Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Dubious Bridegroom

Mason backed the car.

Irving read the license number, “45S530.”

“That’s fine,” Mason said, then added, “I guess that covers it.”

He started the car, drove rapidly back to Oceanside, stopped at the service station, let Irving out, then made a turn back down the highway.

Della Street smiled and said, “Now there’s a fair-minded witness.”

“He is now,” Mason said, “but by the time the police got done putting ideas in his mind, he would have felt certain the only car that would have answered the description of the one he saw there was the convertible belonging to Edward C. Garvin.”

Mason crowded the speed limit until he had left Oceanside, and then really stepped on the gas. “I want to get there and get that convertible out of the way before the police arrive,” he said.

Half a mile from the place where he had parked the car, Della Street said, “It looks as though you’re too late, chief.”

Mason exclaimed under his breath as the glare of a red spotlight shone in the distance on the highway. Then the sound of a siren reached their ears.

A big police car, followed by a man driving Edward Garvin’s convertible, slid rubber as they braked to a stop in front of the place where Mason’s car was parked.

“Might just as well go through with it,” Mason said with a grin, and turning off the highway drove up to a point beside his convertible.

A man, whose vest had a shield bearing the words SAN DIEGO COUNTY, DEPUTY SHERIFF, accompanied by Sergeant Holcomb, came striding across from where the police cars were parked.

“What’s the idea?” Holcomb demanded belligerently.

“Just parked my car here for a while,” Mason said.

“Your car?”

“That’s right.”

“What are you trying to do?” the deputy sheriff inquired.

Mason said, “I’m trying to find out who murdered Ethel Garvin. I understand my client has been taken into custody and charged with that murder.”

“Come on,” Holcomb said belligerently, “what’s the idea of parking your car here?”

“Any law against it?” Mason asked.

“I want to know what the idea is.”

Mason’s face was a mask of cherubic innocence. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, “I’m going to be frank with you. I’m trying my best to uncover evidence as to the real facts in the case. I understood there was a man here in Oceanside by the name of Irving who had seen a car parked here. Now, just to show you my willingness to co-operate, I’m going to tell you all about him. His name is Mortimer C. Irving. You’ll find him at the Standard Station — the first one on the right-hand side as you go in to town. He’s a likable chap, and he was down at La Jolla playing poker the night the murder was committed.

“He was driving back and he saw a car parked here. It had the lights on. Now, quite definitely it wasn’t the car in which the body of Ethel Garvin was found. It was a different type of car. As nearly as he can remember it was a convertible.

“I’d like very much to find out something more about that automobile but unfortunately Irving can’t tell us very much about it. All he knows is that it was a big convertible. He thinks that it was just about the color and size of this car of mine that I left parked here so he could look it over.”

“In other words,” Holcomb said, “you forced an identification on him. Is that right?”

“I didn’t force any identification on anybody on anything,” Mason said.

“The hell you didn’t,” Holcomb blazed. “You know as well as I do the only way for a man to make an absolute identification of an automobile or a person is to pick one out of a line-up. You planted one car there in the same position and...”

“And by the way what were you intending to do with Garvin’s car?” Mason asked.

“We’re looking it over for fingerprints,” the deputy sheriff said.

Mason bowed and smiled. “Well, don’t let me interfere, gentlemen. If Mr. Garvin let you have the automobile I’m quite certain you’ll find he’s only too glad to co-operate in every way that he can.

“Incidentally, Mr. Garvin has a perfect alibi for the hours during which the murder was committed... And now, if you’ll pardon me, gentlemen, I’ll be getting back to my office.”

And Mason moved over to his convertible, opened the door, slid in behind the steering wheel, turned on the ignition, started the motor, and purred away, leaving the two officers standing there, watching him with angry eyes, but hardly knowing exactly what to say under the circumstances.

Hamlin L. Covington, the District Attorney of San Diego County, sized up Perry Mason as the defense lawyer entered the courtroom, then turned to his chief deputy, Samuel Jarvis.

“A good-looking fellow,” Covington whispered, “but I can’t see that he’s any wizard.”

“He’s dangerous,” Jarvis warned.

Covington, a dignified, tall, powerfully built man, said, “Well, there’s certainly no need to be afraid of him in this case. He probably makes a lot of fast maneuvers, and gets those boys up north all worked up trying to follow him. I’m not going to be tricked into trying to follow him. I’m going to maintain a solid position against which that damned shyster can dash himself with no more effect than the ocean smashing spray against the Sunset Cliffs.”

Sam Jarvis nodded, and then grinned, triumphantly. “If Mason only knew what we had waiting for him,” he gloated.

“Well,” Covington said, with a certain self-righteous dignity, “after all, he has it coming to him. He likes to pull fast ones in court. We’ll cure him.

“And,” Covington continued, “he’s going to get a citation to appear before the grievance committee of the Bar Association on that automobile identification business. That’s going to slow him down some on cross-examination. The more he tries to mix the witness up, the more he’s going to give the Bar Association a foundation for its complaint.”

Covington chuckled with satisfaction. “We’ll show him that we do things a little differently in this bailiwick, eh Jarvis?”

“You bet,” Jarvis agreed. “When he hears...”

Abruptly the door from the judge’s chambers opened, and Judge Minden entered the courtroom.

Lawyers, spectators and courtroom attaches stood in a body as the judge walked over to the bench, hesitated a moment, then nodded gracious permission to the crowd to be seated.

The bailiff, who had pounded the court to order with his gavel, intoned, “The Superior Court of the State of California, in and for the County of San Diego, Honorable Judge Harrison E. Minden, presiding, is now in session.”

“People of the State of California versus Edward Charles Garvin,” Judge Minden said.

“Ready for the prosecution,” Covington announced.

“And for the defendant, Your Honor,” Mason said, smiling urbanely.

“Proceed with the impanelment of the jury,” Judge Minden told the clerk.

Covington whispered to Samuel Jarvis, “You go ahead and impanel a jury, Sam. I’m going to keep myself in reserve... Sort of a big gun to blast Mason out of the water. Only we won’t need to do much blasting in this case.”

“He’ll be blasted all right,” Jarvis said, “whenever we get ready to press the button.”

Covington stroked his gray mustache. His eyes twinkled with appreciation of the picture his assistant created.

Judge Minden said, “As the names of prospective jurors are called, you will come forward and take your place in the jury box. Mr. Clerk, draw twelve names.”

Judge Minden made a brief statement to the jury impanelment concerning their duties, called on the district attorney to advise the jurors of the nature of the case, asked the prospective jurors a few routine questions, then turned them over to the attorneys for questioning.