The Case of the Curious Bride (11 page)

"So what happened?" Mason demanded.

"So she faced Moxley, told him that if he didn't clear out she'd have him arrested for the embezzlement of her money."

"You suggested that she do that?"

"Yes."

"And you gave her a gun with which to kill Moxley if the opportunity presented itself?"

Doctor Millsap's shake of the head was vehement. "I gave her a gun," he said, "because I wanted her to have something to protect herself with if it became necessary. I knew that this man Lorton, or Moxley, was utterly without scruple. I knew that he would lie, steal, or kill in order to accomplish his purpose. I knew that he was in a jam and needed money. I was afraid to have Rhoda go and see him alone, yet Moxley stipulated that she couldn't have any one with her."

"So you gave her the gun?"

"Yes."

"You knew that she was going to see Moxley?"

"Of course."

"Did you know she was going to see him last night?" Doctor Millsap's eyes shifted uneasily. He fidgeted in his chair. "Yes or no?" asked Mason.

"No," said Millsap.

Mason snorted. "If," he said, without rancor, "you can't lie better than that on the witness stand, you're not going to make Rhoda a very good witness."

"The witness stand!" exclaimed Millsap in dismay. Mason nodded. "Good God, I can't go on the witness stand! You mean to testify for Rhoda?"

"No, the district attorney will call you to testify against Rhoda. He's going to try to build up just as much adverse sentiment against Rhoda Montaine as he can. He'll try to show a motive for the murder – that motive will be an attempt on the part of Rhoda to conceal the fraud she perpetrated on the insurance company. Therefore, he'll show the fictitious death certificate and the conspiracy to defraud the insurance company. You know where that's going to leave you."

Doctor Millsap's mouth sagged slowly open. Perry Mason stared steadily at him. "You knew that Rhoda was going to meet Gregory Moxley at two o'clock in the morning, Doctor?"

Doctor Millsap seemed to wilt. "Yes," he said.

Perry Mason nodded slowly. "That," he said, "is better. Now tell me, Doctor, where were you at two o'clock in the morning?"

"Asleep, of course."

Perry Mason said tonelessly, "Can you prove it?"

"I can prove it the same way any ordinary individual can. I went to bed and slept through until morning. A man doesn't ordinarily take an alibi to bed with him. Under the circumstances, I would think my statement would be sufficient."

"It would, Doctor," Mason said slowly and impressively, "if it weren't for the fact that the district attorney will question you and your Japanese servant about a telephone call that came in at two o'clock in the morning, and the statement that your Japanese man servant made that…" The expression on Doctor Millsap's face stopped Perry Mason in mid-sentence. "Well," he asked, "what about it?"

"Good God!" Millsap said. "How could the district attorney have found out about that telephone call? I didn't figure there was one chance in a million that telephone call would ever enter into the thing at all. My Japanese servant told me it was a man who seemed to be drunk, calling from a public pay station."

"How did he know the man was drunk?"

"I don't know. I guess he sounded drunk. All I know is what he told me when I came back… I mean…"

"Suppose," the lawyer suggested, "you tell me the facts."

Words spilled from the doctor's mouth. "I was there. Not at two o'clock, but later. I woke up and couldn't sleep. I knew Rhoda must have gone to keep her appointment. I looked at my wristwatch. I wondered what Rhoda was doing. I wondered if she was all right. I got up and dressed, drove to Norwalk Avenue. Rhoda's car was parked on a side street. I looked up at Moxley's apartment. The windows were all dark. I rang the bell of Moxley's apartment. No one answered. I kept ringing, minute after minute. I became alarmed when no one answered. If Rhoda's car hadn't been there I'd have thought Moxley was asleep. I decided to prowl around the back of the house and see if there was any way I could get in. But I didn't want to leave my car in front of the house, so I drove around the block, left my car, came through the alley, walking rather slowly, and then saw that lights were on in Moxley's apartment. I figured my ringing the doorbell had awakened him, so I walked around past the side street to go to the front of the house and ring the bell again, and then saw that Rhoda's car was gone."

"When you were ringing the doorbell," Mason said, "you were standing on the little porch near the street, is that right?"

"Yes."

"Could you hear the ringing of the bell in the upper apartment?"

"No, I couldn't hear the bell."

"Could you hear the sound of any struggle?"

"No, I couldn't hear anything."

Perry Mason frowned thoughtfully. "I wouldn't want to be quoted in what I am about to say," he said.

"What is it?" Doctor Millsap asked.

"You don't look well," Perry Mason said.

"Good God!" Millsap rejoined. "How did you think I'd look? This thing has been on my mind for days, ever since Rhoda told me Lorton was alive and in the city. I haven't been able to sleep. I haven't been able to eat. I can't concentrate. I can't handle my practice. I can't…"

"I said," Perry Mason interrupted, "that you didn't look well."

"Of course I don't look well, I don't feel well. I'm almost crazy!"

"What," asked Perry Mason, "would you advise a patient to do if he came to you in the mental state that you are now in – and if he didn't look well?"

"What are you driving at?"

"Would you advise, perhaps, a long ocean voyage?"

"I'd certainly advise a change of scenery. I wouldn't want…" Millsap stopped speaking abruptly in the middle of the sentence, his jaw sagging.

"As I remarked," said Perry Mason, getting to his feet, "I wouldn't want to be quoted in the matter, and I'm not a physician. In order to make it appear perfectly regular, you might consult some friendly physician. You don't need to tell him what's worrying you, but you can tell him that you're worrying yourself sick. You might even go so far as to ask him about an ocean voyage."

"You mean," Doctor Millsap asked slowly, "that I'm to get out where they can't reach me? Wouldn't that be running away and leaving Rhoda to stand the brunt of the thing alone?"

"As far as Rhoda is concerned," Mason said, "your presence here would do her more harm than good. My suggestion, however, has nothing to do with Rhoda. I'm merely interested in your health. You don't look well. There are circles under your eyes. Your manner is decidedly jumpy. By all means call on some reputable physician. Let him diagnose your case. In the meantime, here's one of my cards. If there should be any developments call on me at once."

Mason dropped his business card on Doctor Millsap's desk. Millsap jumped to his feet, grabbed Mason's hand and pumped it up and down. "Thanks, Counselor. It's an idea I hadn't thought of. It's swell. It's the best yet."

Mason started to say something, but stopped as the sounds of muffled commotion came from the outer office. The men heard the protesting voice of Doctor Millsap's office nurse. Perry Mason jerked open the door. The two detectives of the homicide squad who had arrested Rhoda Montaine at the airport stared at the lawyer with incredulous surprise, then their eyes shifted to Doctor Millsap. "Well, well," said one of the detectives, "you certainly do get around."

Perry Mason jerked his head toward Doctor Millsap. "Thank you, Doctor," he said, "for your diagnosis. If you ever need a lawyer, don't hesitate to call on me. In the meantime, I see these two men want to talk with you. For your information, they are detectives from the Homicide Bureau. I won't delay you any longer. Incidentally, as an attorney, I might tell you that you don't have to answer any questions you don't want to, and…"

"That's enough," one of the detectives said, advancing belligerently.

Perry Mason held his ground, his shoulders squared, his chin thrust forward, granite-steady eyes holding the detective in scornful appraisal. "And," continued Perry Mason, "if you should need an attorney, you've got my telephone number on that card on your desk. I don't know what these men want, but if I were in your place I wouldn't answer any questions."

Mason pushed past the detectives, without looking back. They glowered at him for a moment, then strode into the private office and slammed the door shut. Outside, in the entrance room, Doctor Millsap's office nurse dropped her head to the crook of her elbow, pillowed it on her desk and sobbed. Perry Mason stared at her for several seconds, his forehead furrowed in thoughtful appraisal. Then he slipped through the outer door and silently closed it behind him.

Mason grinned at the detective. "See if it's important, Della," he told her.

Paul Drake held out a couple of newspapers. "See what's happened?" he asked. Mason raised his eyebrows in mute interrogation. Drake made a gesture of utter weariness, and said. "She's spilled her guts."

The lawyer stared steadily at the detective, his feet planted wide apart. Slowly he smiled. Della Street slammed the telephone back into place, looked up at Perry Mason, her face white with rage. "What's your trouble, sister?" Mason asked.

"That," she said, "was some smart aleck at headquarters who wanted to tell you – in a voice that fairly oozed gloating triumph – that your client, Rhoda Montaine, had just finished signing a statement in the district attorney's office, and that you could see her at any time. He said you wouldn't need a writ of habeas corpus; that she was being charged with murder in the first degree and that the authorities at the jail would be only too glad to let you see her at any time you wanted – and he put just the right amount of nasty sarcastic emphasis upon the 'too.'"

Perry Mason stared down at her without changing a muscle of his facial expression. "Why," he asked, "didn't you let me talk with him?"

"Because he was just trying to goad you," she said.

Mason said slowly, "Hereafter, when any one wants to do that, put me on the line. Remember this, Della, I can dish it out, and I can take it." He turned to Paul Drake, "Come in, Paul," he said.

The men entered Mason's inner office, closed the door. Paul Drake whipped over a newspaper. "Details?" asked Perry Mason.

"Lots of them. They don't give the signed statement, but the paper was evidently held for release until the statement had been signed."

"What does she say?" Mason asked.

"She says that Moxley was trying to blackmail her; that he insisted on her coming to see him at two o'clock in the morning; that she got up while her husband was asleep, left the house and went to see Moxley; that she rang the doorbell for several minutes and couldn't get in, so she turned around, got in the car and went home."

"Does she say anything about how she rang the bell?"

"Yes, pushing her finger against the button and holding it there for several seconds at a time because she thought perhaps Moxley was asleep."

"And then," Perry Mason said, "I suppose they flashed the fact of the garage key on her, and asked her to explain how it got in Moxley's apartment, if she hadn't been able to get him to answer the door."

"Exactly," Drake said. "And the way she answered it was that she'd been there earlier in the afternoon and had dropped the keys; that she hadn't realized it until quite a bit later."

Mason smiled, a wry smile which held no mirth. It was like the grimace of a man who has bit into a lemon. "And all of this time," he said, "Carl Montaine is insisting that he locked the door of the garage when he put his car in, and that Rhoda must have had her keys in order to get the garage open; that she, herself, told him she had left her purse in the car and that she went out and unlocked the door in order to get the purse just before she went to bed."

"Oh, well," Drake said, reassuringly, "some one on the jury will believe her."

"Not after the district attorney's office gets done with the facts," Perry Mason said slowly. "You see they've trapped her into making the most damaging admission she could make."

"I don't see it," Drake said, his protruding eyes staring steadily at Mason.

"Don't you see?" Mason pointed out. "The strongest claim she could have made would have been self-defense. It would have been her word against the sealed lips of a dead man. There was nothing the district attorney's office could have done to have contradicted her story. If she'd sprung it at the proper time and in the proper way, she'd have been almost certain to have won the sympathy and belief of the jury.

"Now, the newspaper accounts show that the people who lived next door heard the doorbell ringing during the time the murder was being committed. Rhoda kept thinking about that, and realized that there was an opportunity for her to claim she was the one who had been ringing the doorbell. At first blush, it looked like an easy out for her. If she could put herself in the position of having been on the porch, ringing that doorbell, she'd have an air-tight alibi. It was a trap and she walked right into it.

"Now, the district attorney has got three shots at her. First, he can show, from the time element, that it couldn't have been she. Second, he can show from the keys that were found in the room that she must have been in the room with Moxley after she had unlocked the door of the garage. Third, and most dangerous of all, he can uncover the person who really was ringing that doorbell and put him on the witness stand to rebut Rhoda's testimony.

"By that time, the door to a plea of self-defense has been closed. She's either got to establish the fact that she wasn't there at all, or she's got to be caught in so many falsehoods that she's guilty of first degree murder."

Drake nodded his head slowly. "I hadn't thought of it in just that light," he said, "but I can see where it fits in."

Della Street twisted the knob of the door, opened it just wide enough to slip through into Perry Mason's private office. "The father," she said, "is out there."

"Who?" asked Perry Mason.

"C. Phillip Montaine, of Chicago."

"How does he look, Della?"

"He's one of those men who are hard to figure. He's past sixty, but there isn't any film on his eyes. They're as bright as the eyes of a bird. He's got a close-cropped white mustache, thin, straight lips and a poker face. He's well-tailored and distinguished looking. He knows his way around."

Mason glanced from Della Street to Paul Drake, said slowly, "This man has got to be handled just right. In many ways, he represents the key to the situation. He controls the purse strings. I want to put him in such a position that he'll pay for Rhoda's defense. My idea of what he would be like doesn't check with that description, Della. I figured him for a pompous, egotistical man who has been accustomed to dominating people through his financial position. I figured that I'd make him mad and frighten him a little bit by letting him think he had to give Rhoda a break to keep the newspapers from ridiculing the Montaine name that he's so touchy about."

Mason stared thoughtfully at the silent Della Street. "Well," he said, "say something." She shook her head and smiled. "Go on," the lawyer said, "you can read character pretty well. I want to find out how this man impresses you."

"You can't handle him that way, chief," she said.

"Why not?"

"Because," she said, staring steadily at him, "he's got poise and intelligence. He's got something all planned out – a campaign of his own. I don't know what it is he wants, but I'll bet he's figured out how he's going to handle you, just the way you've figured out how you were going to handle him."

Mason's eyes glinted. "Okay," he said, "I can handle him that way, too." He turned to Paul Drake. "You'd better go out through the outer office, Paul, so you can get a look at him. We may have to shadow him later on, and I want you to know what he looks like."

Drake nodded. A grin emphasized the droll humor of his face. He sauntered to the door, opened it and paused in the open doorway. "Thank you very much, Counselor," he said, "for the advice. I'll let you know if I have any more trouble." He closed the door.

Mason faced Della Street. "Della," he said, "I may have to get rough with this guy. He'll probably try coming in here with a lot of talk about what an important man he is. I want to beat him to it, and…"

The door to the outer office pushed open. Paul Drake, speaking hastily, said, "There was one matter I forgot to ask you about, Counselor. I know you'll pardon me." He strode through the door, pushing it shut, extended his long legs and covered the distance to Perry Mason's desk in four swift steps. "Pin this bird down as to the time he came to town," he said, speaking rapidly.

"You mean the father?" Mason asked, his eyes showing surprise.

"Yes."

"Presumably after he read about the murder," Mason said. "His son tells me that the father was working on a financial deal of major importance, and…"

"If that man in your outer office," Paul Drake interrupted, "is C. Phillip Montaine, he came here before Moxley was murdered – not afterwards." Mason pursed his lips and gave a low whistle. Drake leaned across the lawyer's desk and said, "You remember that when I saw Rhoda Montaine coming out of this office, I noticed she was being shadowed, and I trailed along for awhile?"

"Are you trying to tell me," Mason asked, "that this man was the shadow?"

"No, he wasn't the shadow, but he was sitting in an automobile parked close to the curb. He's got the type of eyes that don't miss much. He saw Rhoda Montaine, he saw the man who was following her, and he saw me. I don't know whether he figured there was any connection or not."

"You can't be mistaken, Paul?"

"Not a chance."

"But his son told me that his father was in Chicago."

"The son might have been lying or the father might have been lying."

"Perhaps the old man's lying," Mason said. "The son isn't. If Carl had known his father was here in the city he'd have brought the old man along to give him moral support when he first came here. Carl's the type who needs some one to back his play. He's relied on his dad all his life. The old man may have been here without letting the son know he was here."

"Why would he do that?" Drake asked.

"I don't know, but maybe I can find out. Did he see you, Paul?"

"Sure he saw me. What's more I think he remembered me. But I pulled a dead-pan on him and he doesn't know I've spotted him. He thinks I'm just a client. I'll duck out now. I wanted you to have the low-down before you saw him."

Mason said slowly, "There's one other explanation, Paul. This guy may not be Montaine at all."

The detective nodded slow agreement.

"But why," demanded Della Street, "would an impostor call on you, chief?"

Mason's laugh was grim and mirthless. "Because the district attorney might figure I was going to try and put the screws on the old man," he said. "So the D.A. figured he'd run in a ringer and see what I did about it."

"Oh, please," Della pleaded, "do be careful, chief!"

"That would mean," the detective remarked thoughtfully, "that the man's out of the D.A.'s office; and that would mean the D.A. was having Rhoda shadowed before the murder. Perry, you'd better find out all about this guy before you open up on him."

Mason indicated the door. "Okay, Paul. Make an artistic get-away."

The detective once more opened the door, said as though he had opened the door in the middle of a sentence, "… glad I thought of it now. It's a complication I was afraid of, but I see you have the matter in mind. Thank you very much, Counselor." The door slammed.

Della Street's eyes pleaded with Perry Mason. The lawyer motioned her toward the door. "We can't have any delay now, Della," he said, "or he'll be suspicious. He probably remembered Paul Drake. He'll naturally wonder whether Paul came back to tip me off. So open the door and bring him in."

Della Street opened the door. "Mr. Mason will see you, Mr. Montaine," she said.

Montaine entered the room, bowed, smiled, and did not offer to shake hands. "Good morning, Counselor," he said.

Perry Mason, on his feet, indicated a chair. Montaine dropped into the chair. Mason sat down, and Della Street closed the door to the outer office. "Doubtless," Montaine said, "you know why I am here."

Mason spoke with disarming frankness. "I'm glad you are here, Mr. Montaine. I wanted to talk with you. I understood from your son, however, that you were involved in a very important financial deal. I presume you dropped everything when you heard about the murder."

"Yes, I chartered a private plane and arrived late last night."

"You've seen Carl?" Mason inquired.

There was a frosty twinkle in Montaine's eyes. "Perhaps, Counselor," he said, "it would be better if I stated my errand first and then you questioned me afterwards."

"Go ahead," Mason said bluntly.

"Let's start out by being fair and frank with each other," Montaine said. "I am a financier. The attorneys I contact are lawyers who have specialized in corporation law. They are usually men who have made fortunate investments through the judicious use of influential connections. You are the first criminal attorney I have ever met professionally.

"I know, generally, that you men are in many ways sharper than the attorneys I have done business with. You have a reputation for being less scrupulous. Whenever the respectable element wants to find a goat for the ever-increasing 'crime waves' it blames the criminal attorney.

"My son consulted you. He's anxious to have his wife cleared of the charges against her. Yet, because he is a Montaine, he won't lie." Montaine paused impressively. "He is going to tell nothing more nor less than the exact truth, regardless of what the cost may be."