Erle Gardner: The Case of the Haunted Husband

“How much does Homan make in salary?” Mason asked.

“Probably three or four thousand a week, perhaps more, perhaps less. You can’t tell. Those Hollywood salaries are one thing for the publicity releases, and another for the income tax.”

Mason pushed back his swivel chair, got up, and started pacing the floor.

“I hated to go as strong on it as I did,” Drake apologized. “This girl with the upholstery hasn’t got a lot of jack. Wires and that stuff cost money.”

“You can’t trace Spinney?”

“Not with anything I have been able to do so far. He comes and he goes. When he goes, he disappears. He got a wire a few days ago.”

“Can’t you get a copy of that wire?”

“It is illegal to...”

“Phooey! Are you arranging to get a copy?”

“If I can, yes.”

“Think you can?”

“I don’t know. It isn’t easy. Someone will have to go into the telegraph office, say he is Spinney, and...”

Della Street tapped on the door from the law library, opened it, said, “Hi, Paul. Hope I am not intruding. I have a message, just came from your office.”

She handed Drake a folded sheet of paper. Drake opened it, read it, passed it over to Mason. “Copy of the telegram,” he said.

Mason read, “HAVE LANDED JOB IN RIGLEy’s CAFETERIA LOS ANGELES WANT TO BE NEAR HIM WILL EXPLAIN WHEN I SEE YOU CAN HITCHHIKE ALL THE WAY — LOIS.”

Mason tore the paper into small pieces, dropped them into his wastebasket, looked up at Della Street, and said, “Get me the person in charge of employment at Rigley’s Cafeteria, Della. Tell him it is important.”

Della Street nodded, stepped into her own office to put through the call.

Drake said, “Taken by and large, Perry, I hate to see this girl railroaded on a manslaughter charge.”

Mason grinned. “You have sold me, Paul.”

“Going to handle her case?”

“I’m going to see she isn’t railroaded as the fall guy for some Hollywood producer.”

“Might be a good idea for you to run out and have a chat with her, Perry. She is pretty low, and she doesn’t look the sort who is accustomed to being down in the dumps.”

“They haven’t made a formal charge yet?”

“They are filing one today. She is being held in the hospital. The D.A.’s office is going at it hammer and tongs. I can’t understand their eagerness — unless something is behind it.”

Della Street said, “Here is your party on the line, a Mr. Kimball.”

Mason picked up the telephone, said suavely, “Mr. Kimball, this is Perry Mason, the lawyer. I am interested in getting some information about a girl you have promised a job to.”

Kimball became vocally cordial “Yes, indeed, Mr. Mason, I will be glad to give you anything I can. I heard you in court on that dog case. That was a masterly presentation. What can I do for you?”

“I want to find out about a Mrs. Warfield who is coming on from New Orleans,” Mason said.

“Oh.”

“What is the matter?”

Kimball laughed apologetically. “I am not certain I can help you much there, Mr. Mason. She has a friend working here. The friend tried to get her a job, and I — well, I said thought it would be all right.”

“When is she arriving in town?”

“She isn’t coming.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I — well, I changed my mind.”

“Can you tell me why?”

Kimball’s voice sounded strained and embarrassed. “I am sorry you asked me that, Mr. Mason. Almost anything else I could tell you, but this I don’t feel at liberty to discuss. I — well, the vacancy that I expected would occur didn’t materialize, and I had to tell her friend that it was no go. Would you mind telling me what your interest in the matter is?”

Mason laughed. “I am more embarrassed at your question than you are at mine. I can’t discuss the affairs of a client. Is that all you can tell me about it?”

“I am sorry, Mr. Mason. That’s all.”

“Something you found out about her that made you change your mind?”

“No... I think we will have to let it go at that, Mr. Mason. The vacancy didn’t materialize.”

“All right, thanks,” Mason said, and hung up.

“No go?” Drake asked.

“No. Something happened, and he decided to drop her like a hot potato.”

“Wonder,” Drake said, “if that something could have been a little whisper from Hollywood.”

Mason said, “You are either reading my mind or making a damn good stab at it.” He walked over to the closet, picked up his hat and coat. “Come on, Della,” he said. “Let us go out and take a look at Stephane Claire. I want to see how you react.”

“She is all wool,” Drake said, and then added after a moment, “and her friend is a yard wide.”

Della Street brushed aside Drake’s comment. “Don’t take him too seriously. She is a platinum blonde,” she said, “and you know Paul.”

Mason grinned.

Drake said, “Honestly, Della, she is a good kid.”

“I will take a look,” Della Street said laconically.

Mason said to Drake, “You’ve got an opening in your office, Paul, for a receptionist.”

“I have?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What are you talking about? My receptionist...”

“Needs an assistant,” Mason interrupted, “temporarily, at any rate. Have your New Orleans correspondent tell Lois Warfield to come on out to the Coast and he can get her a job. Advance her bus fare. I have enough hitch-hiking troubles on my hands for the present. I want to be sure she gets here in one piece.”

“You are taking over,” Drake asked, “— financially?”

“I am taking over,” Mason said, “and Hollywood is going to pay for it.”

“This Horty girl is about at the bottom of her war chest.”

“I am just at the top of mine,” Mason said. “With a setup like this, if I can’t make someone in Hollywood pay for it, I would better quit practicing law.”

Drake sighed. “I was hoping you would look at it that way,” he said, and jackknifed up out of the chair.

Mason, putting on his coat, said, “I think it would be a swell idea, Paul, to pick up a photograph of Jules Carne Homan.”

“So do I,” Drake said. “I have been trying to for the last twenty-four hours. It can’t be done.”

Mason stood by the door of the closet, staring at the detective. “You mean to say a Hollywood producer hasn’t pictures of himself draped all over Hollywood?”

“That’s right. Homan is one of the boys who is camera-shy.”

“Go out to Photoplay . They have got one of the best photographers in the business. There isn’t any such thing as hiding from his lens — not if he wants a picture badly enough, and he wants everyone who is anyone.”

“That’s an idea,” Drake said.

Mason nodded to Della Street. “Come on, Della. Let us go pat the bunny.”

The big transcontinental bus rumbled into the terminal. Travel-weary passengers came out through the door and walked into the depot to await the distribution of baggage.

Drake, with the skill of a professional detective, carefully scrutinized each face without seeming to pay the slightest attention to any of them.

“Okay, Perry,” he said out of the side of his mouth, “this will be the one we want, the one with the tan coat and the brown hat.”

Mason studied the woman as she walked toward him. She was, he saw, around thirty years old. She was very slender, not with a skinny angularity of figure, but small-boned and light-muscled. Her cheekbones were a little too prominent. The skin across her forehead seemed stretched tight, and her eyes were tired. Her hair was a dark chestnut, and evidently it had been some time since it had received the services of a professional hairdresser. It seemed stringy and thick with travel dust as it curled out from the sides of a small hat.