Erle Gardner: The Case of the Haunted Husband

“What is the move?” Drake asked, looking at the cigar stand.

“Cold turkey,” Mason said.

“Okay, you want me in on it?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Warfield was looking around her now, as though rather expecting someone to meet her.

Drake said, “She would be a good-looking gal if she had the glad rags and a couple of hours in a beauty shop.”

Mason said, “She wouldn’t be bad looking right now if she would get her shoulders back. She is pretty tired. Okay, Paul, here we go. She is looking at us.”

Mason walked forward, ostentatiously studying every person in the bus terminal. He let his eyes rest on Lois Warfield, turned away, then suddenly stopped, turned back, looked dubious, and after a moment tentatively raised his hat.

She smiled.

Mason moved toward her. “Are you Mrs. Warfield?” he asked.

She nodded, her tired, bluish-gray eyes showing a quick sparkle of animation.

“Are you the man who was — who has the job for me?”

“Perhaps.”

There was swift disappointment on her face. “Why, I thought it was thoroughly understood.”

Mason’s smile was reassuring. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Warfield. I think it is all right. If it isn’t, I shall pay your expenses back on the bus.”

“But I don’t want to go back. I gave up my job there to come out here. I need the work. I can’t afford to stop working for a minute. I have obligations.”

Mason said, “I want you to meet Mr. Drake... Oh, Paul! Here she is.”

Drake turned toward them, raised his hat, bowed, and muttered an acknowledgment of the introduction.

“Had dinner?” Mason asked abruptly.

“I... er...”

Mason laughed. “Come on. We can eat and talk at the same time.”

She hesitated for a moment, then smiled and said, “Very well. There is a counter in here.”

Mason grinned across at Paul Drake. “We long-legged men need more room than that. I can’t enjoy food when my knees are pressing up against the side of a lunch counter. Know some place around here, Paul?”

“Yes. There’s one in the block.”

“You don’t mind walking a block?”

She laughed. “Good heavens, I am on my feet all day. I shall bet I walk miles.”

They walked down to the restaurant. When they were seated in a curtained booth, Mason said, “I am the one who suggested the job to Mr. Drake.”

“What sort of a job is it? I understand I was to be a receptionist in an office.”

“That’s right.”

Her face lighted. “And the salary was eighty dollars?” she asked eagerly.

Mason slowly shook his head. “No. I am afraid you misunderstood that.”

There was a flash of anger in her eyes, then bitter disappointment. “I see,” she said wearily in the voice of one who is accustomed to being imposed upon. “However, I distinctly understood — well, never mind. Just tell me what you are willing to pay.”

“The salary,” Mason said, watching her, “is a hundred dollars. Drake wants his receptionist to dress well. She couldn’t do it on a salary of eighty dollars.”

Mrs. Warfield was staring at him.

“We would have to know something about your background,” Mason went on.

“But I thought you understood all that.”

“Only that you were attractive, willing, and wanted a job on the Coast. You are married, of course?”

“Yes.”

“Husband living?”

She hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes.”

“You are divorced?”

“No.”

“Just separated?”

“Well, were not together — temporarily.”

Mason looked at Drake. Drake pursed his lips and said, “That is not so good. I thought you were either a widow or divorced. Husbands sometimes make trouble.”

“My husband won’t make any trouble.”

“Well, you know how it is,” Mason said. “Suppose you have to work late at night, and...”

“Anything that the job calls for, I will do,” she interrupted.

Mason said, “You would have to get a bond, of course, and the bonding company would want to know something about your husband.”

“What would he have to do with my bond?”

Mason’s laugh was cheery. “Darned if I know, but they certainly do stick their noses into your private business.”

Drake said, “When you come right down to it, Perry, they do have a crust. What difference does it make where the woman’s husband is or what he does?”

Mason said, “Well, I suppose it would make a difference under certain circumstances. You know, he might have a criminal record somewhere. Where is your husband, Mrs. Warfield?”

The waitress came to take their orders.

“Cocktail?” Mason asked Mrs. Warfield.

She hesitated.

“I think she wants one,” Mason said. “Three dry martinis, and put lots of authority in them.”

The waitress nodded and left.

“Well?” Mason asked.

“Oh, my husband?”

“That’s right.”

“He... he is... Look here, I don’t think he would care to have it known where he was.”

Mason’s face showed disappointment and certain reproach. “We are taking you pretty much on trust,” he said. “Our friend in New Orleans seemed anxious to get the job for you and recommended you so highly we decided to...”

“Oh, I am sorry,” she interrupted. “I–I can’t very well explain.”

Mason’s voice was cold. “Well, of course, if you wish to adopt that attitude, Mrs. Warfield.”

“Oh, but I don’t. Can’t you understand? It is... it is something that I can’t very well tell you.”

“Just as you please,” Mason said with formal politeness, lighting a cigarette. “Would you care for one, Mrs. Warfield?”

She blinked back sudden tears, shook her head. “No, thank you.”

Drake’s eyes were sympathetic. Mason frowned at him.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, then Mrs. Warfield said, “And I suppose that costs me the job?”

Mason glanced at Paul Drake, made a little motion with his shoulders, and went on smoking.

“All right,” she said suddenly with feeling in her voice, “have it your own way. I am sick and tired to death of the whole lousy business. Every time I work for anyone, I give him value received, but any time I try to get a job, the person acts as though it is charity or something. It isn’t charity. It is a business transaction. I w-w-work for a man, and I draw a s-s-salary, and the man makes a p-p-profit on what I do. All right. Keep your job!”

She pushed back her chair.

The waitress came in with the cocktails.

Mason said, “No reason why we can’t buy you a dinner, Mrs. Warfield. Have a cocktail. It will make you feel better.”

“No, thanks.”

“Better wait,” Mason said. “I am very sorry this happened. And there is the matter of your return transportation, you know.”

The waitress looked from one to the other, then quietly placed the cocktails on the table. Mrs. Warfield hesitated, reached for hers, and gulped it down, not pausing to taste it.

Mason said, “I am sorry it has to be that way. I think I could have worked you into something out here.”

She turned toward him, blinking back indignant tears. “All right, my husband is a convict. He is in a penitentiary. I don’t even know which penitentiary. He won’t let me know. He wants me to get a divorce, says he is unworthy of me. He won’t have any communication with me except through a friend. That’s why I couldn’t tell you. You can see what a fat chance I would have of getting a bond if I told that to the bonding company.”

“That’s the truth?” Mason asked.

She nodded.

Mason exchanged glances with Paul Drake, gave his head an almost imperceptible nod. Drake promptly pulled a billfold from his pocket. “Well, Mrs. Warfield, that makes the situation entirely different. I am certain you can’t be held responsible for something your husband has done, and I think your efforts to carry on are very commendable.”