Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Crooked Candle

He jabbed an angry finger in Mason’s direction.

A light was on in Mason’s office as the lawyer’s rubber heels padded down the tiled floor of the corridor. He quietly fitted a latchkey to the door, clicked back the lock, and pushed the door open.

Della Street was seated at Mason’s desk, her head pillowed on her arm. She was fast asleep.

Mason gently closed the door, hung up his hat and coat, walked across to the desk and stood for a moment looking down at Della with tender solicitude. Then he slid his hand along her hair, let it rest on the back of her shoulders.

“Don’t you ever go home?” he asked tenderly.

Della wakened with a start, turned her head, blinked her eyes against the light and smiled up at Mason. “I had to know what happened,” she said. “That meant I had to wait.”

“Bosh! You were waiting because you thought I might ring up and want something. Had any dinner?”

“No.”

“Lunch?”

“I had Gertie go out and bring in a couple of sandwiches and a bottle of milk.”

Mason said, “I’m going to keep you with me after this — at least you’ll eat regularly.”

“What’s new?” she asked.

Mason studied her face intently, saw traces of fatigue. “The thing that’s new,” he said, “is that you’re going home and get yourself some shuteye.”

“What time is it?”

“Something after eleven.”

“Heavens! I’ve been asleep for over an hour.”

“Where’s Paul Drake?”

“He went home.”

“That’s where you’re going. Come on, get your things.”

“I was afraid you might call,” she said. “I...”

“Forget it,” Mason interrupted. “I have the number of your apartment. I could have called you there. Don’t take this job so seriously.”

“What happened?” she asked.

“We had a very nice ride up the coast,” Mason told her, helping her into her coat. “We went up to a very nice motel. We really must stop in there sometime, Della. It has a beautiful location. It’s called the Surf and Sun, and, while today there was a cold, raw wind blowing in from the ocean, I can imagine that it would be very delightful, particularly during the summer.”

“Did you find Roger Burbank?”

“Yes. But not up there.”

“Where was he?”

“In a restaurant about half an hour away from here on the Ventura Boulevard — an old adobe house taken over and turned into a restaurant.”

“What does the motel have to do with it?”

“Well,” Mason said, “it seems that Burbank is supposed to have met some big-shot politicians up there — people who exerted every precaution to see that their motions couldn’t be traced. Burbank, for instance, was supposed to have been aboard his yacht. Apparently every one of these men had laid careful plans so he could deny having attended any such conference.”

“Why?”

“The men were big-shots. Perhaps the governor himself was there. They were planning some political strategy. If the newspapers had got hold of it, it would have been dynamite.”

“Was the governor really there?”

Mason said, “Well, the significant fact may have been that he wasn’t invited.”

“You mean some of the legislative leaders were plotting against him?”

“Yes, it could have been that — the way Carol told it.”

Della frowned. “I can see where it would be very inconvenient to have a murder committed on one’s yacht under these circumstances.”

Mason said, “And then again...” He broke off to push his tongue against his cheek so that it made a big lump.

“What’s that,” Della asked, “chewing tobacco?”

“No. Just to show you that I have my tongue in my cheek. Come on, young lady. Switch out the lights.”

She switched out the lights. Mason waited for the door to click shut, then tried the knob to make certain it was locked.

As they started down the corridor, he said, “It seems that Lieutenant Tragg and a fingerprint man by the name of Avon had located Burbank at this restaurant shortly before we got there — just a minute or two, I guess.”

“This was at that adobe restaurant?”

“Yes.”

“And what happened?”

“Carol told her father he simply must tell where he’d been, and finally the old man quit denying he’d been there.”

“Rather a peculiar position for a man to be in, wasn’t it?” Della asked. “I mean, telling the police that he’d been with several men who would have to deny that they had been there with him?”

“Very,” Mason admitted. “It was a poser for Tragg. And the hell of it is, as far as Tragg’s concerned, he’s dealing with political big-shots. If he takes Burbank’s word that he wasn’t aboard that yacht when the murder was committed, that’s one thing. If he insists upon corroboration and starts checking up, he may stir up a hornet’s nest. Tragg, you see, is more or less dependent upon having a certain amount of political good-will.”

Mason rang for the elevator.

“Was there any corroborating evidence whatever?”

“Very strong corroborating evidence,” Mason said, “and produced at the psychological moment in a manner well calculated to carry conviction.”

“Just what was it?”

“Burbank’s hand dropped down to his coat pocket. He produced the key to the cottage that had been occupied by the potiticians — a key that undoubtedly came from cabin fourteen at the Surf and Sun Motel.”

“What did Tragg say to that?”

“That,” Mason said, “convinced Tragg so much that he jumped up from the table and went whizzing up the highway. Lieutenant Tragg never lets eating interfere with business.”

“You mean he passed up his dinner?”

“Didn’t even wait for the food to be brought, and it was a swell dinner. Green turtle soup. Then nice sizzling steak, and salad, with a dish of chili beans on the side and tortillas...”

“Chief! are you trying to make me hungry?”

“Are you hungry?”

“I hadn’t realized it. Guess I was just — well, I guess I haven’t gotten around to realize it, but I am hungry.”

“That,” Mason announced, “is as it should be. You’re going to get something hot to eat — and) I don’t ever again want to hear of you sticking around that stuffy office Saturday afternoons and nights. What has Paul found out about the murder?”

“I have a written report here. It gives the highlights. Come to think of it, I haven’t thought about the newspapers. It should make the late evening edition.”

Mason again jabbed his thumb against the elevator button, held it there for several seconds. “You,” he announced, “are going to have a cocktail, some hot soup and a steak.”

“A little hot soup would taste good,” she admitted. “Where do we go?”

“Down to that chummy little restaurant on Ninth Street. We can get a booth there and talk. Where’s Drake’s report?”

“In my purse.”

“Okay. We’ll stroll over and get a table.”

The janitor brought up the elevator, gave Mason the benefit of a frowning rebuke for that long second ring.

Mason and Della rode down in silence, then out on the street, smiled at each other in silent comment on the janitor’s grouch, walked up Ninth Street arm in arm, turned into a little unpretentious restaurant where they knew the proprietor, and found seats in a curtained booth near the entrance.

The proprietor, a huge florid figure of a lusty man, attired in a chef’s cap and apron, came in to give them a welcome.

“Ah — ze great Perry MASON! And zat so charming Della Strit! Welcome! Pierre weeth hees own hands cooks you ze food an’ serves you ze dreenks!”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “We are honored. A dry Martini for Della, a Scotch and soda for me. Then a nice filet mignon for Della with some au gratin potatoes and coffee for two. Do you happen to have a nice filet mignon, Pierre?”