Эрл Гарднер: The Case of the Curious Bride

"Paul Drake has uncovered the marriage license," Della Street told him. "It's a Carl W. Montaine. The address was Chicago, Illinois; but there's a water and gas connection for a Carl W. Montaine at twentythree hundred nine Hawthorne Avenue. It was made within the last week. The license said she was a widow—Rhoda Lorton. Drake wants to know how strong you want him to go on expenses."

"Tell him," Mason instructed, "to go as strong as he has to in order to get results. I've apparently accepted a retainer to represent a client. I'm going to represent her."

"Don't you think," Della Street asked, "that you've done enough, chief? After all, it wasn't your fault. You didn't know about the retainer."

"No," Mason told her, "I should have known about the retainer. Anyhow, I'm going to see this thing through."

"But she knows where to come to get you."

"She won't come back."

"Not even when she knows she left her purse?"

"No," Mason said. "She must have recollected where she left it by this time; she's afraid to come back because of the gun."

"It's after four," Della Street pointed out. "The offices will be closing. Drake's got about all the official information he can get for tonight."

"Has he heard about the gun yet?"

"Not yet. He expects to hear before five."

"Okay," Mason said, "you stick around, Della, until I give you another buzz. If this girl calls in, be sure to hold her. Tell her we know her real name and address. That will bring her in."

"By the way," Della Street remarked, "there's something I thought you should know."

"What is it?"

"The number of Nell Brinley, that you told me to call, is Drenton ninefourtwosixeight. The number that Rhoda Montaine left for us to call when she was in the office is Drenton sixeightninefourtwo. She just took the last two numbers off of Nell Brinley's telephone number and put them on the front part of the number. That must mean that she's pretty familiar with that telephone number, because she rattled it off when I asked her. She must have lived at that address and used that telephone before she was married."

Perry Mason chuckled. "Good girl," he said. "Stick around until you hear from me again."

He hung up the receiver, mopped perspiration from his forehead, and walked briskly around the corner to the main office of the telegraph company. Approaching the counter, Perry Mason pulled a telegraph blank toward him, took a pencil from his pocket, spread the purloined telegram flat on the counter and frowned. He looked up and caught the eye of an attendant. She came to him, and Mason pulled one of the freshly printed cards from his pocket. "I would like," he said, "a little special service."

The young woman picked up the card, nodded and smiled. "Very well, Mr. Montaine, what can we do for you?"

"I received this telegram on an important business deal and I've lost the address. I understand your company requires the senders to leave their addresses on file in connection with any wire sent. There's some key number on this telegram. I am wondering if you can find the address of the sender by taking this key number and running down your records?"

"I think so," the young woman said, taking both his card and the message and walking toward the back of the room.

Perry Mason scrawled a telegram, addressing it only to Gregory, leaving the address blank:

IMPORTANT DEVELOPMENTS NECESSITATE INDEFINITE POSTPONEMENT CALLING IN PERSON TO EXPLAIN

He signed the telegram "R. Montaine," and waited for the clerk to return.

She returned within less than five minutes with the name and address of the sender written on the message in a pencil notation. Mason studied the notation for a moment, nodded, and wrote the name «Moxley» after the word "Gregory," added below it "Colemont Apartments, 316 Norwalk Avenue."

"Thank you very much," he said. "Please send this telegram."

"And now," smiled the attendant, "I'll have to ask you to fill in your address."

"Oh, certainly," he said, and wrote, "R. Montaine, 128 East Pelton Avenue."

He paid for the telegram, left the telegraph office and summoned a cab. " Three sixteen Norwalk Avenue," he said. He leaned back in the cushions, lit a cigarette and watched the passing scenery with thoughtslitted eyes. By the time the cigarette was consumed, the cab pulled in at the curb.

The Colemont Apartments was a huge twostory building that had at one time been a residence. As the small numbered blocks of Norwalk Avenue had become choice apartment sites, the owners had remodeled the huge residence into four apartments. Perry Mason noticed that three of the apartments, apparently, were vacant. The influx of more modern apartment houses on either side had spelled disaster for the madeover private residence. In a short time it would be torn down to make way, in turn, for a larger apartment. Mason pressed the button on Apartment B, opposite the pasteboard slip on which appeared the words "Gregory Moxley."

Almost immediately there was the sound of an electric buzzer releasing the door catch; the lawyer pushed open the door. A long flight of stairs loomed ahead of him. He climbed the stairs, heard the sound of motion in the corridor and then nodded to a man whose figure loomed at the head of the stairs. The man was some thirtysix years of age, with quick, watchful eyes, a ready smile, and a genial manner. Despite the heat of the day, his clothes were flawless and he wore them with distinction. He emanated an atmosphere of physical wellbeing and prosperity. "Good afternoon," he said. "I'm afraid I don't know you. I was expecting a visitor who had an appointment with me."

"You mean Rhoda?" asked Perry Mason.

For a swift instant the man stiffened as though bracing himself for a blow. Then the booming geniality was once more apparent in his voice. "Oh," he said, "then I was right after all. Come on up, come in and sit down. What's your name?"

"Mason."

"Glad to know you, Mr. Mason."

A hand shot out, gripped Perry Mason's hand in a firm, cordial clasp.

"You're Moxley?" Mason asked.

"Yes, Gregory Moxley. Come on in. Certainly is hot, isn't it?" He led the way to a library, indicated a chair.

The room was comfortably furnished, although the furniture was rather oldfashioned. The windows were open. Across fifteen feet of space loomed the side of a modern apartment house. Mason sat down, crossed his legs, reached mechanically for his cigarette case. "That other apartment house shuts out some of your ventilation, doesn't it?" he asked.

Moxley gave it a frowning glance of annoyance.

"It raises hell with both my privacy and my ventilation. On days like this it makes an oven out of my apartment."

Moxley grinned goodnaturedly. It was the grin of one who has learned to take the world philosophically, accepting the bitter as well as the sweet.

"I presume," Mason said, "it won't be long before they tear this apartment down and put up one of those big apartments here."

"I suppose," Moxley agreed, his eyes studying Mason's face in thoughtful appraisal, "that it's inevitable. Personally, I don't like it. I like small apartment houses. I don't like these big places where there's a manager constantly snooping around, and an air of impersonal efficiency."

"You seem to be the only tenant in this place," the lawyer went on.

Moxley's laugh was quick and contagious. "Did you come here to discuss real estate?" he asked.

Mason joined in his laugh. "Hardly," he said.

"What did you come to discuss?"

Mason stared steadily at the man's watchful eyes.

"I came," he said, "as a friend of Rhoda."

Moxley nodded. "Yes," he said, "I presumed as much. I didn't suppose you had…"

The words were interrupted by the sound of a harshly strident bell which exploded the hot silence of the afternoon. Moxley frowned, looked at Perry Mason. "Was any one," he asked, "coming here to join you?" Mason shook his head.