Erle Gardner: The Case of the Haunted Husband

She started at him, too incredulous for words.

Drake took two hundred dollars from his wallet. “The vacancy I want you to fill hasn’t developed yet, but I think it will within a week. I am putting you on a salary. Here is two weeks’ wages.”

Mason said abruptly, “Say, I bet your husband was the Warfield who was sent up for kiting cheques in San Francisco.”

“I don’t know what he was sent up for,” she said. “He would never tell me, just a letter from him saying that he was in trouble and that he couldn’t have any direct communication with me for a long while, that I would have to keep in touch with him through a friend. He gave me the address of a friend in San Francisco — a Mr. Spinney.”

Mason said, “Why, of course, that must have been the Warfield that was sent up on that cheque-kiting charge. Personally, I always felt they convicted him on a frame-up. Did he say anything about that to you?”

“He never even mentioned what it was.” She took a compact from her purse, surveyed her eyes, put powder on her nose.

Mason reached into his brief case. “As it happens,” he said, “I am doing some work on that very case. I am a lawyer, Mrs. Warfield. I wouldn’t doubt if your husband was out of the penitentiary within another thirty days... if my facts are right. Tell me, is this your husband?”

Mason whipped out a photograph of Jules Carne Homan. The photograph had originally included some of the more notable movie stars, and had borne the caption, “Producer and cast discuss new play over champagne at Hollywood night spot.”

Mason had cut out the center of the photograph so that the caption was eliminated, and all that remained was Homan’s likeness smiling up at the camera.

Mrs. Warfield said, “Oh, I am so glad you are working to help him. I always knew...” She stopped in mid-sentence.

“What is it?” Mason asked.

She said, “I never saw this man in my life.”

Mason studied her intently. There was no evidence of acting on her face, merely the numbed expression of one who has received a bitter disappointment. But she held the photograph in her right hand, the compact in her left for several seconds, then she passed the picture back to Mason.

“Perhaps,” Mason said, “this is Spinney’s picture.”

“I have never seen Mr. Spinney.”

“Your husband wrote you about him?”

“Yes. Mervin said not to try to write direct, that I could trust Spinney with my life. I can’t understand,” she went on wistfully, “why Mervin won’t let me know where he is. Can’t a person in the penitentiary receive letters, Mr. Mason?”

“Yes, subject to certain rules. Perhaps your husband didn’t want you to know he was actually in the penitentiary.”

“No. He had this friend write me that he was in trouble, and I wrote the friend and demanded particulars, and he finally told me that Mervin had been sent to the penitentiary. I thought it was somewhere in California. I wrote him at both Folsom and San Quentin, but the letters came back.”

“Why did you think it was in California?” Mason asked.

“Because the friend... I am sorry, but I think I should better quit talking about it.”

“Might be a good idea at that,” Mason said. “It will spoil your appetite, and here comes your seafood cocktail.”

During the dinner, Mrs. Warfield tried to find out something about her duties and where she would work. Drake parried her questions. His receptionist, he explained, was getting married. She had intended to be married on the twentieth of the month, but circumstances had made it necessary for her to postpone it a few days. She wanted to work until the very last minute.

Mason suggested that Mrs. Warfield should go to the Gateview Hotel, stay there overnight, and in the morning look for a place to live. He suggested she might find someone who would like to share expenses, and by living together, the two could get a better apartment at a lower rental. After dinner the two men drove her to the Gateview Hotel, registered her, and secured a comfortable room.

“And how will I let you know where I am?”

Drake said, “Better not communicate with the office, because my receptionist would probably quit right now if she thought I had someone on a salary ready to take the job. She doesn’t want to quit until she has to, but she has been with me for years, and I want her to stay on as long as she can. Tell you what you do. As soon as you have found a place to live, leave a message here for me. Just write a note to ‘Paul Drake’, put it in an envelope and leave it with the clerk. I shall pick it up and let you know just as soon as the job is open.”

She gave him her hand. “You have been very, very kind to me, Mr. Drake.”

“Forget it,” Paul said, avoiding her eyes.

They wished her good night, and walked out to the car.

“I feel like a heel,” Drake said.

“Doing it for her own good,” Mason pointed out.

“But how about that job?”

“Stall her along. Pay her salary, and let her rest. The rest will do her good. She looks worn out. Tell her to go down to the beach and lie around in the sun for a while, take sort of a vacation.”

“How long are you going to keep shelling out expenses for her?”

“Why, until we get her a job,” Mason said.

Drake’s face showed his relief. “Well, that’s damn white.”

Mason ignored the comment. “Do you think she was lying about that picture, Paul?”

“No. I am darned if I do, Perry. She acted too disappointed.”

Mason said, “I wish we had had Della Street there. I am not certain but what she knew what was coming the moment I reached in my brief case.”

“You think she was lying?”

Mason said, “Everything points to Homan. Look at the way this case is being handled. Look at the way that cafeteria suddenly decided to drop her like a hot brick. I tell you, Paul, there is influence back of this thing, and influence in this town that can make the district attorney’s office jump through a hoop and then go down into a cafeteria and dictate who shall be employed, can come only from one source.”

“Hollywood?” Drake asked.

“Hollywood.”

Drake said, “Of course, Perry, if her husband had been convicted here in California, we could run down the records and...”

Mason said, “Remember she has already tried San Quentin and Folsom. Don’t kid yourself, Paul. Let us say that Warfield came out to the Coast. He got a job — probably in pictures. He began to draw good money. He had a chance to meet beautiful women. To get anywhere in the picture business, even in the clerical jobs, a woman has to have a personality that makes her alive and vital. You don’t find any women who hang around the movie offices who are washed-out automatons going through life making motions. They are right up on their toes. Well, naturally, Warfield fell in love. He probably played around a while first, and then he found his big moment. He wanted to get married. He wanted to have his wife divorce him. He didn’t dare try to divorce her because she was too much in love with him to let him go. If she had ever found out where he was, she would have joined him. He was a big shot now — and he was haunted by a past he didn’t dare disclose to anyone.

“He tried to solve the problem by pretending he had got in a jam and had gone to the pen. He told his wife not to come out to California because she couldn’t see him. Moreover, to make certain she didn’t try, he got her to send him every spare cent of money she could scrape up.”

“You think he was heel enough to do that?” Paul Drake asked.

“Sure, he was,” Mason said. “That is the reason he had her sending money to Spinney.”

“Well, how do we know the husband is Homan?”