The Case of the Dubious Bridegroom

“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 lie?”

“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. District 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 Hotel Vista de la Mesa.”

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

“Yes, sir.”

“What?”

“I’d been looking for the right kind of a job. My wife was in Portland, Oregon. That’s where I’d been before I came to Southern California, and I made up my mind that if I could get the kind of a job...”

“Now just a moment,” Covington interrupted with fatherly benevolence, “don’t tell us what you thought, don’t tell us anything about your own business problems, Mr. Scanlon, just try and answer the question. Is there anything that fixes the night of the twenty-first day of September in your mind?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now just what is it? Just tell us just what fixes that date in your mind.”