Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Dubious Bridegroom

“My man sprinted back to his car, jumped in, but was in too much of a hurry to start the bus while the motor was cold, managed to flood the carburetor, and — well, what the hell. He lost her. He knows it was a Yellow Cab, but because it went in the wrong direction, he couldn’t get the number, and that’s that.

“He hurried to a phone and reported at once to the office. My night man got on the job, covering the Yellow Cabs, trying to find where she’d gone. It took us fifteen or twenty minutes to get that information. By that time it was too late. She’d gone to the garage where she keeps her car, a snappy club coupe that can make miles per hour. She didn’t even mention where she was going. She had an overnight bag with her. She was wearing some sort of a dark outfit, a jacket and a skirt, and my man thinks she had a little hat tipped over on the left side, but he can’t really be certain about that.”

“What was the time?” Mason asked.

“Ten-nineteen.”

“My man started checking in the apartment house. He claimed it was a cab he’d ordered. The clerk at the switchboard insisted she’d telephoned for that taxi, then had come downstairs to wait for it. He said she’d been in the lobby for some three or four minutes. He’s not particularly communicative. In fact right now, what with one thing and another, he’s damned suspicious of the whole setup. Trying to pry information out of him would be like trying to pry into a locked safe with a toothpick.”

Mason frowned and gave that information consideration.

“You still on the line?” Drake asked.

“I’m here,” Mason said. “Did you keep the apartment house covered?”

“Sure.”

“Then she hasn’t been back?”

“No. Now, wait a minute,” Drake said, “We’ve got one piece of information out of the clerk that I forgot to tell you. She came downstairs to the lobby, and while she was waiting for the taxicab she took two dollars over to the clerk and asked him if he could give her some quarters, two dimes and a nickel. She didn’t want anything larger than quarters... Now, there must have been some reason for that.”

“I get you,” Mason said. “She was going to telephone from a pay station.”

“That’s right, she had a phone call to make, long distance.”

“That’s interesting,” Mason said.

“Now, unfortunately,” Drake went on, “my night secretary is a little too thoughtful sometimes. She knew that I was tired and needed rest and she wouldn’t let them call me until around five o’clock this morning. I have a night manager on duty who’s a veteran and who did all of the usual things. He got busy with the garage, got a description of her automobile, the make, model, license number, and all that, and found out that the gas tank was only about half full when she took it out. That may mean something.

“When I got on the job at five o’clock this morning,” Drake said, “I put another operator in a car and started him for Oceanside. I told him to take a look in a very quiet discreet way around Hackley’s house down there and see if he could find any trace of the car. If he couldn’t, to circle around Oceanside and see if any of the stations that were open all night had remembered about servicing a car of that description. It may give us a lead. I should be hearing from my man pretty quick now.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “It looks as though you’ve done the best you can. Anything else?”

“That’s all to date.”

“Stay with it,” Mason said. “I’ll be right here. I guess I can arrange to have them call me — it’s pretty early and no one seems to be stirring, but call me back if anything develops, and if I don’t hear from you, I’ll call you in an hour.”

“Okay,” Drake said. “I’m sorry, Perry.”

“It’s all right,” Mason told him. “That’s one of the things that you just can’t guard against.”

“I’ll call you if anything new turns up,” Drake promised.

The lawyer hung up, looked around the lobby, could find no one, went to the front door, opened it and looked out into the driveway and parking space.

There were some half dozen cars in addition to Mason’s and Garvin’s in the driveway. The wooden-faced Mexican boy who had aroused Mason was sitting on the upper step soaking up the morning sunlight.

“What’s your name?” Mason asked.

“Pancho,” the boy said, without looking around.

Mason took a dollar from his pocket, stepped forward, and the young man promptly shoved out an expectant palm. Mason dropped the dollar.

“Gracias,” the boy said, without getting up.

Mason smiled, “You’re not so dumb as you look. If you answered that telephone, found out what my room number was and called me, you’re a pretty smart boy. You sit right there and listen for that telephone. If it rings again, answer it. If it’s for me, you come and call me quick. Understand?”

“Si, señor.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Mason said. “You got me all right? You understand English?”

“Si, señor.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “If the phone rings again and it’s for me, you get another dollar.”

Mason retraced his steps through the lobby to his room, showered, shaved, put on clean clothes and was just ready to inquire about breakfast when he heard sandals in the corridor, and a gentle tap-tap-tap on the door.

Mason opened the door.

The same boy stood in the corridor. “Telefono,” he said.

“Momentito,” Mason said, grinning.

The boy paused.

Mason took another dollar from his pocket.

The boy’s face lit in a smile. “Gracias,” he said, and shuffled off down the corridor.

Mason followed along behind, found the door of the telephone booth open, took the precaution of making certain the adjoining booth was empty, then picked up the receiver, said “Hello,” and waited again until he heard Paul Drake’s voice on the line.

“Hello, Paul,” Mason said. “What’s new?”

Drake’s voice came over the wire so fast that the words seemed to telescope each other in rattling their way through the receiver.

“Get this, Perry,” Drake said. “Get it fast. We’re sitting on a keg of dynamite. My man found Ethel Garvin.”

“Where?” Mason asked.

“Oceanside. About two miles south of town, sitting in her automobile parked about fifty or seventy-five feet off the road on the ocean side, dead as a mackerel, a bullet hole in her left temple. From the angle, there’s not much chance the wound could have been self-inflicted. She’s slumped over the steering wheel and it’s rather messy, quite a bit of blood and all that. The window by the steering wheel is rolled down, and the gun, apparently the one with which the crime was committed, is lying on the ground directly beneath the window.

“She could have twisted the gun around and managed to fire the weapon herself by holding it upside down, but it’s an unnatural position and an unnatural angle for a woman to fire a gun in a suicide attempt.”

“What about the police?” Mason asked.

“That’s just the point,” Drake said. “My man’s on the job. He discovered the body. No one else knows it’s there — yet. My operative managed to notify me. He’s notifying the police but he’s notifying them the long way around, calling the sheriff’s office in San Diego. It’s outside of the city limits of Oceanside, so technically he’s within his rights in calling the sheriff’s office and the coroner... Now get me on this, Perry. My man was too smart to touch the gun or disturb any of the evidence but he’s sure been taking in an eyeful. It looks as though two cars had been parked there, side by side, and the other car had driven away — and by bending down my man was able to get the number on the gun. It’s a Smith and Wesson .38 and the number is on the tang which crosses the grip on the gun. It’s S64805. I’m working my head off trying to trace that gun before the police get all the information. We may be just one jump ahead of them.”