The Case of the Curious Bride (22 page)

"I wish to wind the alarm," said Perry Mason, "turn the hour and minute hands of the clock so that it may definitely be ascertained when the alarm was set. I want the witness to hear the sound of the alarm, and then she can testify whether that was the bell which she heard."

"Very well," said Judge Markham, "you will wind the alarm clock and set the hands under the supervision of the Court. Mr. Lucas, if you wish to step up to the bench while counsel is winding the clock you are invited to do so."

John Lucas sat rigid. "I refuse to have anything to do with this," he said. "It is irregular, a trick of counsel."

Judge Markham frowned at him. "Your remarks, Counselor," he observed ominously, "come very close to being contempt of court." He turned to Perry Mason. "Step up with the alarm clock, Counselor."

Perry Mason suddenly dominated the courtroom. Gone was all the indifference of his former manner. He was now the showman, putting on a headline act. He bowed to the judge, turned to smile at the jury, stepped up to the bench. He wound up the alarm, turned the hands of the clock slowly. When those hands registered two minutes before two, the alarm whirred into action.

Perry Mason set the clock on the judge's desk, turned and walked away, as though satisfied with what he had done. The alarm whirred for several seconds, then paused for an appreciable interval, then whirred again, paused and once more exploded into noise.

Perry Mason stepped forward and shut off the alarm, turned to Mrs. Crandall and smiled at her. "Now, Mrs. Crandall," he said, "since it appears that it couldn't have been the doorbell that you heard, since you are equally positive that it wasn't the telephone bell that you heard, don't you think that the bell you heard must have been that of the alarm clock?"

"Yes," she said dazedly, "I guess it must have been."

"Are you sure that it was?"

"Yes, it must have been."

"You're willing to swear that it was?"

"Yes."

"Now that you think it over, you're as certain of the fact that it must have been the bell of the alarm clock which you heard ringing, as you are of any other testimony you have given in this case?"

"Yes."

Judge Markham picked up the alarm clock, inspected it frowningly. He toyed with the key which wound the alarm, suddenly started drumming his fingers on the bench. He frowningly surveyed Perry Mason, then turned to regard the alarm clock with a scowl. Perry Mason bowed in the direction of John Lucas. "No further cross-examination," he said, and sat down.

"Redirect examination, Counselor?" asked Judge Markham of the deputy district attorney.

John Lucas got to his feet. "Are you now swearing positively," he shouted, "in contradiction of your previous testimony, that it was not a doorbell which you heard, but the bell of an alarm clock?"

Mrs. Crandall looked somewhat dazed at the savagery of his attack. Perry Mason's laugh was good-humored, patronizing, insulting. "Why, your Honor," he said, "Counselor has forgotten himself. He is seeking to cross-examine his own witness. This is not my witness; this is a witness on behalf of the prosecution."

"The objection is sustained," said Judge Markham.

John Lucas took a deep breath, keeping control of himself with an effort. "It was this alarm clock which you heard?" he asked.

"Yes," said the witness with a sudden truculent emphasis.

John Lucas sat down abruptly. "That's all," he muttered.

"Your Honor," said Perry Mason, "may I recall Mr. Crandall for one question on further cross-examination?"

Judge Markham nodded. "Under the circumstances," he said, "the Court will permit it."

The tense, dramatic silence of the courtroom was so impressive that the pound of Benjamin Crandall's feet as he walked up the aisle to the witness stand sounded as audible as the pulsations of some drum of doom. Crandall resumed the witness stand. "You have heard your wife's testimony?" asked Perry Mason.

"Yes, sir."

"You have heard the alarm clock!"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you," said Perry Mason, "desire to contradict your wife's testimony that it was the alarm clock she heard, or…"

John Lucas jumped to his feet. "Objected to!" he said. "Argumentative. That's not proper cross-examination and counsel knows it."

Judge Markham nodded. "The objection," he said, in tones of grim severity, "is sustained. Counsel will keep his examination within the legitimate province of orderly questions. Counsel must well realize the impropriety of such a question."

Perry Mason accepted the rebuke meekly, but withal, smilingly. "Yes, your Honor," he said quietly, and turned to the witness. "Now, I'll put it this way, Mr. Crandall," he said. "It now appears from the physical facts of the case that you couldn't have heard a doorbell, and, inasmuch as you have stated positively that it wasn't a telephone bell which you heard, don't you think it must have been this alarm clock which you heard?"

The witness took a deep breath. His eyes moved around the courtroom, locked with the steady eyes of his wife, who sat in an aisle seat. John Lucas made an objection in a voice which quivered so that it almost broke. "Your Honor," he said, "that question is argumentative. Counsel is carefully making an argument to this man, and incorporating that argument as a part of his question. He keeps dangling the wife's testimony in front of the husband. It's not the way to cross-examine this witness. Why doesn't he come out and ask him fairly and frankly, without all these preliminaries, whether he heard a doorbell or whether he didn't hear a doorbell."

"I think, your Honor," Perry Mason insisted, "that this is legitimate cross-examination."

Before Judge Markham could rule on the point, the witness blurted a reply. "If you fellows think I'm going to contradict my wife," he said, "you're crazy!"

The courtroom broke into a roar of spontaneous laughter, which Judge Markham could not silence, despite the pounding of his gavel. After the tense drama of the previous situation, the spectators welcomed a chance to find some relief from the emotional tension. When some semblance of order had been restored by Judge Markham's threat to clear the courtroom if there were any further demonstrations, John Lucas said in a voice that was like the complaint of a wronged child to its mother, "That's just the point that Mason was trying to drill into the mind of this witness. He was trying to make him realize the position he'd put his wife in if he didn't testify the way Mason wanted him to."

"Well," said Judge Markham, with a smile twisting the corners of his mouth, despite himself, "whether that may or may not have been the case, it now is apparent that the point has at least occurred to the mind of the witness. However, I will sustain the objection. Counsel will ask questions which are free from argumentative matter."

Perry Mason bowed. "Was it a doorbell that you heard," he asked, "or was it an alarm clock?"

"It was an alarm clock," said Crandall, without hesitation.

Perry Mason sat down. "That's all the cross-examination," he said.

"Redirect examination?" asked Judge Markham.

Lucas walked toward the witness, holding the alarm clock in his left hand, shaking it violently until the sound of metal tinkling against metal was audible throughout the courtroom. "Are you going to tell this jury," he said, "that it was this alarm clock that you heard?"

"If that's the alarm clock that was in the room," said the witness slowly, "that was the one I heard."

"And it wasn't a doorbell at all?"

"It couldn't have been."

Lucas looked at the witness with exasperation on his face. "That's all," he said.

Crandall left the stand. Lucas, holding the alarm clock in his hand, turned and walked toward the counsel table. Midway to the table he paused as though he had suddenly been struck with some idea. He raised the alarm clock, stood staring at it, then whirled to face Judge Markham. Indignant words poured from his lips.

"Your Honor," he said, "the object of this examination is apparent. If this alarm was set for five minutes before two, and the alarm was ringing at the very moment when Gregory Moxley was murdered, the defendant, Rhoda Montaine, can't possibly have been the one who was guilty of that murder, because the testimony of the prosecution's own witnesses shows that she was not at the scene of the murder at that time, but until some ten minutes after two o'clock, on the morning when the murder was committed, was in a service station where she was under the eyes of an attendant who has carefully checked the time.

"Now, your Honor, in view of that fact, it appears that the most important part of this whole situation hinges upon the question of whether the alarm on this clock had been shut off, or allowed to run down. Now I notice that counsel for the defense took that clock from the hands of the deputy sheriff. I notice that he said that the alarm was run down, but there's no proof that it was run down. It would have been an exceedingly simple matter for counsel to have manipulated that lever while he was winding the alarm clock and turning the hands. I, therefore, suggest that all of this evidence be stricken out."

The Court motioned Perry Mason to silence, stared steadily at John Lucas.

"You can't strike out that evidence," he said, "because the witnesses have now testified positively that it was the alarm clock that they heard. Regardless of the means by which they were induced to make such a statement, they have made it, and the testimony must stand. However, the Court desires to state, Mr. Lucas, that if counsel had desired to safeguard the interests of the People against any such manipulation of the alarm clock, counsel was afforded that privilege. The Court specifically invited counsel to step up to the bench and watch counsel for the defense while he was winding and setting the clock. As I remember the situation, your attitude was that of a sulky child. You sat at the counsel table sullen and sulking, and refused to participate in the safeguards which were offered you by the Court. The Court is administering this rebuke in the presence of the jury, because your accusation of misconduct on the part of counsel for the defense was made in the presence of the jury. The jury are instructed to disregard the comments of both Court and counsel, so far as having any probative weight in this case is concerned. The means by which a witness is induced to make a statement are controlled by the Court. The effect of the statements made by witnesses are for the jurors."

John Lucas stood, face white, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Your Honor," he said in a voice which was barely audible, "this case has taken an unexpected turn. I, perhaps, deserve the rebuke of the Court. May I ask, however, that a continuance be granted until to-morrow morning?"

Judge Markham hesitated, glanced dubiously at Perry Mason, and asked, "Is there any objection on the part of the defense?"

Perry Mason was smilingly urbane. "So far as the defense is concerned, there is no objection whatever. As counsel for the prosecution remarked, earlier in the case, the prosecution desired that the defense have every opportunity to present its case. Now it gives counsel for the defense equal pleasure to assert to the Court that it desires the prosecution to have every opportunity to try and make out a case against this defendant – if it can."

Judge Markham placed a hand to his lips, in order that the jury might not see any possible quivering at the corners of his mouth. "Very well," he said. "Court is adjourned until tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. During the interim, the jury will remember the admonition of the Court, and not discuss the case, or permit it to be discussed in their presence, nor form or express any opinion as to the guilt or innocence of the defendant."

And with that, Judge Markham whirled about in his chair, and strode to his chambers, his robes fluttering behind him. But there were those among the spectators who caught a glimpse of the judicial profile just as it turned into chambers, who subsequently swore, with great glee, that the judge wore a very human grin which stretched from ear to ear.

Montaine's face was inscrutable, his voice well-modulated and slightly scornful. "No," he said, "you know that I have not. You know the district attorney has him held in custody as a material witness, that no one can see him."

Mason said, almost casually, "Wasn't it your suggestion, Mr. Montaine, that he be kept in custody?"

"Certainly not."

"Doesn't it impress you as being rather strange," Mason suggested, "that despite the fact the district attorney knows he cannot call Carl Montaine as a witness because of the law which provides a husband cannot be called as a witness against a wife, the district attorney should keep Carl locked up as a material witness?"

"I see no particular significance connected with it," Montaine said. "Certainly, I have had nothing to do with it."

"I was just wondering," Mason said, "if there wasn't something back of all of this; if, perhaps, some one were not trying to keep me from giving Carl a vigorous cross-examination." Montaine said nothing. "Did you know that I saw him this afternoon?" Mason inquired.

"I know you were to take his deposition in a divorce action, yes."

Perry Mason said slowly and impressively, "Mr. Montaine, I am going to ask Della Street to read to you what happened at that deposition." Montaine started to speak, then checked himself. His face was as a mask. "Go ahead," said Perry Mason to Della Street.

"Do you wish me to read just what I have here in my notebook?"

"Yes."

"Both the questions and the answers?"

"Yes, you can read just what you have there."

"'Q. Your name is Carl W. Montaine? A.: Yes.

"'Q.: You are the husband of Rhoda Montaine? A.: Yes.

"'Q.: You understand that Rhoda Montaine has filed a complaint for divorce against you, charging you with cruelty? A.: Yes.

"'Q.: You understand that one of the allegations of that complaint is that you falsely accused her of the murder of Gregory Moxley? A.: Yes.

"'Q.: Was that accusation false? A.: It was not.

"'Q.: You repeat that accusation then? A.: Yes.

"'Q.: What grounds have you for making such an accusation? A.: Plenty of grounds. She tried to drug me in order to keep me in bed while she went to keep an appointment with Moxley. She sneaked her car out of the garage, committed the murder, returned, and crawled into bed as though nothing had happened.

"'Q.: Isn't it a fact that you knew all about Moxley prior to the time your wife slipped out at two o'clock in the morning? A.: No.

"'Q.: Now, wait a minute. Isn't it a fact that you retained a so-called shadow to follow your wife; that this shadow followed her to my office on the day before the murder; that the shadow trailed her to Gregory Moxley's apartment? A.: (The witness hesitates, fails to answer.)

"'Q.: Go ahead and answer that question, and remember you're under oath. Isn't that a fact? A.: Well, I employed a person to shadow her. Yes.

"'Q.: And, when your wife left the garage around one thirty in the morning, there was a flat tire on her car, was there not? A.: So I understand.

"'Q.: And the spare tire had a nail in it, did it not? A.: So I understand.

"'Q.: But the air had not entirely leaked out of that spare tire? A.: I guess that's right. Yes.

"'Q.: Now, will you kindly tell us, Mr. Montaine, how it would be possible for a spare tire on the back of a car, elevated some three feet from the ground, to get a nail in it, unless that nail had been driven into it? A.: I don't know.

"'Q.: Now, when your wife returned her car to the garage, she couldn't get the door closed, is that right? A.: Yes.

"'Q.: Nevertheless, when she left the garage, it was necessary for her to both open and close the sliding door? A.: Yes, I guess so.

"'Q.: You don't have to guess. You know, don't you? You heard her open and close the door. A.: Yes.

"'Q.: Now, that door closed freely when she left the garage? A.: Yes.

"'Q.: And isn't it a fact that the reason the door wouldn't close when your wife tried to close it the second time was that the door caught on the bumper of your automobile, which was also in the garage? A.: Yes.

"'Q.: Therefore, isn't it a fact that your automobile must have been moved during the time your wife's car was absent from the garage, and when it was returned to the garage it wasn't driven in quite far enough to clear the door? A.: I don't think so.

"'Q.: Isn't it a fact that you knew your wife was going out at two o'clock in the morning? A.: No.

"'Q.: You admit that you looked in your wife's purse and found a telegram signed "Gregory"? A.: Yes, that was afterwards.

"'Q.: And isn't it a fact that on that telegram the address of Gregory Moxley was written? A.: Yes.

"'Q.: And didn't you know that your wife intended to go to an appointment with Gregory Moxley? Didn't you determine that you would be in the house where Gregory Moxley resided, in order to see what was taking place between your wife and Moxley. Isn't it, therefore, a fact that you planned to delay your wife after she started so that you would have sufficient time to arrive first on the scene? Didn't you, therefore, let the air out of the right rear tire on her car and drive a nail into the spare tire, making a slow puncture, so that the tire would be flat, but its condition would not be apparent until after it had been put on the car? Didn't you then, after your wife had dressed and left the garage, and while she was at the service station getting the car repaired, jump into your car, and drive to Gregory Moxley's apartment house? Didn't you climb up the back stairs and enter the adjoining apartment on the second floor on the north? Didn't you secrete yourself there until your wife came to keep her appointment with Moxley? Didn't you then climb over the rail separating the back stoops or porches, enter the kitchen in the Moxley apartment, hear Moxley demanding that your wife should get money, even if it became necessary for her to poison you and collect the insurance? Didn't you hear your wife state she was going to telephone me? And then the sounds of struggle? And didn't you, in a sudden panic, lest your name and the name of your family should be dragged into such a mess and bring disgrace or fancied disgrace to your father, pull out the master switch on the switch box in the back of the said apartment, thereby plunging the apartment into darkness? Didn't you then dash into the Moxley apartment, hearing the sound of a blow, and then hearing your wife run from the apartment? Didn't you sneak into the room where Moxley had been, striking a match to see what had happened? Didn't you find Moxley just getting to his feet, having been dazed by a blow which had been struck him on the head with a poker? Didn't you, thereupon, acting upon impulse, pick up the poker, strike Moxley a terrific blow over the head, felling him to the floor? Didn't you, thereupon, start to walk down the corridor, striking matches as you went, the matches being those that you had picked up from a smoking stand in Moxley's apartment? Didn't you then encounter another person in the corridor? A man who had been ringing the doorbell, had received no answer, and who had, therefore, gone around to the back of the house and effected an entrance in the same manner that you had done? Wasn't that person a man named Oscar Pender, from Centerville, who had been trying to force Moxley to give money to his sister? Didn't you two hold a whispered conversation, and didn't you explain to the said Pender that you were both in a very dangerous position? Didn't you state that you had found Moxley dead when you entered the apartment, but that the police would never believe you? Didn't you, therefore, seeking to cover your tracks, take cloths and wipe all fingerprints from the door knobs and the weapon of death? Didn't you, thereupon, start to the back of the house, and didn't you then think that perhaps your wife might have run out through the back door and have climbed into the corridor of the adjoining apartment? Didn't you therefore, walk down the said corridor, striking matches to give you illumination, and, when you found the corridor was empty, return to the Moxley stoop, and having used the last of the matches, toss away this empty match container? Didn't you then throw back the master switch which turned on the lights once more in Moxley's apartment? Didn't both you and Oscar Pender then hastily leave the premises? Didn't you jump in your car, drive hurriedly home, beat your wife there by a matter of seconds, and, in your haste, neglect to put your car far enough in the garage so that both doors would move freely? You could move the door back of your car freely back and forth, but when both doors were pushed over from the other side of the garage one of them would lock into position on your bumper, and isn't that the reason your wife couldn't get the garage door closed?

"'A.: My God, yes! And I've kept it bottled up so long that it's nearly driven me crazy. Only, you're wrong about the killing. I turned out the lights to give Rhoda a break and then I was afraid he might overpower her. I heard the sound of a blow in the dark. I heard some one fall. I struck matches and groped my way through the rooms. I found Moxley on his feet. He wasn't badly hurt, but he was in a murderous rage. He started for me. The poker was lying on a table. I dropped my match, grabbed the poker, and swung in the dark as hard as I could. Then I called to Rhoda. She didn't answer. I didn't have any more matches. I groped around in the dark, and it was then I dropped the garage key and car keys. I must have pulled the leather container out of my pocket. I didn't know it at the time. Then some one else struck a match. That was Pender. The rest of it happened just as you said. I gave Pender money so that he could skip out. I didn't intend to accuse Rhoda at the time. It wasn't until I was almost home that I looked for my garage keys and realized what had happened.

"'Q.: So then you left the garage unlocked, put your car away, went to your bedroom, and, as soon as your wife came in and went to sleep, you got up, opened her purse and took out her garage key and the keys to the cars; and it was her leather key container that you showed to me in my office. Is that right? A.: Yes, sir, that's right. I thought Rhoda would claim self-defense and a jury would believe her. I came to you before I went to the police because I knew you could get her off.

"'Q.: And, as I understand it…'"

Perry Mason raised his hand. "That, Della," he said, "is far enough. Never mind the rest of it. You may leave us."

The secretary shut her notebook, vanished into the outer office. Mason faced C. Phillip Montaine. Montaine's face was white. His hands gripped the arms of the chair. He said nothing. "You have," Perry Mason remarked, "undoubtedly read the afternoon papers. It's been rather clever of you, Montaine, not to attend the trial, but, of course, you know what has happened. The prosecution's own witnesses have given Rhoda Montaine an alibi. A jury will never convict her.

"I believe what your son said," Perry Mason remarked slowly, "but a jury wouldn't – not after the way he's behaved in this case, not after the way he tried to get out from under by shifting the blame to Rhoda's shoulders.

"I know something of Carl's character. I learned it from talking to Rhoda. I know that he's impulsive and I know that he's weak. I know that he fears your disapproval more than anything on earth. I know that he values his family name because he has been taught to value it.

"I know that Moxley needed killing, if ever a man needed killing. I know that your son has never faced any real crisis in his life by himself. He has always had you to lean on. I know that when he first went to Moxley's apartment, he did so because he thought his wife was having an affair with Moxley. After he realized the true facts, he acted upon impulse, returned home in a panic and realized that he had left his garage key in Moxley's apartment. He had left the garage unlocked when he took out his car, and he had sense enough to leave it unlocked when he returned, so that Rhoda would find it unlocked. He knew by that time he had left his keys in Moxley's apartment and he had made his plan to steal Rhoda's keys so that it would appear her key container was the one left in the apartment. When it came down to a real test, your son didn't have guts enough and didn't have manhood enough to stand up and take it on the chin. He passed the buck to Rhoda.

"If your son had had simple manhood enough to have gone to the authorities and told his story, he could doubtless have made out a case of self-defense. As it stands now, he can't do it. No one will believe him. Personally, I don't blame your son for the killing. I do blame him for trying to pass the buck. You're the one that I blame. I'm satisfied that you either knew what had happened or suspected what had happened. That was the reason you came to me and tried to get me to weaken Rhoda's defense by letting your son testify against her and by tying my hands so that I couldn't rip into him on cross-examination. Frankly, that was one of the first things that aroused my suspicions. I couldn't understand why a man of your character and intelligence would try to bribe me to let a client get a death penalty. I couldn't figure what motive would be powerful enough. And then I suddenly realized the only motive that could have been strong enough to have made you play your cards that way. That motive was a desire to save your son."

Montaine took a deep breath. "I'm licked," he said. "I realize now that I made fatal mistakes in the training I gave Carl. I know that he isn't a particularly strong character. When he wired me that he was married to a nurse I wanted to find out what sort of a woman she was. I wanted to find out in such a way that I could convince my son of his mistake and, at the same time, hold the whip hand over the woman. Therefore, I came to this city while my son thought I was still in Chicago. I had her shadowed night and day. I was kept advised of every move she made. My men were not regular detectives. They were confidential investigators whom I kept constantly in my employ."