Erle Gardner: The Case of the Haunted Husband

“But I wasn’t driving that car. Who owns it?”

“Some big shot in Hollywood. It was stolen yesterday afternoon.”

“Yesterday... What day is this?”

“Thursday.”

“It was really stolen, Horty?”

“Uh-huh.”

Stephane tried to sit up, then, as she felt the soreness in her muscles dropped back to the pillows. “What a mess,” she moaned.

Horty said, “Oh, it is not so bad. They can’t hook you for stealing the car, if you stick to your story. They can’t prove you were intoxicated. Reckless driving is the worst they can pin on you — unless... look here, Stephane, you didn’t really get high and don’t-careish and steal that car, did you?”

“Don’t be silly. I was thumbing my way down from San Francisco. I can prove I was in San Francisco yesterday morning. I picked up this ride in Bakersfield.”

“The fellow had been drinking?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Not too little, not too much.”

“Pawing?”

“Uh-huh. He was trying to. That is what made the trouble.”

“Look here, Stephane, you wouldn’t kid me. You didn’t think he was drunk, and get him to let you drive? It isn’t someone you are protecting?”

“No, honest Injun.”

Horty’s eyes lost their twinkle. “Well,” she said, “it looks like you are going to need a lawyer.”

Della Street, Perry Mason’s secretary, listened to Horty’s story, said apologetically, “Mr. Mason doesn’t have time to handle many small cases and...”

“And I am just a working girl,” Horty interrupted. “I have got a little money saved up. I am willing to put that into the kitty.

“What as more, I am making a fair salary. I am a secretary myself. Working for a nearsighted man,” she added with bubbling laughter. “I am not supposed to be an office ornament, so I can eat three times a day. Tell Mr. Mason I will raise some money on a salary loan and...”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Della Street said with a smile. “Mr. Mason is usually very fair about fees. It is a question of whether he has the time to take on these small cases. Just a moment, please.”

She walked through the law library to Mason’s private office.

Perry Mason, seated in his comfortable, creaking swivel chair, was studying a bill of exceptions. The desk was piled with transcripts and leather-backed law books.

He looked up. “What is it?”

She said, “The case isn’t anything you would be interested in, but the woman is.”

“What woman?”

“The one who has brought it in.”

“Tell me,” Mason said, pushing the swivel chair out from the desk, spinning around, and propping his feet on an open drawer. “Give me a cigarette out of that humidor, and tell me what it is all about.”

Della Street handed him the cigarette. Mason snapped flame from the end of a match, and lit up.

“Well, it seems she is Polish. I guess the Poles hang together. She has a friend, a Stephane Claire Olger, whom she says is beautiful, and has decided to go by the name Of Stephane Claire and...”

“Which one is out there?” Mason interrupted.

“Hortense Zitkousky. Apparently everyone calls her Horty. You would get a kick out of her. She has got a full-of-curves figure, lots of good nature, lots of loyalty — about twenty-six, I would judge. She says she is working in a secretarial position for a nearsighted man, so she doesn’t have to be an office ornament.”

“What is the case?”

“Stephane Claire was hitchhiking down from San Francisco. She picked up a ride. A man was driving. He had been drinking. There was a smash, and when she came to, she was behind the steering wheel. There was no sign of the man. The car belongs to a man by the name of Homan, some big-shot producer out in Hollywood. It was stolen yesterday afternoon.”

“What time was the smash-up?”

“Around quarter past eleven last night.”

“Where is was Miss Claire?”

“Emergency Hospital, bruised torn ligaments, cuts and a few stitches. The accident was pretty bad. I understand one of the men isn’t expected to live. Three cars were involved. There is evidence the girl had been drinking. She admits she took one drink. She claims it was with the man who was driving the car. The police don’t think there was any man. They think she stole the car — think it had been stolen twice , in fact.”

“How come?” Mason asked.

“Apparently, the car was stolen from Hollywood yesterday afternoon. Someone drove it to Bakersfield, and abandoned it. This girl was hitchhiking down from San Francisco. She had been fired up there for knocking down on tips. She saw the car with its doors unlocked and the key in the ignition, saw it was from Hollywood, and decided to drive it back.”

“What does Miss Zitkousky say to that?”

“She says it is absurd — only she uses more colorful language.”

“No one saw anything of a man in the wreck?”

“No.”

Mason frowned, said, “Let’s talk with this girl and see what she looks like. Send her in.”

Della Street brought Hortense Zitkousky into Mason’s private office. Mason listened attentively to her story, said, “I like your loyalty to your friend. Perhaps later on there will be something I can do. I doubt if there is now. What you need is a good detective. The Drake Detective Agency has offices on this same floor. Ask for Paul Drake personally. Tell him I sent you, and tell him not to overcharge you. Let him see if he can find out a little more about that car. If he can find the man who was operating it, your friend will be in the clear. Even if he can find some witness who will swear there were two persons in the front seat, it will be enough. Surely someone involved in that smash must have seen two people in the car.”

Horty said dubiously, “Yes, you would think so.”

“Tell Drake to report to me,” Mason said, “and I shall see what I can do.”

“That will be swell, Mr. Mason. About a fee, I...” She opened her purse.

Mason waved the money aside with a gesture. “Forget it. I won’t put in that much time on it. Drake will need some money for expenses. I wouldn’t pay for having an operative on the case more than two or three days. I think that’s all you will need. Hope so, anyway.”

Hortense said, “That is awfully white of you, Mr. Mason. Her girlfriend in San Francisco knew she was planning to hitchhike down. Would her statement help?”

“Not much. As I understand it, the police claim your friend picked up the car in Bakersfield. Tell Drake to concentrate on that end of it. If she can show what time she got to Bakersfield, it would have some bearing. Police would hardly claim she stole the car unless they thought she was in Bakersfield for some time. Possibly the man who took her as far as Bakersfield can help.”

“That’s right,” Horty said. “I will ask her about him. She said he was perfectly swell. We can probably get hold of him. He may know something.”

“That is the idea, Drake will know what to do. What you need right now is to get the facts. If you get them, you won’t need a lawyer. If you don’t have them, a lawyer won’t do you any good. Tell Drake to report to me. Good-bye.”

When she had left. Mason picked up the telephone, got Drake on the line and said, “Sending you a girl and a case, Paul. I think it is something I may be interested in, but don’t tell her so. Get the facts and then let me know.”

Paul Drake sprawled his tall figure crosswise in the big leather client’s chair. “That auto-smash case, Perry,” he said, pulling a notebook from his pocket.

“You mean the girl with the curves?”