Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Long-Legged Models

“What do you mean?”

“I’m drawing the police off on a false scent. I’m going to try to keep on being a red herring. If I can get the police to accuse me of the crime, it will take a lot of the sting out of it when they finally back up and go after Stephanie.”

“Wait a minute,” Mason cautioned. “That’s dangerous. You may not be in the clear yourself.”

“I don’t want to be in the clear.”

“Flight,” Mason said, “can be taken as an indication of guilt and can be received in evidence as such.”

“All right then, I’ll resort to flight.”

“You can’t do that,” Mason protested. “You can’t pile up evidence against yourself. You may wind up behind the eight ball in this thing.”

“That’s all right. You take care of Stephanie. I’ll take care of myself. Your first duty is to Stephanie. Do whatever you can to protect her, regardless of where the chips fall.”

“Even if you become involved?”

“Even if I become involved.”

“What’s the idea?” Mason asked. “Just because your son was going with Stephanie Falkner and—?”

“Because,” Garvin interrupted, “I love the girl. I guess I always have. I had been afraid to admit it even to myself. I’m telling you that in confidence, Mason, and if you blab that to anyone, even to Della Street, I’ll break your damn neck. You wanted to know why. Now I’ve told you why.”

Mason paused thoughtfully.

“You on the line?” Garvin demanded.

“I’m on the line,” Mason said. “Here’s a piece of news for you. I talked with Eva Elliott. She’s out of your life for good and all. She won’t even go near the office. The place is closed up tighter than a drum.”

“We can’t have that,” Garvin said. “I’ve got a dozen deals pending and... You’ll have to get me someone, Mason.”

“I already have,” Mason said. “I talked with Marie Barlow on the phone. I told her Eva Elliott had been fired and that there was no one in the office. She’s grabbing a taxicab and going up. She has her old key. She says she’ll at least keep things in line.”

“That,” Garvin said, “is a load off my mind. Bless the girl. You said she was going to have a baby?”

“In about nine weeks.”

“Tell her to stick it out as long as she can,” Garvin said. “You may not hear from me for a while, Perry. I may be hard to find.”

“Damn it!” Mason said. “You can’t do that. You...”

There was a click at the other end of the line. The phone went dead.

Della Street raised her eyebrows in silent inquiry.

Mason said, “He may be stringing me along. He says he’s playing red herring. I’m to represent Stephanie Falkner and try to keep her from getting involved.”

“I heard your end of the conversation,” Della Street said. “What was it he said when you asked him if he felt he owed that duty just because his son jilted her?”

Mason grinned and said, “He told me that if I told anyone, even you, the answer to that, he’d break my damn neck... I’m going out, Della. I’ll be back in about an hour. If anybody wants me, you haven’t the faintest idea where I am.”

“Could I make a guess?”

“Certainly.”

“You’re going to Homer Garvin’s office and make certain there is no incriminating evidence for the police to find.”

“That,” Mason told her, “is an idea. It’s a very good idea. The only trouble is there are two things wrong with it.”

“What?”

“First,” Mason said, “as an attorney I couldn’t remove any evidence. That would be a crime. Second, I have something a lot more important to do.

“You must learn, Della, that an attorney cannot conceal evidence and he can’t destroy evidence.

“You must also learn that an attorney with imagination and an abiding belief in the innocence of the client he’s representing can do a great deal. We have two things to be thankful for.”

“What?”

“First, that we know in advance the police are going to trace the route taken by that taxicab, and second, the fact that Homer Garvin’s wife insisted their first child should be named Homer Jr.”

“That,” Della Street said, wrinkling her forehead, “is just half as clear as mud.”

“I’ll be back in an hour,” Mason said, and walked out.

Mason drove his car into the used car lot operated by Homer Garvin, Jr. He noticed that several salesmen were busy pointing out the good features of cars to prospective customers and was able to open the door of his car and get halfway to Garvin’s office before a salesman buttonholed him. “Want to make a deal on that car?” the salesman asked.

Mason shook his head. “I want to see Garvin.”

Mason opened the door of the office with the salesman at his heels. “That car of yours looks clean. We could make you a good deal on it, particularly if it’s a one-owner car,” the salesman said.

Mason paid no attention either to the salesman or to Garvin’s secretary, but crossed the office and jerked open the door marked, “Private.”

Homer Garvin looked up from his desk in surprise.

“Pardon the informality,” Mason said, “but this is important. I want to talk with you where we can be undisturbed. How the hell do I get rid of this salesman who is yapping at my heels?”

“There’s only one way that I know of,” Garvin said. “Buy one of our cars.”

Mason turned to the salesman. “This is a private conference. I’m not here trading automobiles.”

“Did you come in a cab or in your own car?” Garvin asked Mason.

“My own car.”

Garvin nodded to the salesman. “Take his car out for a little spin, Jim. See what sort of shape it’s in. Then check with our appraiser and see the best offer we can make. Mason is entitled to a top offer on his car and a discount on anything we have on the lot.”

“Go ahead,” Mason said, “if that will take the heat off. But we’re going places, Homer. If you have a man take my car out, you’ll have to furnish the transportation.”

“That’s exactly what I was hoping,” Garvin said. He turned to the salesman. “Take one of the appraisers with you and put the car through its paces.

“All right, Mr. Mason, what can I do for you?”

Mason waited until the door had closed. “You got a gun?” he asked the young man.

“What’s the idea?” Garvin asked.

“I want to know if you have a gun,” Mason said. “I assume that you have. I know that you keep large quantities of cash on the lot here, and...”

“I’ve got a gun,” Garvin said.

“Got a permit?”

“Sure, I’ve got a permit. Good Lord! Mr. Mason, you don’t think I’m going to sit out here running a joint like this and be a pushover for any stick-up man that comes in, do you? I...”

“Let me see the gun you have in your desk,” Mason said.

Garvin regarded him curiously for a moment, then pulled open the upper right-hand desk drawer, took out a gun and slid it across the desk to Mason.

Mason picked up the gun, threw it down a couple of times in order to get the balance of the weapon, said, “This is a mighty good gun, Homer. It’s a duplicate of one your dad carries.”

“I wouldn’t have anything except the best, Mr. Mason. Dad gave me that. It’s just like...”

Mason pulled the trigger.

The roar of an explosion filled the little office. The bullet plowed a furrow across the polished mahogany of Garvin’s desk, glanced off the desk and imbedded itself in the wall.

“Hey! You damned fool!” Garvin shouted. “ Put it down!”

Mason looked at the weapon in stupefied surprise.

The door of the private office burst open. A frightened secretary stood on the threshold. A broad-shouldered salesman advanced belligerently on Mason.