Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Dubious Bridegroom

A big, black German shepherd walked on tiptoe around the car, his mane bristling, his nose busily inquiring as to the identity of the late visitors.

“Don’t take any chances on that dog,” Drake warned. “Blow the horn and let’s get someone to come out here and escort us in.”

Mason said, “I’d rather try the doorbell, and catch him entirely by surprise. That dog looks intelligent.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It does with a dog,” Mason said, and opened the door of the car.

The dog immediately bristled in hostile silence.

Mason looked down, and caught the dog’s eye. “Look,” he said, as though addressing a human being, “I want to talk with the master of the house. I’m going to get out of this car and walk in a direct line right up to the porch and ring the bell. You can follow along behind me to make certain I don’t make any false move. How’s that?” With the last two words, Mason raised his voice. Then, without an instant’s hesitation, stepped to the ground.

The dog lunged forward, keeping his nose within a half inch of Mason’s legs as the lawyer walked around the car and up to the porch. “It’s all right,” Mason assured Della Street who was watching with apprehensive eyes. He dropped his hands so that the open fingers were where the dog’s cold nose could explore them.

The lawyer walked up to the porch and pressed the bell button. He could hear the sound of chimes inside the house.

He waited a minute, then pressed the bell button several times in quick succession.

From the dark interior of the house there was the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps approaching the door. A light switch clicked on, then another. A door opened and through the glass in the window Mason could see the figure of a man in a double-breasted gray suit. The man shifted his right hand to a position near the left lapel of his coat. The lawyer caught a glimpse of a revolver in a shoulder holster.

The dog, facing the door, elevated his tail, the tip of it waving to and fro.

A bolt shot on the inside of the door. The man opened the door for an inch or two, a safety chain holding it in that position. A porch light clicked on, outlining Mason in brilliance.

“Who are you?” the man asked. “What do you want?”

“I’m looking for Alman Bell Hackley.”

“What do you want with him?”

“I want to talk with him.”

“What about?”

“Some properties he has in Nevada.”

“Nothing is for sale.”

“Do you want to hear what I have to say, or not?”

“If you have any business with me, go back to the hotel at Oceanside. Call on me after ten o’clock in the morning.” He started to close the door. Then, something about the dog’s attitude caught his attention, and he said suspiciously, “Say, how did you get past that dog?”

“I’m not past him. I just got out of the car and...”

“He’s not supposed to let anyone out of a car after dark.”

“He made an exception in my case,” Mason said.

“Why?”

“Ask the dog.”

The man frowned, said, “Just who are you anyway?”

Mason said, “I’m trying to find out something about Ethel Garvin.”

Hackley’s face became rigidly immobile.

“Know anything about her?” Mason asked.

“No,” Hackley said, and slammed the door.

“She was murdered early this morning,” Mason called through the closed door.

There was no response, but, on the other hand, Mason heard no sound of steps in the corridor indicating the man had turned away from the door.

“And she stopped here and had her gasoline tank filled,” Mason shouted.

There was a pause, then the door jerked open.

“What was that you said?” the man demanded.

“I said she stopped here sometime around twelve-thirty o’clock in the morning and had her gas tank filled.”

“You’re drunk or crazy, I don’t know which, and I don’t give a damn. Now get back in your car or I’ll tell the dog to tear a leg off.”

“Do that and I’ll sue you for damages and wind up owning your Nevada ranch,” Mason said.

“You talk big.”

“Go on,” Mason told him. “Tell your dog to tear off a leg and see what happens.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to talk about Ethel Garvin.”

There followed a long moment during which the slender, sinewy man behind the door met Mason’s eyes in thoughtful appraisal. Suddenly he reached a decision, removed the safety chain from the door and said, “Come in. If you want to talk I’m willing to listen.

“And before you leave you’ll tell me exactly what you meant by saying Ethel Garvin, whoever she is, stopped here at twelve-thirty o’clock this morning. Come right in, Mr. — ?”

“Mason,” the lawyer said.

“All right, Mr. Mason, come in.”

Mason turned back toward the car, “Come on Della, and Paul,” he called.

“What about that damned dog?” Drake called irritably. “Can’t you put him in the house?”

“The dog remains where he is,” Hackley said. “He won’t do anything unless I tell him to.”

Della Street opened the door of the car, slid out to the ground, walked confidently toward the porch where Mason was standing. The dog turned to regard her, gave a low-throated, ominous growl, but made no move.

Drake, who had put one foot on the ground, heard the growl, promptly returned to the automobile and slammed the door.

“It’s all right,” Hackley called, and then to the dog, “Shut up, Rex!”

The dog ceased growling, regarded Della Street’s confident approach with hard-eyed appraisal, then slowly waved the tip of his tail. Drake, observing that Della Street made it all right, opened the door once more, placed his right foot on the ground tentatively, followed it with his left foot, and took two or three cautiously diffident steps toward the porch.

The dog bristled, growled, then suddenly made a lunge for Drake.

Drake whirled, raced back into the car just as the snarling dog flung himself against the door, his teeth snapping at the metal.

Hackley opened the door, ran out on the porch, yelled, “Rex! Down! Damn it, Rex, get down!”

The dog looked back over his shoulder, slowly and reluctantly sank to a crouching position on the ground.

“Here,” Hackley shouted. “Come here. Come here to me!”

The dog turned and came toward Hackley as though expecting a beating.

Hackley said, “Damn you, I told you not to do that. Now you get down, and stay down.”

Hackley walked over to the car, said to Drake, “Come in. He won’t hurt you.”

Drake looked past Hackley at the dog, said, “If that dog makes a pass at me, I’m going to shoot him.”

“You won’t have any trouble with him as long as you get out and come in, and move confidently,” Hackley said. “But don’t ever start running from a dog, and don’t ever act as though you were afraid.”

“Stand still and let him tear a leg off, I suppose,” Drake said, sarcastically.

“The others didn’t have any trouble,” Hackley pointed out.

“The trouble I had,” Drake told him, “was enough to make up for all three of us.” He eased himself out of the automobile, followed Hackley to the porch.

“Come in,” Hackley said. “Rex, get the hell back out of the way.” He aimed a halfhearted kick. The dog, deftly avoiding his kick, stood watching Drake with lips that curled back from his fangs.

Hackley said, “Come on in. Let’s go inside, sit down, and talk this thing over in a civilized fashion.”

He said to Mason, “All right, let’s get this straight. Your name’s Mason. Who are the others?”

“Miss Street, my secretary,” Mason said.

Hackley’s bow was a model of polite deference. “Miss Street,” he said, “I’m very pleased to meet you.”