape outside Mason’s window, the desk, piled with open lawbooks, the quiet figure in the huge overstuffed leather chair where Mason persuaded nervous clients to relax and pour forth their troubles.

It had been a hot day, but now a storm was blowing up and vagrant wisps of wind circling the building swept past the partially opened window.

Mason stirred restlessly, as though twitched by a subconscious reminder of the pile of work on his desk, and the necessity of formulating an opinion upon a difficult legal matter before the next day.

From the dark silence above Mason’s window on the fire escape came the sound of faint motion, then a well-shod, graceful, feminine foot came groping down the iron stair tread. A moment later the other foot followed.

Slowly, cautiously, a young woman descended the fire escape, until her head was on a level with the landing of the office above.

Lights clicked on in the upper office. A rectangle of light sent rays of radiance out into the darkness.

Mason stirred in his sleep, muttered unintelligibly and flung a restless arm over the arm of the chair.

There was a shadow as a figure moved away from the lighted window above.

The girl on the fire escape hastily descended two more steps, apparently intending to reach the landing in front of Mason’s office window.

Then suddenly, as Mason moved his arm again, the girl on the fire escape detected that motion and froze into startled immobility.

A gust of wind, whipping up the alley, billowed her skirts and she instinctively flung down her right hand, fighting against the blowing garment.

The light which sifted in from the street glinted upon reflecting metal.

Mason straightened up in his chair.

The girl on the fire escape turned, started to climb, then stopped, apparently dreading to cross that shaft of light coming from the window of the office above Mason’s. The wind freshened. In the distance, thunder rumbled ominously.

Mason yawned, rubbed his eyes, glanced upward, then snapped to incredulous attention as he saw the whipping skirt, the legs of the girl.

He slid out of the chair in a quick, lithe motion and around the desk to the window, peered upward, and said, “Do come...”

The girl on the fire escape held a warning finger to her lips.

Mason frowned up at her. “What’s the idea...”

She shook her head in a frenzy of impatience, motioned imperatively for silence, struggled with her skirts.

Mason beckoned.

She hesitated.

Mason swung one leg out of the office window.

The girl sensed the threat of that motion. She started slowly down the fire escape. Her right hand made a quick, flinging gesture. A metallic object caught the light rays and glittered, then ceased to glitter. She struggled again with her skirts.

“You must have had a free show,” she said laughingly, her voice almost a whisper.

“I did,” Mason said. “Come in.”

Once having decided that surrender was inevitable, she was tractable enough. She slipped a leg over the sill of Mason’s window, then, pivoting lightly, jumped into the room.

Mason walked over toward the light switch.

“Please don’t,” she said in quietly modulated tones.

“Why not?”

“I’d prefer that you didn’t. It might — might be dangerous.”

“For whom?” Mason asked.

“For me,” she said, and then added after a moment, “for you.”

Mason surveyed the figure that was silhouetted against the light of the window. “You don’t look as though you had anything to fear from the light.”

She laughed melodiously, “You ought to know. How long had you been sitting there?”

“An hour or so, but I was asleep.”

“You woke up at the crucial moment,” she laughed. “That wind caught me unaware.”

“I realized that it did,” Mason said. “What was it you had in your right hand?”

“A handful of skirt.”

“Something metallic.”

“Oh that,” she said, and laughed. “A flashlight.”

“And what became of it?”

“It slipped out of my hand.”

“Are you certain it wasn’t a gun?” Mason asked.

“Why, how absurd, Mr. Mason!”

“You know my name?”

She pointed to the frosted glass of the office door, illuminated by the corridor light outside. “It’s all over your door, and I can read backwards.”

“I still think it was a gun. What did you do with it?”

“I didn’t have a gun. Anyway, the thing that you saw slipped out of my hand and went sailing down into the alley below.”

“How do I know?” Mason asked, moving cautiously toward her.

She flung her arms out straight from the shoulder, said, “All right, I suppose I have this coming.”

Mason stepped quickly toward her. His hands slid down her body.

For a moment, at that first touch, she winced, then she stood rigidly still.

“Is it necessary to be that thorough?” she asked.

“I think it is,” Mason said. “Don’t move.”

“The object of this search, Mr. Mason, is to detect a weapon!”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “I wasn’t the one who made this search necessary. It’s going to be sufficiently thorough to assure my protection.”

He could feel her muscles stiffen, but she uttered no word, made no motion.

“Finished?” she demanded coldly, as Mason dropped his hands to his sides.

He nodded.

She put down her hands. Lights, reflected from the street, showed her mouth was hard as she walked over to a chair, sat down and took a cigarette case from her purse. “I don’t like that sort of thing.”

“I don’t like women to shoot me,” Mason said. “You did have a gun, you know. I suppose you tossed it down into the alley.”

“Why don’t you run down and find out, Mr. Mason?”

“I think I can do better than that. I think I can ask the police to make a search.”

She laughed scornfully. “That would make a nice story. I can see the headlines in my mind’s eye: ‘PROMINENT LAWYER CALLS POLICE TO SEE IF THERE IS A REVOLVER IN THE ALLEY BELOW HIS WINDOW.’ ”

Mason watched her thoughtfully. Light from her match showed the oval of a beautiful face. The hand that held the match was steady.

“And then,” she went on, her eyes twinkling with sardonic humor, “there would be a rather humorous story: ‘THE LAWYER REFUSED TO MAKE ANY EXPLANATION WHEN POLICE FAILED TO FIND THE WEAPON. — WAS PERRY MASON PRACTICING A JUGGLING ACT WITH A REVOLVER WHEN THE WEAPON SLIPPED OUT OF HIS HAND AND DROPPED DOWN TO THE ALLEY OR WAS HE PRACTICING AT DISARMING CLIENTS?’ — It would make quite a story.”

“And what makes you think I’ll make no explanation?” Mason asked.

“I don’t think you will,” she said. “It would involve you somewhat, don’t you think?”

“Would it?”

“Seeing a woman on the fire escape, forcing her to enter your office, accusing her of carrying a weapon, all with no proof... It would leave you open to a suit for damages, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t think so,” Mason said. “You see, after all, I’d be in the position of having found a prowler who was about to enter my office via the fire escape and...”

“Enter your office!” she interjected scornfully.

“Weren’t you?”

“Of course not.”

Mason said, “I’m afraid I’m too busy to waste time with you right now. If you can’t make some adequate explanation I’m going to have to pick up that receiver and ask the police to call.”

“A new page in your record,” she said. “Perry Mason calling the police!”

He smiled at the thought. “I admit it would be a bit unusual. Suppose you make the explanation?”

She said, “Haven’t I been humiliated enough tonight? Having to stand there while you...”

“I was searching for a weapon, you know that.”

“Was that your entire interest in the transaction?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re even more of a machine than I thought,” she flared.

“Well, you’ll have to figure it out for yourself.”

Mason moved toward the telephone.

She said hastily, “Wait!”

The lawyer turned.

She took a deep drag at her cigarette, exhaled the last of the smoke and then jabbed the cigarette end viciously into the ash tray. “All right,” she said, “you win.”

“What have I won?”

“An explanation.”

“Get going.”

She said, “I’m employed in the office upstairs as a secretary.”

“Who has that office?” Mason asked.

“The Garvin Mining, Exploration and Development Company.”

“You say it glibly enough,” Mason said.

“I should, I work there.”

The lawyer picked up the telephone book, opened it to the last page of the GA classification, ran down until he found the Garvin Mining, Exploration and Development Company, checked the address, nodded, and said, “So far that seems to be right.”

She said, “My employer asked me to come back and work tonight. He warned me he might be very late. He said he was going to a dinner party, but wanted to do some work just as soon as he was able to break away from the dinner. He wants to get away on a trip tomorrow.”

“And so you sat on the fire escape waiting for him?”

She grinned, “As a matter of fact, Mr. Mason, it was almost that bad.”

“What do you mean?”

She said, “I got up to the office about an hour ago. I waited and waited, and then I got tired of simply sitting there. I had finished with the evening paper and didn’t know what else to do. I switched out the lights and went over and sat on the window sill for a while and then, just for the lark of it, I got out on the fire escape and — well, it was dirty out there. I touched the rail and my hand got terribly dirty. That was a nuisance, because I was going to have to go down to the washroom and scrub the grime off.

“But while I was out there, it was — well, it was sort of romantic and exciting, looking out over the city and thinking about all of the heartaches, all of the tragedies, all of the hopes — and then a key clicked in the lock, the door opened. I assumed, of course, it was my boss, and I wondered just how I’d account for my presence out there on the dark fire escape.

“And then the light switch clicked on and I saw it was his wife!

“I didn’t know what she wanted. I didn’t know whether she was there, trying to trap me, whether she thought that — well, I knew how I would feel under the circumstances.”

“Go right ahead,” Mason said.

“So,” she said, “almost instinctively, I moved down two or three steps, so that I would be out of her range of vision... I could still see into the office. I suppose it was natural curiosity that made me watch to see what she was doing. Well, then she moved over toward the window and I had to start down the steps of the fire escape.”

“And the wind blew your skirts up.”

She smiled, “And you had a point of vantage, Mr. Mason.”

“I did,” Mason admitted, then added, “you instinctively put down your hand to hold your skirts in place.”

“I’ll say! That wind meant business.”

“And,” Mason said, “the hand held a gun.”

“A flashlight,” she amended.

“Exactly,” Mason said. “I’ll be a gentleman and take your word for it. It was a flashlight. And now, if, within the next five seconds, you can make a satisfactory explanation for the flashlight— No coaching from the audience, please— You have only three seconds left — two seconds — one second — I’m sorry.”

She bit her lip and said, “The flashlight, you see, was one that I had taken with me so that I could have a light when I went to the parking lot to get my car. I... well, you know, I didn’t expect the boss would escort me back to my car, and a woman alone doesn’t like prowling around late at night in the back of a lot. After all, Mr. Mason, things do happen, you know.”

“And so you took the flashlight with you when you went out on the fire escape.”

“Strange as it may seem, I did exactly that. It was on the desk, and I picked it up as I went out. It was dark out there!”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “So now, if you’ll take me down and show me the automobile that you have parked, that will be all there is to it.”

“Gladly,” she said, getting up from the chair with smooth grace. “I’ll be only too glad to do that, Mr. Mason. And you can check the license number, my driver’s license and the certificate of ownership on the steering post, and then I think that will conclude a very interesting meeting, don’t you?”

“Definitely,” Mason said. “It’s been a pleasure even under such unusual circumstances. As it happens, I don’t know your name.”

She said, “You’ll learn it when you see the registration on the automobile.”

“I’d prefer to hear it from you first.”

“Virginia Colfax.”

“Miss or Mrs?”

“Miss.”

“Let’s go,” Mason told her.

Mason led the way to the door, opened it and stood aside for the girl to walk out. She tossed a friendly smile at him over her shoulder and, together, they walked down the corridor.

As they passed Paul Drake’s office, near the elevator, with the windows lit up and the sign, drake detective agency, on the door, the girl made a grimace and said, “I don’t like that place!”

“Why not?” Mason asked.

“Detectives give me the creeps. I like privacy.”

Mason, pushing the elevator button and waiting for the janitor to bring the cage up, said, “Drake does all my work. It’s really a very methodical business — just like anything else. After you’re familiar with it, it ceases to have romance and glamour. It becomes matter-of-fact. At times I think Paul Drake is completely bored with it.”

“I daresay,” she said, sarcastically.

The elevator came to a stop. The janitor nodded. Mason placed his hand under the girl’s elbow as he guided her into the elevator, said, “You’ll have to sign the register, checking out.”

She smiled at him, “I’m afraid you’re wrong, Mr. Mason. Since the Drake Detective Agency stays open all night, people who are going to that office don’t have to sign the register.”

“Oh, did you go to them?” Mason asked.

Her laugh held good-natured banter. “Of course. Where did you think I’d been? Stupid!”

“We have an understanding that people going to the Drake Detective Agency don’t register,” the janitor explained. “They keep open twenty-four hours a day, you know.”

Mason marked down his own checking out time, said to Virginia Colfax, “You certainly do have a fast mind, a ready wit and a nimble tongue.”

“Thank you,” she said frigidly.

The elevator stopped at the lobby floor. She swept out, with her chin in the air, and Mason followed.

At the door of the building she stood for a moment with the wind from the approaching shower catching her hair, blowing it back from her ears. The storm was now measurably closer and the occasional rumble of thunder at intervals drowned out the noises of the city street.

She suddenly turned and put her hand on his arm. “I want you to know one thing,” she said.

“What?” Mason asked.

She said, “I’m grateful to you for being so decent about everything.”

Mason raised his eyebrows.

And with that, she swung her arm up from her side and slapped his face so hard that the sound of her open palm attracted the attention of a group of people who had just emerged from the cocktail lounge a couple of doors down the street.

As Mason stood for a disconcerted moment, she sprinted across the sidewalk, jerked open the door of a waiting taxi and jumped inside.

“Hey!” Mason shouted to the cab driver, “hold that cab!” and started across the sidewalk.

A bull-necked man, with the build of a stevedore and the tailored suit of a business executive, grabbed Mason’s coattail. “None of that, buddy!” he said.

Mason whirled on him. “Take your hands off me!”

The man hung on, regarding him with a grin. “It’s no dice, buddy, she doesn’t like you.”

The taxi shot out from the curb and into traffic.

Mason said to the heavy set man, “Let go of that coat or I’ll break your jaw.”

There was something in his eyes which caused the man to fall back.

“Now wait a minute, buddy,” the man said, “you can see that the dame doesn’t want...”

Mason turned toward the curb, looked up and down the street for a cab. There was none in sight.

He turned back toward the big man. “All right,” he said, his face white with wrath, “you’ve played hero in front of your party. I suppose you used to be a great boxer in the good old college days back in nineteen seven-teen. If it’s any satisfaction to you, your interference has caused a lot of legal complications your mind is too dumb to comprehend. Now get your damn fat face out of my way or I’ll push it in!”

The man, abashed, fell back before Mason’s blazing fury.

The lawyer pushed contemptuously past him, started back to the office, changed his mind, walked around the corner of the building to the entrance of the alley, then paced down the alley, moving slowly, searching carefully, exploring every foot of the pavement.

There was no trace of either a revolver or flashlight.

Mason walked back to the entrance of the office building, signed the register once more, was taken up to his own floor and stepped into the office of the Drake Detective Agency.

“Paul Drake in?” he asked the girl at the desk.

She shook her head.

Mason said, “I’ve got a job for him. No great rush about it. Start him on it tomorrow morning. I want to find out something about the background of the Garvin Mining, Exploration and Development Company. I want to know whether a girl by the name of Virginia Colfax is employed there, and I want to know something about the Garvin who runs the outfit. Tell Paul not to spend too much time on it, but to get me the background and let me know when he has something to report.”

The girl nodded, and Mason walked on down the corridor to his office, where he again tackled the legal problem of trying to determine whether a statement could be considered as entirely extraneous and inadmissible as hearsay, or whether it could be classed as a part of the res gestae and therefore admissible as an exception to the hearsay evidence rule.

The lights in the adjoining buildings winked out one by one, until all the other office buildings were dark. Mason, engrossed in his subject, went on collecting case after case, showing the fine line of distinction between hearsay and res gestae.

A vague uneasiness intruded upon his concentration. With his eyes absorbed by the lawbooks, a faint but unfamiliar scent insisted upon reminding him of his feminine intruder.

At length he flung down his book and looked around. There on the floor was a handkerchief grimed with dirt that might have come off a fire escape.

The handkerchief held the scent of a distinctive perfume and was neatly embroidered with the letter “V.”