Эрл Гарднер: The Case of the Dubious Bridegroom

“And what makes you think I’ll make no explanation?” Mason asked.

“I don’t think you will,” she said. “It would involve you somewhat, don’t you think?”

“Would it?”

“Seeing a woman on the fire escape, forcing her to enter your office, accusing her of carrying a weapon, all with no proof... It would leave you open to a suit for damages, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t think so,” Mason said. “You see, after all, I’d be in the position of having found a prowler who was about to enter my office via the fire escape and...”

“Enter your office!” she interjected scornfully.

“Weren’t you?”

“Of course not.”

Mason said, “I’m afraid I’m too busy to waste time with you right now. If you can’t make some adequate explanation I’m going to have to pick up that receiver and ask the police to call.”

“A new page in your record,” she said. “Perry Mason calling the police!”

He smiled at the thought. “I admit it would be a bit unusual. Suppose you make the explanation?”

She said, “Haven’t I been humiliated enough tonight? Having to stand there while you...”

“I was searching for a weapon, you know that.”

“Was that your entire interest in the transaction?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re even more of a machine than I thought,” she flared.

“Well, you’ll have to figure it out for yourself.”

Mason moved toward the telephone.

She said hastily, “Wait!”

The lawyer turned.

She took a deep drag at her cigarette, exhaled the last of the smoke and then jabbed the cigarette end viciously into the ash tray. “All right,” she said, “you win.”

“What have I won?”

“An explanation.”

“Get going.”

She said, “I’m employed in the office upstairs as a secretary.”

“Who has that office?” Mason asked.

“The Garvin Mining, Exploration and Development Company.”

“You say it glibly enough,” Mason said.

“I should, I work there.”

The lawyer picked up the telephone book, opened it to the last page of the GA classification, ran down until he found the Garvin Mining, Exploration and Development Company, checked the address, nodded, and said, “So far that seems to be right.”

She said, “My employer asked me to come back and work tonight. He warned me he might be very late. He said he was going to a dinner party, but wanted to do some work just as soon as he was able to break away from the dinner. He wants to get away on a trip tomorrow.”

“And so you sat on the fire escape waiting for him?”

She grinned, “As a matter of fact, Mr. Mason, it was almost that bad.”

“What do you mean?”

She said, “I got up to the office about an hour ago. I waited and waited, and then I got tired of simply sitting there. I had finished with the evening paper and didn’t know what else to do. I switched out the lights and went over and sat on the window sill for a while and then, just for the lark of it, I got out on the fire escape and — well, it was dirty out there. I touched the rail and my hand got terribly dirty. That was a nuisance, because I was going to have to go down to the washroom and scrub the grime off.

“But while I was out there, it was — well, it was sort of romantic and exciting, looking out over the city and thinking about all of the heartaches, all of the tragedies, all of the hopes — and then a key clicked in the lock, the door opened. I assumed, of course, it was my boss, and I wondered just how I’d account for my presence out there on the dark fire escape.

“And then the light switch clicked on and I saw it was his wife!

“I didn’t know what she wanted. I didn’t know whether she was there, trying to trap me, whether she thought that — well, I knew how I would feel under the circumstances.”

“Go right ahead,” Mason said.

“So,” she said, “almost instinctively, I moved down two or three steps, so that I would be out of her range of vision... I could still see into the office. I suppose it was natural curiosity that made me watch to see what she was doing. Well, then she moved over toward the window and I had to start down the steps of the fire escape.”

“And the wind blew your skirts up.”

She smiled, “And you had a point of vantage, Mr. Mason.”

“I did,” Mason admitted, then added, “you instinctively put down your hand to hold your skirts in place.”

“I’ll say! That wind meant business.”

“And,” Mason said, “the hand held a gun.”

“A flashlight,” she amended.

“Exactly,” Mason said. “I’ll be a gentleman and take your word for it. It was a flashlight. And now, if, within the next five seconds, you can make a satisfactory explanation for the flashlight— No coaching from the audience, please— You have only three seconds left — two seconds — one second — I’m sorry.”

She bit her lip and said, “The flashlight, you see, was one that I had taken with me so that I could have a light when I went to the parking lot to get my car. I... well, you know, I didn’t expect the boss would escort me back to my car, and a woman alone doesn’t like prowling around late at night in the back of a lot. After all, Mr. Mason, things do happen, you know.”

“And so you took the flashlight with you when you went out on the fire escape.”

“Strange as it may seem, I did exactly that. It was on the desk, and I picked it up as I went out. It was dark out there!”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “So now, if you’ll take me down and show me the automobile that you have parked, that will be all there is to it.”

“Gladly,” she said, getting up from the chair with smooth grace. “I’ll be only too glad to do that, Mr. Mason. And you can check the license number, my driver’s license and the certificate of ownership on the steering post, and then I think that will conclude a very interesting meeting, don’t you?”

“Definitely,” Mason said. “It’s been a pleasure even under such unusual circumstances. As it happens, I don’t know your name.”

She said, “You’ll learn it when you see the registration on the automobile.”

“I’d prefer to hear it from you first.”

“Virginia Colfax.”

“Miss or Mrs?”

“Miss.”

“Let’s go,” Mason told her.

Mason led the way to the door, opened it and stood aside for the girl to walk out. She tossed a friendly smile at him over her shoulder and, together, they walked down the corridor.

As they passed Paul Drake’s office, near the elevator, with the windows lit up and the sign, drake detective agency, on the door, the girl made a grimace and said, “I don’t like that place!”

“Why not?” Mason asked.

“Detectives give me the creeps. I like privacy.”

Mason, pushing the elevator button and waiting for the janitor to bring the cage up, said, “Drake does all my work. It’s really a very methodical business — just like anything else. After you’re familiar with it, it ceases to have romance and glamour. It becomes matter-of-fact. At times I think Paul Drake is completely bored with it.”

“I daresay,” she said, sarcastically.

The elevator came to a stop. The janitor nodded. Mason placed his hand under the girl’s elbow as he guided her into the elevator, said, “You’ll have to sign the register, checking out.”

She smiled at him, “I’m afraid you’re wrong, Mr. Mason. Since the Drake Detective Agency stays open all night, people who are going to that office don’t have to sign the register.”

“Oh, did you go to them?” Mason asked.

Her laugh held good-natured banter. “Of course. Where did you think I’d been? Stupid!”