Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Crooked Candle

“Oh yes. I have reservations all made. You’re Miss Street?”

“Yes.”

Della registered, said to Carol Burbank, “I’ll register for you. By the way, what’s your middle name?”

“Edith, but I seldom use it.”

“That’s all right,” Della said, and wrote the name C. E. Burbank on the register.

The clerk smacked his palm down on the call bell and called, “Front!”

Della Street slipped the addressed envelope out of her purse, placed it on the counter. “A message for Mr. Mason,” she said. “He may pick it up a little later. Will you...”

“I’ll be glad to see that he gets it. Will he call personally, or do you expect him to send a messenger? We...”

A man who had just entered the lobby walked rapidly toward the desk, cleared his throat importantly.

The clerk broke off to glance over Della Street’s shoulder, said, “Just a moment, I’m busy with these two young ladies. Boy, will you take these ladies to six-twenty-four and six-twenty-six? Open the communicating bath and...”

“Just a minute,” the man said.

Della Street didn’t like the tone of his voice. She turned apprehensively as a big hand pulled back the lapel of a coat. She saw a gold shield incrusted with a number, insignia and lettering. The affable stranger who had been so enthusiastic over the charms of San Francisco was neither affable nor friendly now. He pushed Della slightly to one side, and his big hand clamped down on the envelope the clerk was still holding in open-mouthed amazement.

Della Street said angrily, “Will you kindly explain the meaning of this?”

His eyes were steely, hard and watchful. He said in a tone that rasped with offensive authority, “You two girls have an appointment at Headquarters. The same cab you came in is waiting outside.” He turned to a plain-clothes man who had come up behind him. “Keep an eye on them, Mac, while I see what’s in this envelope.”

Mac moved close while the first officer pulled out the claim check. He gave the other a quick look at it, holding it in such a way that Carol Burbank couldn’t see what it was.

“Okay, Mac, I’ll get it. You take the girls to Headquarters. We’ll meet there.”

Carol Burbank said quite firmly, “I guess perhaps you people don’t know who I am. You just can’t do this to me.”

The man who had been so genial a few minutes before regarded her with unsmiling authority. “Don’t kid yourself we don’t know who you are, Miss Burbank. It’s because we know who you are that we’re doing this. Come on, get in the cab. Or do you want to ride in the wagon?” he asked as Carol held back.

“I want to call my lawyer,” Della Street announced with dignity.

“Sure, sure,” the man said soothingly, “but you can’t do it here. You don’t want the whole hotel to know your business, do you? Come on. There’s a phone at Headquarters. You’ll have all the time in the world to call him when you get there.”

“I want to call him from here,” Della said, starting toward the phone booths, “and I don’t care whether the whole world knows my business.”

The officer’s hand grasped her arm. He jerked her back, spun her around. “All right, if you have to do it the hard way,” he said. “This is a pinch.”

The room at Police Headquarters had barred windows, held a clean, somewhat battered table, nearly a dozen chairs, three huge brass cuspidors on rubber mats, and nothing else. It was a plain room, obviously designed for just one purpose. It was devoid of ornament and cheer. People who were held in that room were like cattle herded into the killing pen of a stockyard. They simply waited until such time as the persons who controlled their destinies were ready to receive them.

Della Street and Carol Burbank sat over on the far side of the table near the window. Across the table from them, and between them and the door, the police officer who had been delegated to “keep an eye” on them, rested an elbow on the table, propped his feet on the rung of an adjacent chair, and gave the girls a view of the somewhat beefy profile of a man slightly past middle age.

The passing of years had made him indifferent to feminine beauty, and long association with the police had utterly calloused him to human misery. His manner indicated that he had detached himself from the scene of which he was a part. His body hulked between the prisoners and the door, which constituted a discharge of his duty. His mind was far away, occupied with the mathematical percentages of his prospects for winning on the races the next afternoon; daydreaming what he would do when he became eligible for pension; and rehashing in his mind an argument he had had with his wife that morning, thinking somewhat ruefully of her natural aptitude for delivering an extemporaneous tongue lashing, whereas he hadn’t thought of his best retorts until long afterward. His wife had a gift that way. No, damn it, she’d inherited it from her mother — that must be it. He remembered some of the scenes with his mother-in-law before she’d died some ten years ago. At that time, Mabel had been all worked up over the way the old lady used to have tantrums. That was before Mabel had got fat. She certainly had a good figure in those days. Well, come to think of it, he’d put on a little weight himself. Got pretty much out of shape after he quit that handball exercise. Thinking back on it, he couldn’t remember exactly when it was he’d quit. It had been after a spell of the flu, and then they’d changed his hours for a while, and...

Della Street said firmly, “I insist upon the right to use the telephone.”

The officer frowned at having his thoughts interrupted. He didn’t even turn his eyes toward Della Street. He said mechanically, “If they book you, you’ll have a right to call a lawyer.”

“I demand that I be permitted to communicate with an attorney right now.”

The officer didn’t say anything. He was frowning, trying to think just what had happened to make him quit handball — it had had something to do with a police shake-up. He wondered if that was the time the captain had been facing a grand jury investigation over the squawk the woman had made who ran that house out on...

Della Street said firmly, “I insist upon my right to communicate with Mr. Perry Mason, who is both my employer and my attorney.”

“That isn’t getting you anywhere, sister.”

“All right, you’ve heard me make the demand. We’ll see whether it gets me anywhere or not. I think there’s some law on the subject.”

“You can talk to the Lieutenant.”

“All right, let me talk to the Lieutenant.”

“He’ll see you when he’s ready.”

“Well, I’m ready now, and I’m not talking to the Lieutenant — I’m talking to you.”

“I’m just following orders.”

Della Street said, “You might find yourself on the spot, you know. Perry Mason isn’t going to like this.”

“Ma’am, the Lieutenant just don’t give a damn whether Perry Mason likes it or whether he doesn’t.”

“And when he doesn’t like a thing,” Della Street went on, “he’s very apt to do something about it. He might even prefer charges against you.”

The officer’s feet came down to the floor with a bang. He turned to look at Della Street now. “Charges against me ?” he said.

“Exactly.”

“On what grounds?”

“For refusing to let me communicate with a lawyer, for failing to take me before the nearest magistrate without unnecessary delay.”

“Now wait a minute,” the officer said. “You aren’t arrested yet.”

“Then why are you holding me here?”

“The D.A. wants to talk with you.”

“I don’t want to talk with the D.A.”