Erle Gardner - The Case of the Haunted Husband

“Not him,” Hortense said with the positive assurance of one who has some definite knowledge. “A big windbag like that always keeps up his bluff. Nothing you could say would change him.”

“You don’t know what I could say.”

“No, but I know the sort of man Homan is. I worked for a fellow just like that one. And say, I am going to tell you something. I wouldn’t take Homan’s word for anything. This man I used to work for — well, I wouldn’t trust him.”

“Oh, Homan is all right. But he is lying about that car.”

She let her face show surprise.

“What makes you think so?”

“I don’t think. I know. Look here.”

Tanner took a leather-backed notebook from his pocket, opened the book to thumb through the pages. “Here we are,” he said. “Homan called me on the morning of the eighteenth, said he had an important job to do and didn’t want to be disturbed, that I could get out. Well, I had just serviced the car, and filled the tank with gas. I keep track of the mileage. Here is the mileage on the speedometer. Thirteen thousand, four hundred and twenty-six miles. Now, I got the mileage after they brought the car back. They towed it in. Homan was going to junk it. He told me to get the tools out of it. Here is the mileage. Fourteen thousand one hundred and fifty-eight. Get it? Seven hundred and thirty-two miles between the morning of the eighteenth and the night of the nineteenth. I can prove Homan is lying.”

“Well?” Hortense asked, her eyes puzzled. “What is wrong with that? That isn’t too much, is it? You can drive five or six hundred miles in a day...”

“I will tell you what’s wrong with it. Everything’s wrong with it. Sure, you can drive a bus like that seven or eight hundred miles a day if you want to, but remember Homan says he had the car sticking around until about noon on the nineteenth. You can’t drive a car seven hundred and thirty-two miles between noon and ten o’clock at night, not to save your life.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake!” Horty exclaimed. “How do you figure it out, Ernest?”

“I don’t figure it out... not right here and now,” he said, “but you can believe me, sister, I am going to let Homan do some explaining to me — privately. And I know the answer.”

“Say,” she said with enthusiasm, “let me know how you come out. That man looks so much like the guy I used to work for that I would sure like to see him taken down a peg or two.”

“Oh, well,” Tanner said, sliding his arm around her waist and drawing her close to him, “let’s forget Homan — if we can. Did you notice a car has been following us? Oh, well, let him follow. Hey, driver, pull down this side street, and stop at the café in the middle of the block.”

Tanner paid the cab fare, gave the driver a half-dollar tip, and piloted Hortense into a small restaurant which had a distinctly individual atmosphere. They had sandwiches and beer. Tanner kept feeding nickels into the machine which played the latest records, and they danced to the music. After an hour, he took her to one of the best picture theaters, bought lodge seats, settled down beside her, and twisted his fingers around hers. “I should be grateful to you,” he whispered. “If it wasn’t for you, I would probably be in the can right now. As it is, I am feeling like a million. Here’s where I relax and enjoy life.”

The sound tracks blared forth impressive music. On the flickering screen appeared a cast of characters, a list of names. As the cast of characters gave place to writers, technicians, and costumers, Tanner said, “They are having a big battle out in Hollywood. The manicurists for each star insist on having screen credit.”

She giggled.

A blaze of light hit the screen. In huge, black letters appeared the legend, “A JULES HOMAN PRODUCTION.”

“Oh, cripes,” Tanner said, grabbing her arm. “Let’s get the hell out of here! ”

Mason paced the floor of his office, thumbs pushed up in the armholes of his vest, head thrust forward in thought. Paul Drake, sprawled crosswise in the big leather chair, smoked silently.

“Hang it, Paul. It is so near being right, it almost proves itself, and then it all goes haywire, like one of those puzzles that you can almost work the obvious way. Then you run into trouble.”

“I know,” Drake grinned, “you think they made a mistake manufacturing the damn thing, and the wire should be bent a little bit so that other piece will slip through.”

“Uh-huh,” Mason said. “Only in the case of a wire puzzle, it is a trap that the manufacturer made for you to walk into. In this thing — well, I don’t know but what this is a trap someone made for me to walk into.”

Della Street came in from the secretarial office.

“Gosh, Della,” Drake said, “haven’t you gone home yet?”

She shook her head. “I was hoping someone would buy me dinner.”

“It is a swell idea,” Drake told her. “They might even buy mine while they were doing it.”

“News from the battle front,” Della said to Perry Mason. “Latest bulletin just in over the telephone.”

“What is it?”

“Hortense Zitkousky. She must be quite a gal.”

“I have an idea she is,” Mason said. “What about her?”

“She sounds as though she were getting just a bit high. She said it’s the first time she has had a chance to get away to the telephone. She is out with the chauffeur.”

“What has she found out?”

“The chauffeur isn’t the least bit worried about money. Homan fired him. The chauffeur’s spending dough like a drunken sailor. The automobile was driven seven hundred and thirty-two miles between the morning of the eighteenth and the time of the accident on the nineteenth.”

“How does he know?” Mason asked.

“He keeps a record of the speedometer figures. He has to service the car.”

Drake gave a low whistle.

“Was that all she had?” Mason asked.

“So far. She says to tell you she is not only getting to first base with the chauffeur, but is getting ready to steal second. She is trying to find out why he isn’t worried about money. And she thinks he may have something else on Homan.”

Mason said, “I hope she is smart enough to try and find out about Spinney. Homan may be right about that. It may have been the chauffeur who was calling Spinney, and whom Spinney was calling. Know anyone out around Hollywood, Della?”

“You mean movie people?”

“Yeah.”

“A couple of writers and an agent.”

“You might try the agent,” Mason said. “I would like to get some of the low-down on Homan and his meteoric success. There must be some gossip in connection with him. I would like to find out what it is. And I would like to get the low-down on his love life. That always helps.”

“I can put some men on the Job,” Drake said.

Mason shook his head. “A private detective in that atmosphere would stick out like a sore thumb on a waiter serving soup. The stuff I am after is the little inside gossip that would be confined to people who are in the game.”

Della said, “This agent is a card.”

“Man or woman?”

“Woman. Used to be a secretary, then did a little writing, and started handling screen stuff.”

“Stories or talent?”

“Stories.”

“Get in touch with her. See what you can find out,” Mason said. “Make it casual if you can.”

“I can’t.”

“Then take your hair down and get her to give you the low-down. How about meeting me in a couple of hours somewhere for a report? You should be able to get what we want in that time.”

“I will get on the phone and see what I can do.”

“Oh-oh,” Drake said, “there goes my dinner date.”