Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Crooked Candle

“When will you be back, Chief?”

It was Carol Burbank who answered the question. “It’s indefinite,” she said quite firmly.

Carol Burbank tucked her hand under Mason’s arm, said, “This way,” and led him from the exit of the building down the street for half a block and into a parking space.

“He should be here,” she said, looking around at the people nearby, and frowning.

“Who — your father?”

“No. Judson Beltin.”

“Who’s Judson Beltin?”

“My father’s right-hand man.”

“He knows about the murder?”

“Yes.”

“He knows where you’re going?”

“No.”

After a few moments she reconsidered her curt answer and said, “Judson doesn’t know anything except that he’s to get the car and fill it absolutely chock-full of gasoline, and have a couple of five-gallon cans in the trunk. He was to be here five minutes ago and wait for me. Of course, I realize he may have some trouble, but... Here he comes now.”

A car, being driven rapidly through traffic, slid in front of another car, and in one continuous gliding motion, turned into the parking lot.

“That’s Beltin. Don’t let on he means anything to us,” Carol warned. “Just stand here as though we were waiting for a car to be delivered to us.”

“Why all the mystery?”

“Please,” she pleaded, “trust me. I can’t explain. Just wait and do what I tell you to.”

A slender man of around thirty-five with a distinctive stoop turned the car over to an attendant who collected twenty-five cents, tore off a perforated numbered slip of pasteboard and handed it to him. Leaving the parking station, Beltin walked directly past Carol Burbank and Mason. He gave no sign of recognition, but his hand flashed out, and Carol’s hand closed on the oblong of pasteboard.

Carol said, “Let’s see if someone follows him... There... there’s the man! See. He got out of that parked automobile. See — he’s following Judson.”

Mason said, “After all, this is a busy city street. If you’ll turn around in this locality at any given instant and look behind you, you’ll find a couple of hundred people streaming along behind. Does that mean they’re following you?”

She didn’t say anything, but waited until Judson had turned the corner. Then she was careful to pick a service station attendant other than the one who had parked Beltin’s car. Quite calmly she handed him the parking ticket, and waited until the car had been brought out to the parking station exit. Then she slid in behind the steering wheel, waited while Mason got in beside her, then sent the car purring forward, pausing for a stop in front of the curb, then adroitly manipulating it out into traffic, driving with a smooth competence which elicited Mason’s enthusiastic although silent approval.

“Now,” she said, “just to make certain that we aren’t being followed.”

She swung the car abruptly to the left, just in front of an oncoming horde of traffic that had started forward in a rush at the change of the traffic signal.

“Anyone coming?” she asked as she straightened out.

Mason took a long breath, didn’t even look around. “If anyone had been following us, we’d have heard the smash by this time.”

She turned to the right at the next corner, slowed until she ran into another closed signal. Then, at the change of light, sent the car leaping forward once more to cut across the line of oncoming traffic, just as she had done at the other crossing.

Having convinced herself that no one was following her, she settled down behind the wheel to the job of driving, taking the car out through Hollywood, over the Cahuenga Grade, out Ventura Boulevard, constantly crowding speed from the car, getting it well out in front whenever she came to slower moving vehicles going in the same direction. Mason respected her silence by settling back in the cushions and smoking cigarettes.

They topped the slight incline above the Conejo Grade, then went rushing down the mountains and into Camarillo. She was once more watching her wrist watch as she drove into Ventura.

“I hope,” she said, “we’ll be in time.”

Those were the first words she had uttered since leaving Los Angeles.

Mason said nothing.

Midway between Ventura and Santa Barbara she suddenly slowed, then pulled into a “Motel” where neat stucco bungalows and red tiled roofs contrasted against green palm fronds and the dark blue of the ocean in the background.

“Do we get out?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

Mason followed her into the office of the manager.

“You have a Mr. J. C. Lassing registered here?” she asked.

The manager looked at her register. “Cottage fourteen. There’s a party of five.”

“Thank you,” Carol said, giving the woman her brightest smile, and nodding to Mason.

They walked down a crunching gravel driveway. The sun, dipping low in the west, was casting elongated shadows along the buildings, and, now that they were out of the car, they became conscious of a cold wind lashing the channel into whitecaps, a wind which forced Carol, to lean forward, pressing her skirt down against her knees.

The cabin they wanted seemed dark and silent. There was no car in the garage.

Carol ran up the three cement steps and pounded frantically against the door. When there was no answer, she tried the knob.

The door was unlocked, and the wind behind them blew the door open as the knob was turned.

Carol Burbank jumped forward, caught at the door just as it slammed against a rubber door stop. “I guess,” she said with a nervous laugh, “we go on in.”

Mason entered behind her, shouldered the door closed. He raised his voice and called, “Hello — is anyone home?”

There was no answer.

The cabin was a large four-room building which could be shut off into two double cottages. The big room in the front had twin beds and was spacious enough to serve as a commodious sitting room as well. The furniture was comparable to that of a high-class hotel. The beds were all neatly made. Around the davenport, three chairs had been grouped in a semicircle, and it seemed that every ashtray in the house had been pressed into service. There was a litter of cigarette stubs and cigar butts. On a taboret reposed five glasses. And the wastebasket beside the davenport was filled with empty bottles both of liquor and of mixers. About the room was the stench of cold cigar butts, and the odor of stale liquor.

Carol said, “I’m afraid they’ve left. Let’s take a look through the place and see if there’s any baggage.”

She led the way through the various rooms.

There was no sign of baggage. The bathrooms contained soiled towels. On one of the bathroom shelves was a safety razor and a shaving brush. Carol looked at it, picked up the brush and exclaimed, “It’s Father’s!”

“Perhaps he’s coming back,” Mason said.

“No, his bag’s gone. He just left the shaving things here. He’s forgetful about things like that.”

“You don’t think he’ll be back?”

“No. This cabin has served the purpose for which it was rented.”

“What was that?”

“A political conference. Some of the bigwigs from Sacramento. I can’t tell you who they were, and I wouldn’t dare to hint even to you what they were talking about. It’s political dynamite, something so big, something so stupendous that a premature disclosure would ruin the political careers of the men who took part in the conference.”

“All right,” Mason told her. “This is your party. What do you want to do next?”

She said, “Nothing. I’ll just pick up Father’s shaving things and take them along. There’s nothing else we can do.”