Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Crooked Candle

While they were waiting for the elevator, Mason said to Della Street, “Now then, I’m going to drive you home, and you’re going to sleep.”

She laughed. “Don’t be silly.”

“You’re all in.”

“All in nothing! If you think you can hold out whatever’s in those letters, you have another guess coming.”

Mason grinned. “Want to devour all the purple passages?”

“Every one of them,” she admitted. “After all, don’t you make allowances for feminine curiosity?”

“I’m trying to make allowances for feminine fatigue.”

“I haven’t any, any more. That dinner made me feel ever so much better and — gosh. Chief, I could sit and listen to Van Nuys talk all night.”

“A very remarkable voice,” Mason admitted. “It probably indicates rather a remarkable personality.”

“A woman’s fortunate to have a friend like that,” Della said wistfully. “Someone who really understands her and sympathizes with her and — and tries to save her.”

“Save her from what?” Mason asked.

“From herself, of course.”

“Daphne Milfield evidently didn’t want to be saved from herself.”

“Of course she didn’t. But I mean it’s splendid for her to have a friend like Harry Van Nuys. When sire you going to read those letters, Chief?”

Mason grinned. “Tomorrow morning.”

They walked across the lobby of the hotel.

“Good night,” Mason said to the clerk.

His response was an all but inarticulate grunt.

“Come on, Chief, where are you going to read them?”

“In the office, of course.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

She laughed. “Fat chance. Come on, we’ll turn on the dash light in the automobile.”

They sat side by side in the automobile. There were half a dozen letters, all written in pen and ink. Those which bore the earlier postmarks had the return address of Douglas Burwell at a San Francisco hotel. Those that had been written later simply had the initials D. B and the address of the San Francisco hotel as a return. The letters covered a period of some six weeks and indicated a progressive intimacy.

“Well?” Mason asked Della Street when they had finished reading them.

“He sounds like a nice boy,” Della said.

“A boy?”

“Well, he’s — sort of inexperienced in that sort of thing.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Just the way he’s gone about it. The... Oh, I don’t know. He’s fallen head over heels, and that’s all there is to it. He’s naive, and an idealist. He’d never be happy with her. Van Nuys was right. It would have been a great tragedy.”

“Well,” Mason said, “let’s see what he has to say for himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re going to call him on long distance. There’s no time to get up there for an interview. And even then, an interview might be wasted. Let’s beat the police to the punch and see what Mr. Douglas Burwell has to say for himself.”

They called him from a long distance booth in one of the larger hotels, and at that hour the call was put through with such rapidity that within a matter of seconds, the operator made her report. “Mr. Mason, on your call to Douglas Burwell — he is out of town for a few days.”

“Do you know where he could be reached by telephone?” Mason asked.

The girl said sweetly, “You may talk with the clerk at the hotel, if you wish. All the information we can give is that he’s out of town.”

“Very well,” Mason said, and then over his shoulder to Della Street, “I’ll bet he’s in Los Angeles. What’ll you bet, Della?”

A moment later a masculine voice said, “Hello.”

Mason said, “I’m trying to get in touch with Douglas Burwell. It’s very important.”

“You are in Los Angeles, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he’s there.”

“Can you tell me where I can reach him?”

“At the Hotel Claymore.”

“Thank you,” Mason said, and hung up.

“Now then,” Mason said to Della Street, “one thing is definite and certain. You are going home and go to bed.”

“What did they say about Burwell?”

“He’s here in Los Angeles.”

“Where?”

“At the Claymore Hotel.”

“It’s not over two blocks,” Della said, and then added as Mason hesitated, “and if I go home in the middle of all this, I won’t sleep anyway.”

“You should learn not to get so excited over a murder,” Mason told her.

“Murder my eye! This is romance. That’s something entirely different. Come on, Chief, let’s go.”

Douglas Burwell proved to be a tall man, about thirty, prominent cheekbones, large, limpid dark eyes, and a somewhat tubercular appearance, with dark wavy hair. There were circles under his eyes. His hair was rumpled in disarray, and the ash tray on the table beside the most comfortable chair in the room was filled to overflowing with cigarettes, none of which seemed to have been smoked to more than half its length.

His voice showed the emotional tension under which he was laboring, and his manner had none of the cordial hospitality which had characterized Harry Van Nuys.

“Well, what is it?” he demanded shortly.

Mason, giving him the benefit of a searching glance, lashed out without any preliminaries, “I want to ask you some questions about Mrs. Milfield.”

If Mason had, without warning, struck the man in the stomach, his reactions could not have indicated any greater dismay or surprise. “About... about...”

“About Mrs. Milfield,” Mason said, kicking the door shut and indicating the comfortable chair. “Sit down, Della.”

“But I don’t know anything about Mrs. Milfield.”

“Know Fred Milfield?” Mason asked.

“I have met him, yes.”

“Business?”

“Yes.”

“When did you meet his wife?”

“I... why, I think I only met her once, Mr... What did you say your name was?”

“Mason.”

“I only met her once, Mr. Mason. And may I ask the reason for all of this? I don’t appreciate your barging into my room and throwing questions like this at me. Are you connected with the police?”

“You heard her husband had been murdered?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know he was murdered?”

“She told me.”

“Oh, you’ve seen her then?”

His voice was cautious now, and dignified. “I rang up the house to try and get in touch with Mr. Milfield. She told me what had happened.”

“That was the only reason you rang up the house?”

“Yes.”

“And you aren’t particularly friendly with his wife?”

“Mr. Mason, I tell you I’ve only seen the woman once. She impressed me as being a very attractive woman, but for the life of me, I couldn’t describe her to you. She went in one eye and out the other.”

Mason said, “That’s fine. That gives me a perfect case.”

“What do you mean?” Burwell asked.

Mason said, “You have a good action against someone and I want to represent you in that action.”

“You’re an attorney?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. I thought you were connected with the police.”

“Not directly,” Mason said. “But the police will naturally expect you to take some action and I’m in a position to represent you.”

“Take some action! What do you mean?”

“In the prosecution for forgery.”

“Prosecuting whom for forgery?”

Mason reached in his pocket and pulled out the stack of six letters. “The person,” he said, “who forged your name to these letters. The person who wrote these very interesting, somewhat naive and rather passionate letters to Mrs. Fred Milfield and signed your name to them.”