The Case of the Dubious Bridegroom
- Автор: Гарднер Эрл Стенли
- Серия: Perry Mason #35
- Год: 1949
- Язык: английский
- Год: William Morrow
- Жанр: Классические детективы
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Mason said, “Tragg, I’m telling you, the minute this man sets foot in Mexico, he’s married to this woman standing here at his side. I’m willing to concede that when he goes back to the United States, he may be held to have committed bigamy. That’s why I don’t propose to have him go back to the United States. He’s living here with his lawfully wedded wife.
“Now, Mexico will grant extradition for a crime that is a crime against the laws of the United States, but it’s not going to grant extradition for an act performed under the laws of the Mexican government which is perfectly legal here but which could be held to be illegal in California.”
Tragg said irritably, “You make the thing sound so damn convincing that... That’s the trouble with you, you’ve built up a reputation because you are able to make things sound so convincing.”
“You don’t want to go back to the United States, do you, Garvin?” Mason asked his client.
Garvin shook his head.
“There you are, Tragg,” Mason said.
Tragg took a small fingerprint outfit from his pocket. “Well,” he said, “I take it you’ll at least be willing to do whatever you can to help us clear up that murder case.”
“What do you want?”
“I want your fingerprints.”
“Why?”
“I think I found one of your fingerprints on the weapon with which the crime was committed.”
“You don’t need to bother about that,” Mason said. “I can tell you very frankly, Tragg, that my client handled that gun — that is, if it’s the gun we think it is.”
“What gun?” Tragg asked suspiciously.
“A gun,” Mason said, “that was left on the fire escape outside of the window of the Garvin Mining, Exploration and Development Company. That gun was handled by Mr. Garvin and was, in fact, placed in the glove compartment of his automobile. Someone removed it from the glove compartment before he had left Los Angeles.”
Tragg threw back his head and laughed. “You do have the most naive, ingenious explanations! You admit your client put that gun in the glove compartment of his automobile?” Tragg asked.
“It was put there for him,” Mason said.
Tragg turned to Garvin. “You admit you put that gun in the glove compartment of your car?”
“He admits someone else put it there,” Mason said.
“I’m talking to Garvin,” Tragg said irritably.
“I’m talking for him.”
Lorraine Garvin said, “Well, I know very well that gun was not in the glove compartment after we left Los Angeles. Someone took it out.”
“How do you know?” Tragg asked.
“Because my husband had left his sunglasses in the glove compartment. After we got going he asked me to get them out for him. I opened the glove compartment and took out the dark glasses. If there had been a gun in there I certainly would have seen it, and if I’d seen it, I naturally would have demanded to know what Edward was doing with a gun.”
“And you’re sure there was no gun in there?”
“Absolutely certain.”
“After all,” Tragg said, suavely, “by that time your husband could have removed it from the glove compartment. He might have put it anywhere.”
Lorraine glowered at Lieutenant Tragg and said, “If you’re not going to believe any statements made by a person, what’s the use of asking him to submit to an inquiry and answer questions?”
Tragg grinned, and said, “It’s the way we solve murder cases sometimes. You have to admit, Mrs. Garvin, that a man who would commit murder would be perfectly willing to tell a falsehood.”
“Well, I can tell you one thing,” Lorraine snapped, “my husband might have taken that gun but he never could have used it. He was here with me all night.”
“All night?” Tragg asked.
“Yes, all night.”
“You didn’t sleep a wink?”
“Well, I know I woke up around one o’clock and he was lying in bed right beside me and snoring. I was awake from around quarter to three to three-thirty and he was there.”
“You looked at your watch to check the time, of course,” Tragg said sarcastically.
“I listened to the time.”
“You listened?”
“Yes. They have a clock — just listen for yourself.”
She held up her hand for silence. The musical chimes of the big clock in the lobby melodiously tolled a preamble, and then after a pause, chimed the hour.
“Okay,” Tragg said. “If you’ll swear to those times...”
“I’ll swear to them.”
“And if you’re not mistaken...”
“I’m not.”
“In that event I’m all finished,” Tragg said, “except that I want to get Mr. Garvin’s fingerprints. I want to see whether or not he left a fingerprint on that gun. Any objection, Garvin?”
“Certainly not,” Garvin said. “I’m only too eager to do anything I can to help clear this matter up.”
“Except return to California,” Tragg said.
“So far as that is concerned, I am not going to subject my wife to a lot of vulgar curiosity, nor am I going to walk into a trap that was set for me by...”
“Go on,” Tragg said, “by whom?”
“There’s no need mentioning her name now,” Garvin said with dignity. “She’s dead.”
“All right,” Tragg said, opening his fingerprint outfit and taking the cover off a blank ink pad, “let’s have your hands and we’ll get the fingerprints. At least we’ll accomplish that much.”
Garvin extended his hands. Tragg carefully took fingerprints, marked them with the name, date and place, then grinned cheerfully. “That’s fine. I hope you enjoy your stay in Mexico.”
He bowed, said, “Glad to have met you, Mr. and Mrs. Garvin. You’ll hear from me later.” Then he opened the door and was gone, as though suddenly in a great hurry.
Chapter 12
It was dark by the time the limousine returned Perry Mason and Della Street to San Diego. Mason stopped long enough to telephone Paul Drake.
“Okay, Paul,” Mason said. “Della and I are leaving San Diego. We’ll go to Oceanside and have dinner there. Then we’ll meet you and go on out to see what we can do with Hackley.”
“He’s going to be a tough nut,” Drake warned. “I’ve been getting a little more dope on him. He’s considered pretty hard.”
“That’s fine,” Mason said. “I like ’em tough. When can you get to Oceanside?”
“I’m ready to start right now.”
“All right,” Mason told him. “Della and I will pick up our cars at the airport and then go get some dinner. You can cruise slowly along the main street until you find us... you can’t miss my car. I’m driving the convertible with the light tan top.”
“Okay,” Drake said. “I’ll find you.”
“We’re on our way,” Mason told him, and hung up.
The limousine purred smoothly along the coast route until it reached Oceanside. Mason had the driver take them to the airport where he and Della Street picked up their respective automobiles, paid off the limousine, and drove back to the center of Oceanside where Mason found two parking places near a restaurant.
They entered the restaurant, enjoyed a leisurely dinner, and were chatting over after-dinner coffee and cigarettes when Drake walked in, looked around, spotted them, waved his hand and came over to join them in the booth.
“What’s new, Paul?” Mason asked.
“I could use a cup of coffee,” Drake said, “and a piece of that lemon pie. I had a late lunch but I’m beginning to get hungry... Hang it, Perry, there just isn’t any easy way out of Los Angeles. You have to fight traffic no matter what you do.”