Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Crooked Candle

“In which event,” Mason said, “we must have passed him on the road.”

“I feel certain we must have done just that,” she said. “It’s that one ahead, the red sign that says ‘DOBE HUT RESTAURANT.’ ”

Mason said nothing.

Carol, manipulating the car into a parking place, switched off the ignition and threw up the catch on the left-hand door. It was as she was fitting the key to the lock on the door, that Mason indicated the red spotlight on a car parked in the opposite row. “Looks like the police eat here too,” he said.

“Oh yes, the highway patrols eat here, and...”

“That’s not a highway patrol car.”

Carol said nothing, so Mason, clasping her forearm lightly with his fingers, guided her through the doorway of the ’dobe house.

The dining room held some fifteen tables. On the side opposite the door was a huge fireplace, and in this fireplace crackling oak logs furnished a cheery warmth. A hostess, dressed in a Spanish dancing costume, with very dark hair, intense black eyes, and lips heavy with make-up, flashed a smile at Mason, piloted the way toward a table.

Suddenly, Carol gave a half exclamation, veered toward the left-hand corner, and approached a table where three men were talking.

Mason saw a powerfully built man with a closely cropped gray mustache and keen gray eyes glance up at her, saw the smile on his face, heard Carol say, “Hello, Dad! What on earth are you doing here?”

The three men got to their feet. Mason, coming over behind Carol, bowed to the man with the gray mustache and said, “Mr. Roger Burbank, I presume.”

“Perry Mason, Father. You know, he’s the lawyer,” Carol explained hastily.

Burbank’s thick-fingered, powerful hand shot across the table, gripped the lawyer’s hand.

“And Lieutenant Tragg,” Mason said, smiling into Tragg’s somewhat puzzled countenance. “Permit me to introduce Carol Burbank, Lieutenant. And I take it the gentleman with you is from the Homicide Squad?”

“George Avon,” Tragg admitted. And then after a moment, as though debating whether to disclose the information, added, “fingerprint expert.”

Mason shook hands with Avon.

“Won’t you be seated?” Roger Burbank asked politely.

The hostess, flashing white teeth in a smile, came over to the table. “I didn’t know that you were joining friends,” she said. “Waiter, two chairs at once, please.”

The waiter brought two chairs and Mason held the chair for Carol Burbank, then seated himself. “We were famished,” he announced.

Tragg said dryly, “It didn’t take your reinforcements long to get here, did it, Burbank?”

Burbank raised his eyebrows. “My reinforcements?”

“Your attorney.”

Burbank said, “I’m afraid there’s some mistake. I didn’t send for Mr. Mason.”

“Haven’t you told him yet?” Carol demanded of Tragg.

Tragg said, “I haven’t been here long. I’ve been asking a few questions.”

“Told me what?” Burbank demanded of Carol.

Tragg interrupted, “I want to get this straight, Mr. Burbank. It has become important to know exactly where you were and what you were doing yesterday afternoon and evening. So far you’ve done a lot of stalling. Now suppose you start talking.”

“Why should my whereabouts mean anything to you?”

Mason said, “Come, come, gentlemen. Let’s be fair.”

Carol Burbank said, “Dad, you’ve got to tell these men exactly where you were. You don’t need to tell them the names of the other persons who were with you if you don’t want to. But you’ve got to tell them where you were and when you went there. It’s important.”

Mason said suavely, “Fred Milfield was murdered aboard your yacht.”

Lieutenant Tragg made a gesture of irritation. “That’s what comes of trying to be polite! I should have taken you to Headquarters the minute I walked in, and questioned you there.”

“Fred Milfield murdered!” Burbank exclaimed.

“That’s right, Dad. We’ve been trying to find you all afternoon.”

“And you thought it necessary to bring a lawyer along with you?” Tragg asked.

Carol faced him with cold steady eyes. “Certainly. And if you knew all the facts of the case...”

Burbank said, “I simply can’t understand why anyone would want to murder Fred Milfield. You’re sure he was murdered, Lieutenant?”

Carol said, “Dad, won’t you trust my judgment? Please, please, won’t you tell them?”

Roger Burbank said, “Let’s hear what Lieutenant Tragg has to say first.”

Carol said to Lieutenant Tragg impatiently, “Dad wasn’t there at all yesterday afternoon. Father has been mixing into politics — there are things that have to be kept absolutely confidential. Even now, I can’t tell you the details — but suppose Dad had an appointment with some big-shots from Sacramento — people who insisted that their meeting be shrouded with the utmost secrecy He simply couldn’t tell you who they were, and each of them would deny it if you put the question up to him. Suppose they took every precaution to insure secrecy, and met at a motor lodge up here on the coast highway, were in conference for nearly twenty-four hours, working out plans, and only split up a short time ago. I thought he might stop in here for dinner. I took a chance on stopping — and here we are.”

“How very, very interesting,” Tragg said. “You say that none of these men would admit he was present at the conference?”

“None of them would dare to.”

Tragg said, “All right. Let’s quit beating around the bush. If there’s anything to this, we want to know it, and check on it — and if there isn’t,” and here Tragg’s voice became ominously crisp, “we want to find that out too.”

“You tell them, Dad,” Carol said.

Burbank said nothing. His forehead was creased in a dark scowl of disapproval as he frowned at his daughter.

“All right,” Carol said, “if I have to, I will. You investigate at the Surf and Sun Motel up on the highway between Ventura and Santa Barbara. The big place over on the left out on...”

“Yes, I know where it is,” Tragg said. “And that’s where this conference was held?”

“Just go there.”

Tragg turned to Burbank. “If there’s anything to this, you’d better verify it.”

Burbank seemed angry. “Oh well,” he said with a gesture of annoyance, “she’s let the cat out of the bag now. But I’m not going to confirm it. If you ask me I’ll — damn it, I’ll deny it.”

“Any proof?” Tragg asked Carol.

“Of course there’s proof — if you get right at it. The ashtrays and empty bottles are still there. Get fingerprints. We told the manager to leave things just as they were. Dad even left his shaving outfit on the glass shelf in the bathroom.”

“By George!” Burbank exclaimed, “I’m always forgetting that damned razor.”

Tragg said dryly, “Any real evidence except that of the shaving kit?”

Carol said, “Dad, didn’t you carry the key away with you? It isn’t at the motel.”

Slowly Roger Burbank slipped his hand into the side pocket of his coat, pulled out a typical hotel key from the loop of which dangled a chain. Attached to the chain was a large papier-mâché tag imprinted SURF AND SUN MOTEL, and down below in large numerals the figure 14.

On the other side was the usual stamped notice, stating that if the key was inadvertently carried away, it was necessary only to place a postage stamp on it and drop it in any mailbox.

Tragg took the key, scraped back his chair, signaled the waiter. “Cancel our orders,” he said, “and give the check to the wise guy.”