Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Dubious Bridegroom

Lorraine Garvin said, “Well, I know very well that gun was not in the glove compartment after we left Los Angeles. Someone took it out.”

“How do you know?” Tragg asked.

“Because my husband had left his sunglasses in the glove compartment. After we got going he asked me to get them out for him. I opened the glove compartment and took out the dark glasses. If there had been a gun in there I certainly would have seen it, and if I’d seen it, I naturally would have demanded to know what Edward was doing with a gun.”

“And you’re sure there was no gun in there?”

“Absolutely certain.”

“After all,” Tragg said, suavely, “by that time your husband could have removed it from the glove compartment. He might have put it anywhere.”

Lorraine glowered at Lieutenant Tragg and said, “If you’re not going to believe any statements made by a person, what’s the use of asking him to submit to an inquiry and answer questions?”

Tragg grinned, and said, “It’s the way we solve murder cases sometimes. You have to admit, Mrs. Garvin, that a man who would commit murder would be perfectly willing to tell a falsehood.”

“Well, I can tell you one thing,” Lorraine snapped, “my husband might have taken that gun but he never could have used it. He was here with me all night.”

“ All night?” Tragg asked.

“Yes, all night.”

“You didn’t sleep a wink?”

“Well, I know I woke up around one o’clock and he was lying in bed right beside me and snoring. I was awake from around quarter to three to three-thirty and he was there.”

“You looked at your watch to check the time, of course,” Tragg said sarcastically.

“I listened to the time.”

“You listened?”

“Yes. They have a clock — just listen for yourself.”

She held up her hand for silence. The musical chimes of the big clock in the lobby melodiously tolled a preamble, and then after a pause, chimed the hour.

“Okay,” Tragg said. “If you’ll swear to those times...”

“I’ll swear to them.”

“And if you’re not mistaken...”

“I’m not.”

“In that event I’m all finished,” Tragg said, “except that I want to get Mr. Garvin’s fingerprints. I want to see whether or not he left a fingerprint on that gun. Any objection, Garvin?”

“Certainly not,” Garvin said. “I’m only too eager to do anything I can to help clear this matter up.”

“Except return to California,” Tragg said.

“So far as that is concerned, I am not going to subject my wife to a lot of vulgar curiosity, nor am I going to walk into a trap that was set for me by...”

“Go on,” Tragg said, “by whom?”

“There’s no need mentioning her name now,” Garvin said with dignity. “She’s dead.”

“All right,” Tragg said, opening his fingerprint outfit and taking the cover off a blank ink pad, “let’s have your hands and we’ll get the fingerprints. At least we’ll accomplish that much.”

Garvin extended his hands. Tragg carefully took fingerprints, marked them with the name, date and place, then grinned cheerfully. “That’s fine. I hope you enjoy your stay in Mexico.”

He bowed, said, “Glad to have met you, Mr. and Mrs. Garvin. You’ll hear from me later.” Then he opened the door and was gone, as though suddenly in a great hurry.

It was dark by the time the limousine returned Perry Mason and Della Street to San Diego. Mason stopped long enough to telephone Paul Drake.

“Okay, Paul,” Mason said. “Della and I are leaving San Diego. We’ll go to Oceanside and have dinner there. Then we’ll meet you and go on out to see what we can do with Hackley.”

“He’s going to be a tough nut,” Drake warned. “I’ve been getting a little more dope on him. He’s considered pretty hard.”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “I like ’em tough. When can you get to Oceanside?”

“I’m ready to start right now.”

“All right,” Mason told him. “Della and I will pick up our cars at the airport and then go get some dinner. You can cruise slowly along the main street until you find us... you can’t miss my car. I’m driving the convertible with the light tan top.”

“Okay,” Drake said. “I’ll find you.”

“We’re on our way,” Mason told him, and hung up.

The limousine purred smoothly along the coast route until it reached Oceanside. Mason had the driver take them to the airport where he and Della Street picked up their respective automobiles, paid off the limousine, and drove back to the center of Oceanside where Mason found two parking places near a restaurant.

They entered the restaurant, enjoyed a leisurely dinner, and were chatting over after-dinner coffee and cigarettes when Drake walked in, looked around, spotted them, waved his hand and came over to join them in the booth.

“What’s new, Paul?” Mason asked.

“I could use a cup of coffee,” Drake said, “and a piece of that lemon pie. I had a late lunch but I’m beginning to get hungry... Hang it, Perry, there just isn’t any easy way out of Los Angeles. You have to fight traffic no matter what you do.”

“I’ll say,” Mason told him. “What’s new in the case, anything?”

“The police have found Edward Garvin’s fingerprint on the murder weapon,” Drake said.

“Why not? Garvin admits that he handled it. What else is new?”

“Not very much. I got a little dope on this Hackley. He was mixed up in some gambling. I didn’t find out too much about it but people who know him think he’s dangerous.”

“Well, that’s fine,” Mason said. “We’ll go look him over. We should be able to give him quite a jolt. He doubtless thinks that no one is ever going to connect him with Ethel Garvin.”

Drake said, “Well, I’ll have that piece of pie and a cup of coffee before the shooting starts anyway.”

They waited until Drake had finished, then left the restaurant. Mason said, “We may as well all go in one car. Let’s get in my bus. It has a wide front seat.”

“That’s an idea,” Drake said. “Put Della in the middle. It will give me an excuse to put my arm around her. I haven’t made even the preliminary approaches to a pretty girl for so long I’ve forgotten how.”

“Don’t think I’m going to educate you,” Della said. “I have no time to waste with amateurs.”

“Oh, it’ll all come back to me readily enough,” Drake said reassuringly.

They climbed in Mason’s car, swung away from the curb, turned east on the Fallbrook road and drove slowly until they found the Lomax mailbox. Then Mason slowed and located the driveway.

“Easy enough to find when you have the directions,” he said.

“It sure is.”

“The police haven’t any lead on Hackley, Paul?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think it’s even occurred to them to check back on Ethel’s stay in Nevada.”

The rutted driveway led past an orange orchard for about a quarter of a mile and up to a neat California bungalow which loomed dark and somber.

“Looks as though he’s either out or has gone to bed,” Drake said, “What do we do? Bust right in?”

“We bust right in,” Mason told him. “If he’s home we try to get him on the defensive and get him started answering questions. In other words, we pull a complete razzle-dazzle, if we have to.”

“Do we tell him who we are?”

“Not if we can avoid it. We just give him names, no more.”

“Okay,” Drake said. “Let’s go!”

Mason drove the car up to the front of the big house, braked it to a stop, waited a moment to see if there were any dogs.