The Case of the Curious Bride пм-4 Read online

"The way I figure it," the detective drawled, "was that this guy was a tail. He'd followed the jane to your office and was waiting in the corridor for her to come out. He was probably parked at the head of the stairs, keeping out of sight. When he heard your door open and the jane go out, he gave a quick glance to make sure it was the party he wanted. Then he ran down the stairs to the lower corridor and sauntered along to the elevator, so he could catch the same cage down."

  Mason made an impatient gesture. "You don't have to draw me a diagram. Give me the dope."

  "I wasn't sure she'd come from your office, Perry," the detective went on. "If I had been, I'd have given it more of a play. The way the thing stacked up, I thought I'd see what it was all about. So when they got to the street, I trailed along for a ways. The guy was tailing her all right. Somehow, I don't figure him for a professional shadow. In the first place, he was too nervous. You know, a good tail trains himself never to show surprise. No matter what happens, he never gets nervous and ducks for cover. Well, about half a block from the building, this woman suddenly turns around. The man that was back of her went into a panic and ducked for a doorway. I kept on walking toward her."

  "You think she'd spotted one or the other of you?" Mason asked, his growing interest apparent in his voice.

  "No, she didn't know we were living. She'd either thought of something she'd forgotten to ask you, or else she'd changed her mind about something. She didn't even look at me as she went by. She turned around and started back toward me. She didn't even see the chap who was standing in the doorway, trying to make himself look inconspicuous, and making such hard work of it that he stuck out like a sore thumb."

  "Then what?" Mason inquired.

  "She walked fifteen or twenty steps and then stopped. I figured that she'd acted on impulse when she turned around and started back. While she was walking back, she got to arguing with herself. She acted as though she was afraid of something. She wanted to come back, but she didn't dare to come back, or perhaps it was her pride. I don't know what had happened, but…"

  "That's all right," Mason said, "I know all about that. I expected she'd turn and come back before she got to the elevator. But she didn't. I guess she couldn't take it."

  Drake nodded. "Well," he remarked, "she fidgeted around for a minute and then she turned around again and started down the street once more. Her shoulders were sagging. She looked as though she'd lost the last friend she had in the world. She went past me a second time without seeing me. I'd stopped to light a cigarette. She didn't see the chap who had been sticking in the doorway; evidently, she didn't expect to be tailed."

  "What did he do?" the lawyer asked.

  "When she went by, he stepped out of the doorway and took up the trail."

  "What did you do?"

  "I didn't want to make it look like a procession. I figured that if she came from your office and was being shadowed, you'd like to know it, but I wasn't certain she'd come from your office, in the first place; and I had work to do, so I figured I'd tip you off and let it go at that."

  Mason squinted his eyes. "You'd know this chap, of course, if you saw him again—the one who was trailing her?"

  "Sure. He's not a bad looking guy—about thirtytwo or thirtythree, light hair, brown eyes, dressed in tweeds. I'd say he was something of a ladies' man, from the way he wore his clothes. His hands were manicured. The nails were freshly polished. He'd been shaved and massaged in a barber shop. He had that barber shop smell about him, and there was powder on his face. A man usually doesn't powder his face when he shaves himself. When he does, he puts the powder on with his hands. A barber pats it on with a towel and doesn't rub it in."

  Perry Mason frowned thoughtfully. "In a way she's a client of mine, Paul," he said; "she called to consult me and then got cold feet and didn't. Thanks for the tip. If anything comes of it, I'll let you know."

  The detective moved toward the door, paused to grin back over his shoulder. "I wish," he drawled, "you two would quit holding hands in the outer office and looking innocent when the door opens. I might have been a client. What the hell have you got a private office for?"

  Chapter 3

  Perry Mason stared somberly down into Della Street 's flushed face.

  "How did he know," she asked, "that I was holding your hand? I moved it before the door opened, and…"

  "Just a shot in the dark," Mason told her, his voice preoccupied. "Something in your facial expression, probably… Della, I'm going to give that girl a break. I'm going to back up. If we accepted a retainer from her we're going to see it through."

  "But we can't do it. You don't know what she wanted you to do."

  Perry Mason nodded and said grimly, "That's all right; she was in some sort of trouble. I'll get in touch with her, find out what it is and either give her her retainer back or help her. What's her address?"

  Della Street took a sheet of yellow paper from the file.

  "Her name," she said, "is Helen Crocker. She lives at 496 East Pelton Avenue, and the telephone number is Drenton 68942." Without waiting for comment from Mason, she plugged in a line and spun the dial on the telephone. The receiver made noise, and Della Street frowned. "Drenton sixeightninefourtwo," she said.

  Once more, the receiver made squawking noises. There was a moment's pause, then Della Street spoke into the transmitter. "I am looking for a telephone listed under the name of Crocker. The initials I'm not certain about. The former number was Drenton sixeightninefourtwo. That number has been disconnected, but it was listed under her name." The receiver made more sound. Della Street said, "The address is four ninetysix East Pelton Avenue. What have you listed there?… Thanks very much—probably a mistake in the number."

  She dropped the receiver into place, pulled out the plug and shook her head at Perry Mason. "Drenton sixeightninefourtwo," she said, "was listed under the name of Tucker, was disconnected more than thirty days ago. There isn't any four ninetysix East Pelton Avenue. Pelton Avenue is a street only two blocks long. The highest number on it is two hundred and ninetyeight."

  Perry Mason jerked open the door of his private office, and said over his shoulder, "She'll get in touch with us again somehow. She forgot about leaving that retainer. Whenever she calls see that I have a chance to speak with her." He strode through the door, glowered savagely at the big leather chair in which the young woman had sat while she told her story. Light streaming in from the window caught something metallic. Mason stopped to stare, then walked to the chair and bent forward. A brown purse had slipped down between the cushions, only the clasp visible. Perry Mason pulled it out. It was heavy. He weighed it speculatively in his hand, turned and jerked open the door. "Come in, Della," he said. "Bring a notebook. Our caller left a purse behind her. I'm going to open it. I want you to inventory the contents as I open it."

  She jumped to wordless obedience, bringing notebook and pencil, pulling out the leaf of the desk in a matteroffact manner, opening the notebook, holding the pencil poised.

  "One white lacebordered handkerchief," Perry Mason said. The pencil made pothooks over the pages. "One.32 caliber Colt automatic, number threeeightninefoursixtwoone."

  Della Street 's pencil flew over the pages of the notebook, but she raised startled eyes to the lawyer. Perry Mason's voice droned on mechanically. "Magazine clip for automatic, filled with cartridges containing steeljacketed, softnosed bullets. A cartridge in the firing chamber of the gun. Barrel seems to be clean. No odor of powder discernible."

  He snapped the magazine clip back into the gun, closed the mechanism, replaced the ejected shell in the firing chamber, went on in the same droning monotone: "Coin purse containing one hundred and fiftytwo dollars and sixtyfive cents. A bottle of tablets marked 'IPRAL. One pair brown gloves, one lipstick, one compact, one telegram addressed to R. Montaine, 128 East Pelton Avenue. Telegram reading as follows:

  AWAITING YOUR FINAL ANSWER FIVE O'CLOCK TODAY EXTREME LIMIT

  GREGORY

  A package of Spud cigarettes, a package
of matches bearing advertising imprint ‘Golden Eagle Cafè, 25 West FortyThird Street.’

  Perry Mason's voice ceased the droning inventory. He held the purse upside down over the desk, tapped on the bottom with his fingers. "That seems to be all," he remarked.

  Della Street looked up from the notebook. "Good heavens!" she said, "what did that girl want with a gun?"

  "What does any one want with a gun?" Perry Mason inquired, taking a handkerchief and removing any fingerprints which might have been on the weapon. He dropped the gun into the purse, picked up the other articles with his handkerchiefcovered fingers, polished them one at a time, dropped them back into the purse. The telegram he held for a moment then thrust it into his pocket. "Della," he said, "if she comes back, make her wait. I'm going out."

  "How long will you be gone, chief?"

  "I don't know. I'll give you a ring if I'm not back within an hour."

  "Suppose she won't wait?"

  "Make her wait. Tell her anything you want to. Go so far as to tell her I'm sorry for the way I treated her, if you want to. That girl's in trouble. She came to me for help. What I'm really afraid of is that she may not come back."

  He stuck the purse into his side pocket, pulled his hat down on his forehead, strode to the door. His pounding steps echoed along the corridor. He speared the elevator signal with his forefinger, caught a down cage and signaled a cab at the sidewalk. " One twentyeight East Pelton Avenue," he said.

  Mason reclined in the cushions as the cab lurched forward, closed his eyes, folded his arms across his chest and remained in that position for the twentyodd minutes that it took the cab to make the run to East Pelton Avenue. "Wait here," he told the driver as the cab swung in to the curb.

  Mason walked rapidly up a cement walk, mounted three stairs to a stoop and held an insistent thumb against the bell button. There was the sound of steps approaching the door. Mason took the telegram from his pocket, folded the message so that the name and address were visible through the tissuecovered «window» in the envelope.

  The door opened. A young woman with tired eyes regarded Perry Mason in expressionless appraisal. "Telegram for R. Montaine," said Perry Mason, holding the telegram in his hand. The young woman's eyes dropped to the address. She nodded her head. "You'll have to sign," Perry Mason told her.

  The eyes regarded him with curiosity that, as yet, had not ripened into suspicion. "You're not a regular messenger," she observed, glancing past Mason to the cab that waited at the curb.

  "I'm the branch manager," he told her. "I thought I could get the wire here quicker than by messenger. I was going this way on another matter."

  He took a notebook from his pocket, whipped out a pencil, handed both pencil and notebook to the young woman. "Sign on the top line."

  She wrote "R. Montaine," handed the book back to him. "Wait a minute," Mason said, "are you R. Montaine?"

  She hesitated a moment, then answered, "I'm receiving messages for R. Montaine."

  Perry Mason indicated the notebook. "Then you'll have to sign your own name below that of R. Montaine."

  "I haven't had to before," she objected.

  "I'm sorry," he told her. "Sometimes the messengers don't understand these things. I'm the branch manager."

  She drew back the hand which contained the notebook, hesitated for an appreciable interval and then wrote, "Nell Brinley" under the "R. Montaine" she had previously signed.

  "Now," said Perry Mason as she handed back the book and pencil, "I want to talk with you."

  He slipped the telegram back into his side pocket before the snatching fingers could grab it from his hand.

  Suspicion and panic filled the eyes of the woman who stood in the doorway. "I'm coming in," Mason told her.

  She had no makeup on her face, was attired in a house dress and slippers. Her face went white to the lips.

  Perry Mason moved past her, walked along the corridor, stepped into the living room with calm assurance, sat down in a chair and crossed his legs. Nell Brinley came to the doorway and stood staring at him, as though afraid either to enter the room or to leave him in sole possession. "Come in," Mason told her, "and sit down."

  She stood still for a matter of seconds, then came toward him. "Just who do you think you are?" she asked in a voice that she strove to make vibrant with indignation, but which quavered with fear.

  Mason's voice showed grim insistence. "I'm checking on the activities of R. Montaine. Tell me exactly what you know about her."

  "I don't know anything."

  "You were signing for telegrams."

  "No. As a matter of fact, I thought the name R. Montaine was a mistake. I've been expecting a telegram. I thought that it must be mine. I was going to read it. If it hadn't been for me, I was going to give it back to you."

  Mason's laugh was scornful. "Try again."

  "I don't have to," she said. "I'm telling you the truth."

  Mason took the telegram from his pocket, spread it out on his knee. "This is the telegram," he pointed out, "that was received here at nine fiftythree this morning. You signed for it and delivered it to R. Montaine."

  "I did no such thing."

  "The records show that you signed for it."

  "The signature," she said, "is that of R. Montaine."

  "In the same handwriting," Mason insisted, "as that in this notebook, which I saw you sign and under which appears your signature—Nell Brinley. That's your name, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "Look here," Mason told her, "as a matter of fact, I'm friendly with R. Montaine."

  "You don't even know whether it's a man or a woman," she challenged.

  "It's a woman," he told her, watching her narrowly.

  "If you're a friend of hers, why don't you get in touch with her?" Nell Brinley asked.

  "That's what I'm trying to do."

  "If you're a friend of hers, you'd know where to find her."

  "I'm going to find her through you," Mason said doggedly.

  "I don't know anything about her."

  "You gave her this telegram?"

  "No."

  "Then," said Perry Mason, "it becomes necessary for me to disclose my real identity. I am a detective working for the telegraph company. There have been complaints of unauthorized persons receiving and reading telegrams. You probably don't realize it, but it's a felony under our state law. I'm going to ask you to get your things on and come to the district attorney's office with me for questioning."

  She gave a quick, gasping intake of breath. "No, no!" she said. "I'm acting for Rhoda. I gave her the telegram."

  "And why," asked Perry Mason, "couldn't Rhoda receive telegrams at her own house?"

  "She couldn't."

  "Why not?"

  "If you knew Rhoda, you'd know."

  "You mean on account of her husband? Married women shouldn't have secrets from their husbands—especially brides."

  "Oh, you know that, then?"

  "What?"

  "About her being a bride."

  "Of course," Mason said, laughing.

  Nell Brinley lowered her eyes, thinking. Mason said nothing, letting her think the matter over.

  "You're not a detective from the telegraph company, are you?" she asked.

  "No. I'm a friend of Rhoda's, but she doesn't know it."

  Abruptly, she looked up and said, "I'm going to tell you the truth."

  "It always helps," Mason commented dryly.

  "I'm a nurse," she said. "I'm very friendly with Rhoda. I've known her for years. Rhoda wanted to get some telegrams and some mail at this address. She lived with me here before her marriage. I told her it would be quite all right."

  "Where does she live now?" Mason asked.

  Nell Brinley shook her head and said, "She hasn't given me the address." Mason's laugh was scornful. "Oh, I'm telling you the truth," she said. "Rhoda is one of the most secretive women I have ever known in my life. I lived with her for more than a year. We kept this little house together, and yet I
don't know the man she married or where she lives. I know that his name is Montaine. That's all that I know about him."

  "Know his first name?" Mason asked.

  "No."

  "How do you know his name is Montaine?"

  "Only because Rhoda had the telegrams come here addressed to that name."

  "What was her maiden name?"

  "Rhoda Lorton."

  "How long's she been married?"

  "Less than a week."

  "How did you get this telegram to her?"

  "She called up and asked if there was any mail. I told her about the telegram. She came out and got it."

  "What's your telephone number?"

  "Drenton ninefourtwosixeight."

  "You're a nurse?"

  "Yes."

  "A trained nurse?"

  "Yes."

  "You're called out on cases?"

  "Yes."

  "When was your last case?"

  "I came in yesterday. I was special nurse on an operative case."

  Mason got up, smiled. "Do you think Rhoda will call up again?" he asked.

  "Probably, but I'm not sure. She's very queer, very secretive. There's something in her life that she's concealing. I don't know just what it is. She's never given me her full confidence."

  "When she rings up," Mason said, "tell her that she must go back to the lawyer she called on today, that he has something of the greatest importance to tell her. Do you think you can remember that message?"

  "Yes. How about the telegram?" she asked, her eyes on Mason's pocket. "It's addressed to Rhoda."

  "It's the same telegram you delivered to her this morning," he said.

  "I know that, but how did you get it?"

  "That," Mason said, "is a professional secret."

  "Who are you?"

  Mason's smile was baffling. "I am the man who left you the message for Rhoda Montaine to go back to the attorney she called on earlier in the day." He walked through the corridor. She called some questions after him, but he banged the front door, moved rapidly down the steps, across the strip of cement sidewalk, and, as the cab driver pulled open the door of the cab, jumped inside. "Snappy!" he said. "Around the corner. Stop at the first place where there's a telephone." Nell Brinley came to the door and stood staring at the cab as it lurched into motion and swung around the corner.