The Case of the Dubious Bridegroom

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  The Case of the Dubious Bridegroom

  A Perry Mason Mystery

  Erle Stanley Gardner

  Foreword

  This book was written under rather unusual circumstances. The last part of it was dictated while I was in Boston attending a seminar on Homicide Investigation at the Department of Legal Medicine of the Harvard Medical School.

  I had for some time heard about these seminars, which are sponsored by Mrs. Frances G. Lee of New Hampshire (a Captain of the New Hampshire State Police). Invitations to attend are as sought after in police circles as bids to Hollywood by girls who aspire to be actresses.

  Despite the fact I had heard so much about these seminars, I was hardly prepared for what I found.

  The instructors, under the guidance of Dr. Alan R. Moritz, are not only brilliant but practical men who are daily accomplishing feats of crime detection which are little short of astounding. The department works in connection with both the Boston city police and the state police of Massachusetts. They have at their command every facility, every bit of scientific knowledge available, and they have brains.

  Dr. Robert P. Brittain, from the University of Glasglow, doctor of medicine, criminologist, and barrister, was not only a mine of information as to practical detective work on this side of the water, but was able to furnish the latest information as to British and European police methods of crime detection. Incidentally, from comments I heard, as well as from my own observation, I realize that Dr. Brittain, by his presence and character, made an outstanding contribution to international understanding and friendship at this seminar, and I understand from no less an authority than Captain Lee herself that this was true all during his stay in this country.

  The material and methods demonstrated at this seminar were in many instances years ahead of methods now available to the student who has to rely solely upon even the most modern works of forensic medicine and toxicology.

  Back of all this, and as the guiding spirit, is Captain Frances G. Lee. I don’t believe she has ever overlooked a detail in her life. Captain Lee has reconstructed in small scale (one foot to the inch) some of the most puzzling crimes which have been encountered by police. The detail of these models is absolutely unbelievable. If a state trooper is shown holding a notebook and pencil, you can be sure that the pencil, perhaps half the size of a toothpick, is a genuine pencil containing genuine lead, and that notes in the miniature notebook about the size of one’s thumbnail have actually been written with that pencil.

  It is not expected that members of the class will be able to solve all of these crimes. They are not “whodunits.” They are not like the photographic crimes represented in some of the magazines where the reader is requested to furnish a solution. These are models used to develop and test the powers of observation and concentration on the part of the students. They are expected to point out the significant clues which, when run down, will lead to a correct solution. The observers are expected to notice and remember everything in connection with the crimes which are “assigned” to them.

  They then report on these crimes, give their deductions, and state what should be done in order to bring about a correct solution. Not all of these deaths are homicides. Some of them may be suicides masquerading as murders, or murders masquerading as suicides.

  They cannot be studied casually; they cannot be solved easily. I mention these matters because subsequently, when students reported on their assignments, I had an opportunity to watch the police mind at work.

  Now, I am perfectly willing to concede that these were picked men who were in attendance at that seminar. Attendance is limited to less than two dozen students so that instruction can be highly personalized and a great deal of ground covered in a short space of time. Nevertheless, these men are typical of the highest type of police officer which is being developed in considerable numbers in this country.

  It is hard to believe that any group of officers, reporting one after the other, could do the things I saw these men do. They knew what to look for, they knew where and how to look, and when they found something that was significant, they were able to evaluate the reason and advance an explanation. And these homicides have for the most part been conceived with a diabolical ingenuity which would give the proverbial “Philadelphia lawyer” brain-fog within the first few minutes.

  We writers like to record the adventures of outstanding, individual detectives who are generally portrayed as thinking circles around the police. But I am now sure of one thing. I am not going to have any of Mrs. Lee’s graduates appearing in my books. Such an officer would not only solve the crime as soon as the hero could, but he just might be a hundred or so pages ahead of the procession.

  This is a marvelous work that Captain Lee is doing. It is a progressive work, since a nucleus of highly trained, efficient men can in turn train others, and by the example they set in their work, inspire others to greater efficiency.

  The information I received at this seminar is invaluable to me. The people I met are an intellectual inspiration, and I want to take this opportunity to thank these police officers for their splendidly courteous treatment of me: a rank outsider so far as their profession is concerned, and, so far as I know, the only person not a police officer who has ever been invited to take one of these courses.

  As for Captain Lee, I have dedicated this book to her as an expression, in some measure, of my appreciation; and in admiration of the manner in which her mind, working with the accurate precision of a railroad watch, has brought into existence the over-all plan of a course in training that is helping to make the competent state police official as much a professional man as the doctor or lawyer. I herewith tender her my profound respect, my deepest admiration, and my eternal gratitude.

  ERLE STANLEY GARDNER

  Ridgefield, Connecticut

  November 1, 1948

  Cast of Characters

  PERRY MASON—Nodding over a lawbook, he caught sight of a lovely pair of legs on the fire escape. That started it

  VIRGINIA COLFAX—Her figure was hard to believe, and so was her alibi

  DELLA STREET—Her woman’s eye caught three details that escaped her boss, Perry Mason

  EDWARD CHARLES GARVIN—He was on a honeymoon, but who was his wife?

  ETHEL CARTER GARVIN—Her hard-headed scheming cost her first her husband, then her lover

  LORRAINE EVANS GARVIN—A beautiful redhead who loved her husband and his money—but not necessarily in that order

  PAUL DRAKE—A hard-working private eye whose loose-jointed, indolent gait makes a difficult job look simple

  GEORGE L. DENBY—Meticulous secretary-treasurer of Garvin’s mining company who balanced the books but juggled the figures

  FRANK C. LIVESEY—Pudgy, jovial, middle-aged man who preferred his figures animate—and feminine

  SEÑORA INOCENTE MIGUERINIO—Well-padded hostess of the Vista de la Mesa Hotel

  ALMAN B. HACKLEY—Knew how to make women fall for him; how to shake them was sometimes difficult

  FRANK L. BYNUM—Thought his young sister needed his protection

  VIRGINIA C. BYNUM—She was Frank’s sister all right, but he couldn’t have been more wrong

  SERGEANT HOLCOMB—A humorless guardian of the law

  LIEUTENANT TRAGG—Worked out of Police Homicide, and he could match trickery with technicalities when out to get his man

  MORTIMER C. IRVING—A passing motorist—he made the fateful mistake of examining a deserted parked car

  HAMLIN L. COVINGTON—Imposing district attorney who set out to cure Mason of using courtroom razzle-dazzle but subsided in a frazzle

  SAMUEL JARVIS—The D.A.’s deputy, whose yessi
ng added up to no score

  JUDGE HARRISON E. MINDEN—Perry Mason’s courtroom tactics puzzled, then amazed him

  HOWARD B. SCANLON—An unemployed painter who saw enough with one eye through a crack in the door to jolt an entire courtroom

  HAROLD OTIS—Gas-station attendant who worked the swing shift

  SEÑORITA CARLOTTA DELANO—She had a new name and a new story, but the same old face

  Chapter 1

  Night changed the city’s skyscrapers from hard shafts of steel and concrete to wraithlike fingers etched in light.

  The buildings visible from Perry Mason’s office showed, here and there, oblongs of lighted windows, but for the most part were illuminated only by floodlights from without.

  Perry Mason, wearied after a hard day in court, had switched out the lights in his office and stretched out in the big armchair facing his desk. He had intended at first only to rest his eyes, which had become tired from concentrating on the fine print of lawbooks, but fatigue had asserted itself and he had dropped off into the warmth of slumber.

  Enough illumination came from the street and alley to show the fire escape outside Mason’s window, the desk, piled with open lawbooks, the quiet figure in the huge overstuffed leather chair where Mason persuaded nervous clients to relax and pour forth their troubles.

  It had been a hot day, but now a storm was blowing up and vagrant wisps of wind circling the building swept past the partially opened window.

  Mason stirred restlessly, as though twitched by a subconscious reminder of the pile of work on his desk and the necessity of formulating an opinion upon a difficult legal matter before the next day.

  From the dark silence above Mason’s window on the fire escape came the sound of faint motion, then a well-shod, graceful, feminine foot came groping down the iron stair tread. A moment later the other foot followed.

  Slowly, cautiously, a young woman descended the fire escape, until her head was on a level with the landing of the office above.

  Lights clicked on in the upper office. A rectangle of light sent rays of radiance out into the darkness.

  Mason stirred in his sleep, muttered unintelligibly and flung a restless arm over the arm of the chair.

  There was a shadow as a figure moved away from the lighted window above.

  The girl on the fire escape hastily descended two more steps, apparently intending to reach the landing in front of Mason’s office window.

  Then suddenly, as Mason moved his arm again, the girl on the fire escape detected that motion and froze into startled immobility.

  A gust of wind, whipping up the alley, billowed her skirts and she instinctively flung down her right hand, fighting against the blowing garment.

  The light which sifted in from the street glinted upon reflecting metal.

  Mason straightened up in his chair.

  The girl on the fire escape turned, started to climb, then stopped, apparently dreading to cross that shaft of light coming from the window of the office above Mason’s. The wind freshened. In the distance, thunder rumbled ominously.

  Mason yawned, rubbed his eyes, glanced upward, then snapped to incredulous attention as he saw the whipping skirt, the legs of the girl.

  He slid out of the chair in a quick, lithe motion and around the desk to the window, peered upward, and said, “Do come …”

  The girl on the fire escape held a warning finger to her lips.

  Mason frowned up at her. “What’s the idea …”

  She shook her head in a frenzy of impatience, motioned imperatively for silence, struggled with her skirts.

  Mason beckoned.

  She hesitated.

  Mason swung one leg out of the office window.

  The girl sensed the threat of that motion. She started slowly down the fire escape. Her right hand made a quick, flinging gesture. A metallic object caught the light rays and glittered, then ceased to glitter. She struggled again with her skirts.

  “You must have had a free show,” she said laughingly, her voice almost a whisper.

  “I did,” Mason said. “Come in.”

  Once having decided that surrender was inevitable, she was tractable enough. She slipped a leg over the sill of Mason’s window, then, pivoting lightly, jumped into the room.

  Mason walked over toward the light switch.

  “Please don’t,” she said in quietly modulated tones.

  “Why not?”

  “I’d prefer that you didn’t. It might—might be dangerous.”

  “For whom?” Mason asked.

  “For me,” she said, and then added after a moment, “for you.”

  Mason surveyed the figure that was silhouetted against the light of the window. “You don’t look as though you had anything to fear from the light.”

  She laughed melodiously. “You ought to know. How long had you been sitting there?”

  “An hour or so, but I was asleep.”

  “You woke up at the crucial moment,” she laughed. “That wind caught me unaware.”

  “I realized that it did,” Mason said. “What was it you had in your right hand?”

  “A handful of skirt.”

  “Something metallic.”

  “Oh that,” she said, and laughed. “A flashlight.”

  “And what became of it?”

  “It slipped out of my hand.”

  “Are you certain it wasn’t a gun?” Mason asked.

  “Why, how absurd, Mr. Mason!”

  “You know my name?”

  She pointed to the frosted glass of the office door, illuminated by the corridor light outside. “It’s all over your door, and I can read backwards.”

  “I still think it was a gun. What did you do with it?”

  “I didn’t have a gun. Anyway, the thing that you saw slipped out of my hand and went sailing down into the alley below.”

  “How do I know?” Mason asked, moving cautiously toward her.

  She flung her arms out straight from the shoulder, said, “All right, I suppose I have this coming.”

  Mason stepped quickly toward her. His hands slid down her body.

  For a moment, at that first touch, she winced, then she stood rigidly still.

  “Is it necessary to be that thorough?” she asked.

  “I think it is,” Mason said. “Don’t move.”

  “The object of this search, Mr. Mason, is to detect a weapon!”

  “Exactly,” Mason said. “I wasn’t the one who made this search necessary. It’s going to be sufficiently thorough to assure my protection.”

  He could feel her muscles stiffen, but she uttered no word, made no motion.

  “Finished?” she demanded coldly, as Mason dropped his hands to his sides.

  He nodded.

  She put down her hands. Lights, reflected from the street, showed her mouth was hard as she walked over to a chair, sat down and took a cigarette case from her purse. “I don’t like that sort of thing.”

  “I don’t like women to shoot me,” Mason said. “You did have a gun, you know. I suppose you tossed it down into the alley.”

  “Why don’t you run down and find out, Mr. Mason?”

  “I think I can do better than that. I think I can ask the police to make a search.”

  She laughed scornfully. “That would make a nice story. I can see the headlines in my mind’s eye: ‘PROMINENT LAWYER CALLS POLICE TO SEE IF THERE IS A REVOLVER IN THE ALLEY BELOW HIS WINDOW.’”

  Mason watched her thoughtfully. Light from her match showed the oval of a beautiful face. The hand that held the match was steady.

  “And then,” she went on, her eyes twinkling with sardonic humor, “there would be a rather humorous story: ‘THE LAWYER REFUSED TO MAKE ANY EXPLANATION WHEN POLICE FAILED TO FIND THE WEAPON.—WAS PERRY MASON PRACTICING A JUGGLING ACT WITH A REVOLVER WHEN THE WEAPON SLIPPED OUT OF HIS HAND AND DROPPED DOWN TO THE ALLEY OR WAS HE PRACTICING AT DISARMING CLIENTS?’—It would make quite a story.”

  “And what makes you think I’ll
make no explanation?” Mason asked.

  “I don’t think you will,” she said. “It would involve you somewhat, don’t you think?”

  “Would it?”

  “Seeing a woman on the fire escape, forcing her to enter your office, accusing her of carrying a weapon, all with no proof … It would leave you open to a suit for damages, wouldn’t it?”

  “I don’t think so,” Mason said. “You see, after all, I’d be in the position of having found a prowler who was about to enter my office via the fire escape and …”

  “Enter your office!” she interjected scornfully.

  “Weren’t you?”

  “Of course not.”

  Mason said, “I’m afraid I’m too busy to waste time with you right now. If you can’t make some adequate explanation I’m going to have to pick up that receiver and ask the police to call.”

  “A new page in your record,” she said. “Perry Mason calling the police!”

  He smiled at the thought. “I admit it would be a bit unusual. Suppose you make the explanation?”

  She said, “Haven’t I been humiliated enough tonight? Having to stand there while you …”

  “I was searching for a weapon, you know that.”

  “Was that your entire interest in the transaction?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’re even more of a machine than I thought,” she flared.

  “Well, you’ll have to figure it out for yourself.”

  Mason moved toward the telephone.

  She said hastily, “Wait!”

  The lawyer turned.

  She took a deep drag at her cigarette, exhaled the last of the smoke and then jabbed the cigarette end viciously into the ash tray. “All right,” she said, “you win.”

  “What have I won?”

  “An explanation.”

  “Get going.”

  She said, “I’m employed in the office upstairs as a secretary.”

  “Who has that office?” Mason asked.

  “The Garvin Mining, Exploration and Development Company.”

  “You say it glibly enough,” Mason said.

  “I should. I work there.”

  The lawyer picked up the telephone book, opened it to the last page of the GA classification, ran down until he found the Garvin Mining, Exploration and Development Company, checked the address, nodded, and said, “So far that seems to be right.”