The Case of the Dubious Bridegroom

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  Feeling his way cautiously, Jarvis sought to qualify the man as an expert in studying tracks in connection with crime. Then, awaiting Mason’s objection, the deputy showed what he could about the position of the automobile, the tracks which had been found on the ground.

  Hamlin Covington returned to the courtroom, making his entrance as impressive as possible. He sat down beside his chief trial deputy, listened for a few moments, then leaned over and whispered to Jarvis, “Go ahead. Ask him what the tracks showed. Let’s put Mason in the position of objecting, of trying to keep out the evidence. Smoke him out. Get him on the defensive.”

  Jarvis whispered, “We haven’t qualified him as much of an expert. Mason will rip him to pieces. He’ll take him on voir dire and rip him to pieces.”

  “Let him try,” Covington said. “At least we’ll start him objecting. We’ll get him where he has to take the case seriously.”

  “All right,” Jarvis whispered, “here goes.” He rose to his feet, said to the chief of police, “Now, Chief, just what did these tracks show in regard to two cars having been parked parallel to each other?”

  Then Jarvis half turned to Mason, waiting for the indignant objections. Mason might not have heard the question.

  “Well, it seems this car where the body was found,” the chief said, “had been parked right next to another car that had been left there, and …”

  “Just a minute,” Judge Minden said. “I’d like to have that last question read again, Mr. Reporter.”

  The court reporter read the question.

  Judge Minden glanced expectantly at Mason.

  Mason remained silent.

  “Go ahead, answer the question,” Covington rasped at the witness.

  “Well, it was this way,” the witness said. “The car that the body was found in had been driven right up next to another car that had been left parked there. You could see where the car that had the body had been inched around until it was in just the right position, and then the murderer just stepped across into the other car, dragged the body of the victim over behind the steering wheel and drove away. That’s the way it was done.”

  “Cross-examine,” Jarvis said triumphantly.

  “Let’s see if I get this,” Mason said, his manner showing that he was merely interested, but indicating a wish to see that the jury understood the situation. “You did some tracking there, Chief?”

  “I did.”

  “Now, you say that the car which had the body in it had been ‘inched’ into position?”

  “That’s right. I have to explain something of the nature of that ground. It’s a sort of sand and decomposed granite that packs hard as concrete. You can sort of make out tracks but not tire patterns, at least not plain enough to do much with them.

  “You could see where the front wheels of Ethel Garvin’s car had wobbled around a little bit as the driver tried to get the car in just exactly the position he wanted. He’d even backed once in order to slide it right up next to another set of tracks that had been made by a car that had been left standing there.”

  “Yes, yes,” Mason said, his manner showing breathless interest. “Now you say that other car had been left standing there?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then the woman wasn’t killed while she was driving the car?”

  “No, sir, she wasn’t. You can tell from the blood spatters and the position of the clotted blood that she had been over on the right-hand side when she was shot. The man who was driving the car had pulled the trigger on the gun and then he’d driven the car with the body in it right up to this point where he’d left the other car. He only had to step across from one car to the other. Then he dragged the body across behind the steering wheel and drove away.”

  “I see,” Mason said, “Now you say the tracks showed where this other car had been left there, waiting?”

  “That’s right. Yes.”

  Mason didn’t change the tone of his voice in the least, but as though passionately interested in the answer, said, “Just what was there about the tracks, Chief, that showed the car had been waiting?

  “Well, you could see the tracks where the car had stood there and then driven away.”

  “How did that show the other car had been waiting?

  “Well, it went in straight, and then—well, when it went out it curved back to the highway. The tracks showed that.”

  “I see,” Mason said, “and if the tracks hadn’t curved, Chief, where would the car have gone?”

  “Well, it would have gone straight ahead.”

  “And what was straight ahead?”

  “Well, it couldn’t have gone straight ahead.”

  “Why not? What was straight ahead?”

  “The Pacific Ocean.”

  “Oh, I see. Then the car had to turn.”

  “Of course it had to turn.”

  “Yet you say the only way that you knew the car was left waiting there was because the tracks curved?”

  “Well, the car was waiting there. You could tell by the way the tracks were of the car where the murdered woman was found.”

  “That’s it,” Mason agreed enthusiastically. “Now you’re getting the point I want. Just what was there in the tracks of this car to show you that it had been left waiting?

  “Well, you could see where the tracks of Ethel Garvin’s car had been manipulated around to get in just the right position.”

  “Then it wasn’t anything in the tracks of the car that had been left waiting that showed you what had happened, but something you’d deduced from the tracks of an entirely different automobile.”

  “Well if you want to put it that way, yes.”

  “My dear man,” Mason said, “it’s not the way I want to put it. You’re doing the putting. Just put it your own way, but kindly try and put it right.”

  “Well, that’s the way it was.”

  “Then you were mistaken when you said you could tell from the tracks of the getaway car that it had been left waiting there?”

  “No, you could tell it from the tracks like I explained to you.”

  “But what was there about the tracks of the car that had been left waiting that showed it had stood there?”

  “Well, it—well, you could see from the way the other car had been sidled up to it.”

  “You mean the car containing the body of the murdered woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Try and understand the question,” Mason said. “Was there anything in the tracks of the car that you say had been left waiting there that showed it had been left waiting—in the tracks of that one particular car?”

  “Well, no,” the chief said, and then added, by way of explanation, “naturally there couldn’t be. You can’t tell from car tracks whether a car just drove in and then went right out, or whether it stopped for an hour, or two hours, or four hours, unless you had some change in condition, such as a rainstorm while the car was parked there or something.”

  “Oh,” Mason said with a disarming smile, “then you were mistaken in stating to the jury when you gave your testimony on direct examination that the tracks of the parked car showed it had been left there for a while?”

  “Sure. There was nothing in those tracks,” the man said. “It’s the way you have to reconstruct the whole picture from the tracks of that other car.”

  “So you were mistaken?” Mason said.

  “Well—I … I guess so.”

  “I knew you were,” Perry Mason said, smiling disarmingly, “I just wanted to see how difficult it would be to make you admit it. That’s all, Chief. Thank you.”

  “Just a minute,” Covington shouted, getting to his feet. “You weren’t mistaken in stating that the murderer left his car there while he went out and committed the crime and then drove the other car up to the position immediately parallel to his parked car, were you, Chief?”

  “Come, come,” Mason said, smilingly. “I’ll have to object to counsel leading his own witness. I can ask leading questi
ons on cross-examination but counsel can’t ask them on direct or redirect.”

  “The question is leading,” Judge Minden said. “The objection is sustained.”

  “Well, what did happen?” Covington asked.

  “While the witness was present, of course,” Mason amended.

  “Well, he can tell what happened from an examination of the tracks.”

  “He tried to tell,” Mason said. “He’s given some conclusions from two sets of tracks. I take it no photographs were made of those tracks?”

  “They were all tramped out before our photographer got there,” Covington said.

  “Well, of course, the defendant isn’t responsible for that,” Mason reminded him.

  “Well, tell us about those tracks. What do they show?”

  “Objected to as calling for a conclusion of the witness,” Mason said. “No proper foundation has been laid.”

  “Sustained,” Judge Minden snapped, but then he added somewhat acidly, “the witness has certainly given his conclusions previously as to some phases of these tracks, and without objection.”

  “Quite right, Your Honor,” Mason said, smilingly. “And then admitted he was mistaken.”

  “Well, he wasn’t mistaken about what happened,” Covington snapped.

  “The witness admitted he was mistaken,” Mason said.

  “Very well,” Covington said sneeringly. “You may have your technicality, but I think the jury understands.”

  “I’m quite certain they do,” Mason said.

  “Your next witness,” Judge Minden said to Covington.

  A bailiff entered, walked over to Perry Mason, handed him a folded paper.

  The lawyer unfolded it, read it.

  It was a citation asking him to meet with the grievance committee of the Bar Association two days later at eightin the evening for a discussion of charges that he had tampered with a witness in a manner that resulted in changing the testimony of the witness.

  Mason refolded the paper, slipped it into his pocket.

  Covington, watching Mason’s expressionless face, said to Jarvis, “Damn him, that will fix him. He’s trying to pretend he doesn’t give a hoot, but he’s now in a hell of a spot.

  “If he tries to break Irving down on cross-examination tomorrow, he’ll be cutting his own throat. If he lets his testimony stand without trying to impeach the witness, he’ll be cutting his client’s throat.

  “We’ll teach that fellow he can’t pull his fast ones when he’s dealing with us.”

  “Come, come gentlemen,” Judge Minden said irritably, “let’s get on with the case.”

  Samuel Jarvis called a surveyor, introduced maps and diagrams. He called the autopsy surgeon. He called a friend who identified the body, then said, “If the Court please, it’s approaching the hour of adjournment.”

  Judge Minden nodded. “I think we’ve made very good progress today,” he said. “I’m not going to have the jury confined, but the jurors are admonished not to discuss the case among themselves or with anyone else, and I’m going to ask the jurors not to read the newspapers, to carefully avoid reading anything concerning this case. You will not discuss the case with anyone nor permit it to be discussed in your presence. You won’t form or express any opinion until the case is finally submitted to you. Court’s adjourned until ten o’clock tomorrow morning!”

  Walking out of the courtroom and down the long corridor, Covington said to his assistant, “I can see how Mason has built up a reputation for himself. He’s a grandstander, he’s smart, and he’s always putting on a show for the jury. Tomorrow I’m going to have the great pleasure of knocking the wind out of him. We’re going to smash that poise of his like a gunner smashes a clay pigeon.”

  “With both barrels,” Samuel Jarvis agreed, feelingly.

  “With both barrels,” Hamlin Covington promised.

  Back in the courtroom, Mason turned to reassure his client.

  “Keep a stiff upper lip, Garvin.”

  Garvin smiled wanly. “What was that paper the officer served on you? Does it concern me?”

  “Not in the least,” Mason assured him. “It concerns me.”

  Chapter 16

  When court reconvened the next morning, Hamlin L. Covington, having slept on the events of the previous day, and having made his first appraisal of Mason’s character, was warily watchful as he proceeded to lay the foundation for his knockout punch.

  Records were introduced showing the marriage of Edward Charles Garvin to Ethel Carter. Then by witnesses Covington proved the Mexican divorce and the marriage to Lorraine Evans. Then Covington sought to introduce certified copies of the records showing the fifing of the complaint charging Garvin with bigamy, the warrant which had been issued for his arrest.

  “Now then,” Judge Minden said, as Covington handed up the certified copies of the records which he proposed to introduce in evidence, “I take it this is the point at which we can argue the matter which was touched on in the district attorney’s opening statement. I presume you’d like to have the jury excluded, Mr. Mason, while you make your objection and argue it.”

  “On the contrary,” Mason said, smiling at the judge, “after having thought the matter over, and in view of the manner in which the evidence has now been introduced, I think that it is a proper part of the district attorney’s case. It would go to show motive, under the hypotheses claimed by the district attorney, so I’ll make no objection whatever.”

  Covington, who had been eagerly looking forward to a courtroom battle wherein he could best Mason on the lawyer’s legal objection, yielded with bad grace. “You made enough commotion about it when I merely touched on it in my opening statement,” he said.

  “That was before you had offered orderly proof,” Mason told him in the manner of a teacher rebuking an ignorant and presumptuous pupil. “As the Court pointed out to you, the matter should have been handled in this way. Now that you’re following this procedure I have no objection whatever, Mr. District Attorney.”

  “Very well,” Judge Minden said quickly, forestalling the angry reply which was quite evidently trembling on Covington’s lips, “the documents will be received in evidence. Proceed, Mr. District Attorney.”

  And Covington proceeded. Slowly, remorselessly, he built up a wall of evidence.

  Virginia Bynum testified to having left the gun on the fire escape. Livesey told of bringing it in, handing it to Garvin; of being instructed to put it in the glove compartment of Garvin’s car and of doing so.

  George L. Denby told of the gun being brought in and handed to Garvin.

  Mason seemed utterly detached, didn’t even bother to cross-examine either Virginia Bynum or Livesey. He did ask Denby on cross-examination, “How do you know it was the same gun?”

  “It had the same number, sir.”

  “Did you write the number down?”

  “No, sir. I looked at it.”

  “And remembered it?”

  “Yes, sir, I have a photographic memory for numbers. I deal in them so much I get to remember them.”

  “That’s all,” Mason snapped.

  Covington grinned over at his assistant. “Dropped that one like a hot potato, didn’t he?”

  “I’ll say,” Jarvis gleefully agreed.

  Covington went on with the building of a deadly wall of evidence. He showed that Edward Garvin and the woman whom he claimed as his second wife, Lorraine Evans, had stopped in the hotel at La Jolla. Calling the woman who ran the hotel, he showed their abrupt departure; showed that immediately after driving out for dinner they had returned, packed and hastily checked out, and at that time another person had been with them, a visitor who was also driving a convertible somewhat similar in size, color and appearance to Garvin’s automobile.

  Covington built to his dramatic climax. “Do you,” he asked the woman who managed the hotel, “know the identity of that other person?”

  Mason said quite casually, “Why you don’t need to waste time with that, Mr. Dist
rict Attorney, I was the driver of that other car. I’m quite willing to admit it.”

  Realizing that the testimony had been robbed of much of its dramatic value, Covington, nevertheless, managed to turn Mason’s admission to good account. “Exactly,” he said smiling, “and immediately after your visit, the defendant, and the person to whom he then claimed he was married, went dashing off to Mexico.”

  “Do you,” Mason asked, “want to be sworn as a witness and state that as a fact?”

  “No,” Covington said, smiling serenely at Mason. “I will prove it by a competent witness whom you may cross-examine Mr. Mason. Call Señora Inocente Miguerinio.”

  The fleshy, good-natured proprietor of the Vista de la Mesa Hotel rolled seductive hips as she walked to the stand, readily identified the defendant and the auburn-haired woman who was seated in the chair beside him; told how the pair had come to stay at her hotel on the night before the murder.

  Covington looked at the clock so that he could explode his bombshell in time for the afternoon editions.

  “Call Howard B. Scanlon.”

  Howard Scanlon, a spare, rangy man in the early fifties, whose face with high cheekbones, long, determined mouth, and faded blue eyes, showed a singular lack of self-consciousness, came striding forward, held up his hand, and was sworn.

  Covington glanced at the clock, then settled back in his chair.

  Scanlon gave his name and address to the court reporter, then looked up to face Covington, awaiting the opening of his questioning.

  Covington managed to make his manner elaborately casual. “What’s your occupation, Mr. Scanlon?”

  “I’m a painter, sir.”

  “Exactly. And on the night of September twenty-first, where were you?”

  “I was in Tijuana, staying at the Vista de la Mesa Hotel.”

  “Anything in particular that fixes that time in your mind, Mr. Scanlon?”

  “Yes, sir.”