The Case of the Haunted Husband

Chapter 8

Street lights illuminated the front of the Spanish-type white stucco house. The red tile of the roof showed up almost black in the indistinct light.

A Filipino boy in a white coat answered Mason’s ring.

“I telephoned Mr. Homan,” Mason said. “I am...”

“Yes, Mr. Mason,” the boy said. This way, please. Your hat and coat, please?”

Mason slipped out of his coat, handed it and the hat to the boy, followed him along a corridor floored with waxed red tiles, across the huge living room, mellow with indirect lighting, to a study which opened on a patio. Homan was seated at a desk, frowning intently over a typewritten script, the pages embellished with penciled alterations. He looked up as Mason came in, held the pencil poised over the page, and said, “Sit down. Don’t speak please.”

Mason stood, amused antagonism in his eyes, staring down at the figure at the desk. After a moment, he sat down in one of the deeply cushioned chairs, watching his man as a big game hunter studies his quarry.

Drapes had been drawn back from the plate-glass windows to disclose the patio with its palms, its fountain illuminated by coloured lights, and behind that its swimming pool. The house fairly oozed prosperity, a house which had been designed not only to be lived in but to be looked at. It had been built and decorated by a showman and for showmen.

Homan bent over the manuscript in what was either a concentration so deep that he was entirely oblivious for the moment of his caller, or in a pose designed to impress that caller with the importance of the man upon whom he was calling.

The man at the desk said, without looking up from the script, “In just a moment I will have this one scene licked, then we shall talk.”

The very lack of expression in his voice made his concentration seem the more genuine.

Homan was evidently a showman. A fringe of close-cropped hair grew around a bald spot on the top of his head. He had made no effort to conceal this bald spot by letting the hair grow and combing it back. A pair of large, tortoise-shell spectacles rested on his nose. The straight brows pressed against his graying temples. He kept his head slightly bowed. His eyes stared in concentration at the script. Abruptly, he snatched up a soft-leaded pencil from the desk, and swooped down upon the manuscript in a frenzied attack, scratching out words, scribbling inserts and marginal notations. There was not the slightest hesitancy. He seemed to be struggling to make his hand keep up with his thoughts. Under the rush of that attack, the lower half of the page became a veritable patchwork of penciled notations. Then he dropped the pencil as abruptly as he had picked it up, pushed back the script, and turned on Mason a pair of reddish-brown eyes.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. Didn’t think you would get here quite this soon. Had to finish with that scene while I was in the mood to take part in it. Your visit is going to throw me all out of gear. That detective was bad enough. You are going to be worse. I hate it, but I will have to do it and get it over with. All right, what do you want?”

Mason sought to draw him out with a few preliminary remarks.

“I didn’t realize you would be working so late.”

“I work all the time, the later the better. A man does his best work when those around him are asleep.” He waved a short, thick arm in a sweeping gesture which included a quarter circle of generalization. “I mean the people in the city. There’s a lot of telepathy, not individual telepathy so much as group telepathy, mind beating on mind, chaining you into a convention of business humdrum. What do you want?”

“And I have thrown you out of the mood for further work?” Mason asked.

“Not out of the mood for work. Out of sympathy with the script. Here are characters facing a dramatic moment in their lives. You can’t put anything like that across on the screen unless the characters are real. You can’t tell whether they are real unless you sympathize with them, unless you open a door and walk right into their lives. That is a subjective thought, intuition, telepathy, auto-hypnotism. Call it whatever you want to. Now you are here. You are objective. I have got to talk with you objectively. You pretend you want information. Probably you are trying to lay a trap. I have got to watch myself.”

“Why?” Mason asked, seizing the opening. “To keep from committing yourself by some inadvertent statement?”

“No. To keep from saying something you can misconstrue and throw back at me later on.”

“I am not that bad.”

“Your detective was. He threw me out of my stride for a whole half day. What do you want?”

“You are carrying your own car insurance?”

“Yes — if it is any of your business, which it isn’t.”

“It makes some difference — this accident.”

“How?”

“Your legal liability; whether the automobile was being used with your consent, express or implied.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Nevertheless, you can appreciate the legal difference.”

“All right, it makes a legal difference. So what?”

“And,” Mason went on, “if the person who was driving that car happened to be an agent of yours...”

“I don’t have any agents.”

“That is what the layman occasionally thinks, but if you ask a man to take your car and run down to the post office to mail a letter, he becomes your agent so far as that trip is concerned.”

“I see. Good point. Glad you told me. I shall remember that. What else?”

Mason said, “And if you sent a man to San Francisco to do something for you in your car, he would automatically become your agent for that purpose.”

“So what?”

“And if he had an accident while he was driving the car, you would be responsible just as though you were driving the car yourself.”

“All right, you are leading up to something. Go ahead. What is it?”

Mason said, “I am an attorney, Mr. Homan. I am representing Stephane Claire. I am interested in unearthing any bit of evidence which would clear her of the charge of negligent homicide.”

“That is obvious.”

“Now then, you are interested in minimizing your legal liability. If someone actually stole the automobile, that is one thing. If someone was driving it with your permission, that is another and if the person who was driving it was actually your agent, that is something else. You are naturally interested in the interpretation of the evidence which will give you the least financial liability.”

“That is obvious.”

“Therefore, our interests are adverse.”

“Naturally. I knew that before you ever got here. Tell me something new.”

Mason said, meaningly, “It has occurred to me, Mr. Homan, that you might be penny-wise and pound-foolish.”

“How?”

“In an attempt to avoid a few thousand dollars in legal liability, you might expose yourself to a flank attack.”

“By whom?”

“By me.”

Homan’s brown eyes stared at Mason long and searchingly from behind the horn-rimmed spectacles. “Go on,” he said, after a few moments. “What is the rest of it?”

Mason said, “I want to prove that Stephane Claire wasn’t driving your car. In order to do that, I want to prove who was driving it. And in order to do that, I have to pry into your private affairs. When I pry, I make a good job of it.”

“Is this blackmail?”

“A warning.”

“It is finished?”

“No. I am just starting.”

Homan shifted his position in his swivel chair. “I am afraid,” he said, “this is going to be even worse than I thought,” and started drumming nervously on the edge of the desk with short, stubby, but well-manicured fingers. A diamond ring on his right hand caught the light and glinted in scintillating brilliance as he moved his hand.

Mason said, “Obviously, it would be most to my advantage to prove that the car was being operated by some agent of yours.”

“You think I am lying about the car being stolen?”

Mason said, “When I am representing a client, I like to assume that anyone who tells a story that is opposed to the facts as related by the client is falsifying.”

“Can’t blame you for that. That is business. Go ahead.”

“Now then,” Mason said, leaning forward and suddenly pointing his finger directly at Homan, “if there is any reason why you don’t want the facts about Mr. Spinney brought out, it will be to your advantage to say so right now.”

Homan’s face didn’t change expression by so much as the flicker of an eyelash. “Who is Spinney?”

“A gentleman in San Francisco.”

“Don’t know him. Therefore, I don’t care what facts you bring out.”

“And if you don’t want anything known about a waitress in a New Orleans cafeteria, now would be a good time to say so.”

“Threatening me with women?”

“With a woman.”

“Go ahead. Bring them all in. What the hell do I care? I am a bachelor. Everyone says I am a philanderer and a libertine. I don’t pretend to be anything else. You can’t hurt me by digging up a hundred women. Nothing hurts a man unless he gets caught. People don’t feel that you are being caught when you stand right out in the open and...”

“You misunderstand me,” Mason said. “I am not referring to some woman with whom you might have been intimate.”

“What about her then?”

“Some woman who perhaps was remaining true to a man whom she hadn’t seen in some time, some woman whom that man wanted to remain in New Orleans because he didn’t want her to know where he was or what he was doing.”

“Why?” Homan barked.

“Because,” Mason said, “he wanted her to get a divorce.”

“Why?”

“Probably because he’d become prosperous and wanted to marry someone else.”

Homan’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You have got a good idea there, Mason. I think you could develop it. Probably do something with it. Human interest. Self-sacrifice. Drama. All that. Keep your woman meek and good, but don’t overdo it or you will make her a sap. Go ahead, develop it.”

“I intend to.”

Homan waved his jeweled hand, suddenly laughed. “Scenario stuff,” he said. “Pardon me, Mason, I have so many writers come in with ideas, toss them at me, and ask me what I think of them that I get so I look at everything from that angle. For a moment I thought you were asking me about an original. This sounded like a good idea for a scenario.”

“I am talking facts.”

“Facts that don’t mean anything to me. Got anything else?”

Mason said, “Yes. You are going to have to go on the witness stand and tell your story. Any falsification will be perjury. Perhaps when you first heard about this, you thought you could keep yourself out of it by telling your story to the police and then going back to work. That’s out. You can’t do it. You are trying to rush a young woman to jail. If I can catch you in perjury I will try to send you to jail. Do I make myself clear?”

Homan said, “Sit still for a minute. I want to think that last one over.”

Mason sat motionless, watching Homan. The producer stared down at the top of his desk. There was no expression on his face, no motion save the nervous drumming of the fingers of his right hand.

Abruptly the drumming stopped. Homan looked up, said to Mason, “My story stands. I am telling the truth. There is nothing you can do about it. I have told the police the facts. I am sorry about the Claire girl. I am not certain she stole the automobile. I think somebody else stole it first. I don’t give a damn about you, Mason. I could get sympathetic about that girl if I put my mind on it. Lying there in the hospital, injured, scarred perhaps, no funds, no job, few friends, facing a trial when she gets well, newspaper notoriety. It is a tough break. I could see the human side of it, the drama, the tragedy. I can’t afford to think of it. Right now, my studio is paying me to concentrate on the problem of a man who has fallen in love with a woman who, unfortunately, is married to someone else. Her husband won’t let her go. He is hanging on. The intimacy develops, then suddenly the husband catches them. The cruel gloating, the malice, the... What I am concerned with, Mason, is what that would do to a woman’s character. Forcing her to live a lie. Forcing her to...”

Mason pushed back his chair. “And I am not interested in your problems. I am being paid to keep a girl out of jail, and I am damned apt to do it.”

“Yes, I see your problem. I think I am getting back into the mood for my script now. Good night, Mr. Mason. Try not to come again.”

Mason said, “One warning is all I ever give.”

“Should be enough. I get it all right.” Homan reached for the script, pulled it toward him.

Mason started for the door, then suddenly turned and stepped back toward Homan’s desk. “Just as a matter of curiosity,” he said, “would you mind telling me the name of the script you are working on? I would like to see it on the screen and see if my intrusion has left any perceptible...”

Homan absently picked up the title page, said, “It’s an adaptation from a novel the studio bought a couple of years ago. The title of the book is ‘Where the Chips Fall’ — you know, part of the old adage. ‘Hew to the line and let the chips fall where they will.’ It’s a lousy title. We will change it. All right for a book perhaps, but too deep for the theater-goer. He wants a title he can understand, something that appeals to him, something that is as dramatic as a newspaper headline, as filled with... Say, why the hell am I telling you all this?”

Mason said, “I wouldn’t know either,” and walked out, gently closing the door behind him.”

The white-coated Filipino boy was waiting, in well-trained silent deference, in the hallway, with Mason’s hat and coat.

Mason let the boy help him on with his coat, took the hat, then stood for a moment looking toward the massive radio in the living room. The dial was faintly outlined in light, and low strains of organ music reproduced with remarkable clarity, came from the speaking attachment.

Mason glanced from the radio to the Filipino. “Your master lets you turn on the radio?”

White, even teeth gleamed at Mason in a shameless smile. “No, sah. When he works, he hears nothing. I cheat a little bit. I have to wait for you to go out, and this my favorite program.”

Mason said, “Is that so?” and walked over toward the radio. “I am interested in this type of radio,” he said, and stood staring down at it.

The Filipino seemed vaguely uneasy. “Very nice radio,” he said. “Please do not turn up loud. Mastah become very angry.”

Mason stood in front of the radio listening.

Abruptly, the smooth harmony of deep-throated organ music was disrupted by a rasping rattle followed by a click. Six times this was repeated, the rattle varying in length as someone in the house, using an automatic telephone, dialed a number.

Mason turned at once to the door. “Thank you very much,” he said. “Good night.”

The Filipino boy stared after him thoughtfully. “I shall tell Mr. Homan, please,” he said.

“Tell him what?” Mason asked.

“That you wait to see if he uses telephone.”

Mason smiled. “Please do,” he said.

Mason was within a few inches of the door, conscious of the hostility of the Filipino boy who was about to turn the knob. Quick steps sounded just outside the door, as the Filipino boy swung it open. Mason, starting to go out, all but collided with a deeply bronzed young man who had sprinted up the steps and was about to insert a latchkey into the door.

“Hello,” the young man said. “Didn’t intend to make a flying tackle. I am sorry.”

Mason noticed deep-set, dark eyes, high ridged features, long sloping forehead, and a wavy profusion of black hair which swept back from the hatless head.

“I say, you didn’t come to see me, did you?”

“You are Horace Homan?”

“Yes.”

“I would like a word with you.”

“I am in a devil of a hurry. Could it keep?”

“No. I am Perry Mason, a lawyer. I am representing Stephane Claire.”

“Oh, my God, another breach-of-promise suit! All right, tell her if she takes it to court, I will say ‘yes’ and marry her. That will... Oh, wait a minute. Stephane Claire. Oh, I get you now.”

“The young woman who is accused of driving your brother’s car.”

“I get it.”

“I understand you were fishing at the time.”

“That’s right — out on a cruise.”

“I was just telling your brother that this is a serious matter, one which he couldn’t detour by simply telling a story to the police and then going back to work. He has got to go on the witness stand, and when he gets on the witness stand, I am going to ask him about anything which I think will clear the matter up.”

“Can’t blame you. I will bet Jules didn’t like that very much — that is, if he quit working long enough to listen.”

“He quit working, and he listened, but I am not certain his mind was on what I was saying.”

The younger brother grinned. “It probably wasn’t, at that. However, if you told him, you have done your duty. Don’t worry about Jules. He takes care of himself. You won’t catch him off first base.”

Mason said, “It seems rather foolish for a man to risk something which may mean a great deal to him simply to save himself a damage suit for the negligent operation of his car.”

Horace Homan looked at his wrist watch. “Listen, I am in a hell of a hurry, but I have got five minutes. Let us go talk. Felipe, get the hell out of here.”

“Yes, sah. I shall wait beyond earshot to show Mr. Mason out.”

“I will show him out.”

“I beg your pahdon, sah, but the Mastah orders, sah.”

“Okay, suit yourself, Felipe. I will call when we are ready. Want to sit down?” he asked Mason.

“Let us not waste any time. Let us just stand here and talk.”

“Okay.”

“What,” Mason asked conversationally, “do you know about Spinney?”

“Spinney?” Homan asked frowning. “Say, I think I have heard that name somewhere. Wait a minute. Spinney. No, I guess not. What else?”

“Or perhaps the woman in New Orleans?”

“New Orleans... I don’t see what that has got to do with it. Look here, you don’t look like the type that would just pick up women and throw them at Jules in order to get even with him.”

“I am not.”

“As I understand it, it is a question of who was driving the car.”

“That is right.”

“Boy, oh, boy, am I thanking my lucky stars I wasn’t behind the wheel. You know how it is, Mason. I make up my mind I will never drive when I am drunk. That is when I am sober. After I have been drinking, I think I am sober enough to drive, and when I am so tight that I can’t kid myself into thinking I am sober enough to drive, I am so tight that I say it is a short life and a merry one, and to hell with the consequences. Wish I could do something about it.”

“You might quit drinking,” Mason suggested.

“Oh, I meant something practical.”

“Why not take out the car keys and mail them to yourself whenever you start drinking?”

“Shucks, I want to use the car, not just leave it parked in front of the first nightclub.”

Mason laughed. “Afraid I can’t help you, and I don’t suppose you could help me.”

“In what way?”

“I don’t think Stephane Claire was driving that car. I don’t even think it had been stolen.”

“Jules says it was stolen. He is pretty accurate as a rule, but frightfully absent-minded when he is working, and he is working most of the time. I suppose you are going to go after him on cross-examination?”

Mason nodded.

“I don’t think he will like that. He gets nervous when people cross him. Well, I am glad I don’t know anything about it... Say, Mason, I feel sorry for that girl. I am going to drop in and see her, not that there is anything I can do about it, but I just want her to know I feel sorry for her and all that. I don’t think she stole the car.”

“Who did?”

“Oh, some bum who happened to be drifting along the street and saw the car where Jules had left it parked.”

“Then you could make a guess as to the identity of this party?”

Horace Homan’s eyes narrowed. He lowered his voice and said, “Well, if you put it that way...” Abruptly he laughed. “Wait a minute. You are the big bad wolf so far as this house is concerned. ‘What big teeth you have, Grandma!’ No, Mr. Mason, I couldn’t even venture a guess, and I have got an appointment with a perfectly swell wren in exactly twenty minutes, and it is going to take me ten to change. Sorry, old boy, but you know how it is. And I am going to drop in on that Miss Claire. You don’t think she will mind?”

Mason said, “That is all right, if you don’t expect to work any information out of her. She will be under instructions not to tell you anything.”

Homan grinned. “Well, I don’t know anything that could be fairer. I haven’t told you anything, have I?”

“Not a thing,” Mason said.

“Okay, we are quits. Glad I met you.”

Lean, brown fingers enclosed Mason’s hand. Horace Homan raised his voice and said, “Oh, Felipe, he is ready to go, and the family silver is all intact.”

The Filipino boy glided noiselessly from behind a heavy drape across an archway. He had, Mason realized, worked himself up to a position of vantage where he was within earshot. Wordlessly, he held the door open for the lawyer, and silently Mason walked out into the night.