The Case of the Curious Bride (13 page)

A door from the rear opened. A young woman smiled ingratiatingly. "I want to see Sidney Otis," said Perry Mason.

"You got something to sell?" she asked, the smile fading from her face.

"Tell him," Mason said, "that Perry Mason, the lawyer, wants to see him."

There was the sound of commotion from the back room, the noise of something being dropped to the floor. Quick steps pounded the floor. A burly figure in overalls pushed the young woman to one side and stood staring at Perry Mason, a wide grin twisting his lips away from tobacco-stained teeth. Sidney Otis weighed well over two hundred. His weight was evenly distributed. He radiated a genial booming honesty. His arms were bare to the elbow, and smeared with grease. His overalls had, very apparently, never seen the interior of a wash tub, but there was wholehearted cordiality in his welcome. "Perry Mason!" he said. "This is an honor! I didn't think you'd remember me."

Mason laughed. "I always remember people who sit on my juries, Otis," he said. "How are you?" He extended his hand.

The big man hesitated for a moment, then wiped his paw up and down on the leg of his overalls, and folded his fingers about Mason's hand. "Tickled to death, Counselor," he said, suddenly self-conscious.

"There's something you can do for me," Mason told him.

"Tell me what it is and I'll do it." Perry Mason glanced significantly at the young woman.

The big electrician jerked his head toward the rear. "Beat it, Bertie," he said. "I've got some business to talk over with Mr. Mason."

"Aw gee, dad, I never get to…"

"You heard me," Otis boomed, his big voice filling the shop, but his face twisted in a grin. "Beat it."

The girl pouted, moved toward the rear of the store on reluctant feet. When the spiteful bang of the door announced that she had moved out of earshot, Otis turned an inquiring face to the lawyer.

"Where are you living now, Otis?"

The man lowered his eyes apologetically. "I used to keep an apartment upstairs," he said, "but sledding has been tough lately. I've got a room where I keep the missus and the little girl, the other one stays down here with me and helps run the shop. I've got a bed in the back that I sleep on, and…"

"I have taken a lease on an apartment for six months," Perry Mason said, "and it happens that I can't live in the apartment. I'd like to have you move in."

"In an apartment!" said Otis, the grin fading from his face. "Oh, shucks, Counselor, I couldn't afford anything like that…"

"The rent," Perry Mason said, "is all paid for six months. It's rather a nice apartment."

Otis frowned. "How come?" he asked.

"It is," said Perry Mason, "the apartment where a man was murdered. You probably read about it in the paper. It's Apartment B of the Colemont Apartments at 316 Norwalk Avenue. A man by the name of Carey was murdered there That was his real name. He was going under the name of Moxley at the time of the murder."

"Yeah, I read about it," Otis said. "They got some woman for it, didn't they? The wife of a wealthy guy from Chicago."

Mason nodded. There was a moment of silence and then the lawyer went on in a low voice, "Of course, Otis, your family wouldn't need to know that a murder had been committed there. They might recognize the place, or some of the neighbors might tell them, but by that time they'd be moved in. It's a very comfortable little apartment. It would be a nice place for the folks. It's on the south side of the house and catches the sunshine."

"Gee, that'd be swell," Otis said, "but why do that for me, Counselor?"

"Because," Perry Mason said, "I want you to do something for me."

"What is it?"

"When you move into the apartment," Perry Mason said impressively, "and I'd like to have you move in today, I want you to take off the doorbell that's in the apartment and put on one of your own."

The electrician frowned and said, "Take off the doorbell?"

"It may be a bell, or it may be a buzzer," Mason said. "Whichever one it is, I want you to take it off and put on another one. The doorbell that you put on must be one that you've taken from stock. I want it to have your price mark on it, and I want you to have at least two witnesses who see you take off the one that's there now and put the new one on. Those two witnesses can be two members of your family if you want, but I want to be certain they see you do it, and I don't want any one to know why you're doing it. You can make some objection to the bell or buzzer that's there now. Say that you don't like the sound of it, or something of that sort."

"You don't want me to put on a buzzer?" asked Otis, puzzled. "If there's a buzzer on there now, do you want me to put on a buzzer?"

"No. Put on a doorbell, and put on one that you've taken from stock. Be sure it's a bell and not a buzzer."

The electrician nodded.

"One more thing,"- Mason said, "the bell or buzzer that's on there now must be kept, and when you take it off, you can put some mark of identification on it so you'll know it if you see it again. For instance, you can let your screw-driver slip and make a long scratch across the enamel, something that will look like an accident, and yet will furnish means of identification. Do you understand?"

Otis nodded. "I think I do," he said. "Tell me, is it on the up and up?"

"Absolutely. I've paid the rent to the landlord for six months in advance. If any one should ask you how you happened to rent that apartment, you can say that you wanted an apartment where you could put your family, a place where there was some sunlight; that you didn't want to pay a high rental; that as soon as you saw in the paper that a murder had been committed in this apartment, you knew that it could be rented cheap.

"Here's the key to the apartment and here's fifty dollars which will cover the expenses of moving in. It's furnished, but there's room for anything you've got."

The big electrician made a brushing motion with his hand, pushing back the folded fifty dollar bill.

Mason insisted. "It's a matter of business all around, Otis," he said. "You're doing me a favor and it gives me a chance to do you a favor."

Otis was undecided for a moment; suddenly his forehead puckered to a frown. "Wasn't there something in that case," he said, "about people next door hearing a doorbell ring when the murder was being committed?"

Perry Mason stared steadily at him. "Yes," he said.

Otis grinned, reached out and took the fifty dollars. "Thanks, Counselor," he said, "we'll move in today."

Mason shook his head. "I usually buy it from the boy at the corner," he said, "and read it before I start the daily grind. Why? Is there anything important in it?"

The detective nodded lugubriously. Della Street's face was serious. Perry Mason looked from one to the other.

"Go ahead," he said, "spill it."

"The district attorney," Drake said, "has evidently got a regular professional publicity man on the job."

"Why?"

"Because every morning he keeps releasing something dramatic against your client."

Mason said tonelessly, "He'll run out of facts one of these mornings. What is it this time?"

"He's going to exhume the body of the man who was buried under the name Gregory Lorton. He intimated he expects to find poison. He keeps harping back to the fact that Rhoda Montaine was a nurse; that she put Ipral in her husband's chocolate when she wanted him to sleep soundly; that if she wanted him to sleep just a little more soundly, it would have been an easy matter for her to have put in a deadly poison."

The lines of Mason's face became harsh. "They're afraid they won't be able to use the testimony of the husband in court, so they're spreading this Ipral business all over the newspapers.

"There's no question they're using a deliberate campaign of adverse newspaper publicity. They're trying to slap me in the face with the front page of a newspaper every morning."

"Anything you can do about it?" asked Paul Drake.

Mason narrowed his lips and said, "A lot I can do about it. If he wants to give that girl a fair trial, that's one thing. If he wants to try the case in the newspapers and try to prejudice the public against her, that's another thing."

"Watch your step, chief," Della Street warned; "the district attorney may be trying to get you to do something desperate."

Perry Mason's slow grin held grim portent. "I've fought the devil with fire before this, and haven't had my fingers burnt."

"You've had your hair singed a couple of times," Drake pointed out. "When you start pulling fast ones, you can take more chances than any one I ever knew."

A twinkle came to the lawyer's eyes. "Well," he said, "I'll promise you both something."

"What is it?"

"You haven't seen anything yet."

"You mean you're going to pull a fast one in this case?" Della Street asked, her eyes dark with concern.

"So fast," Mason said, "that it's going to whiz over the home plate before any one knows whether it's a strike or a ball."

"What good's it going to do if the umpire can't call it?" Drake inquired, the droll humor of his face more emphasized than ever.

"Perhaps," said Perry Mason softly, "it's not anything that I want called by the umpire. I may be aiming at the man who's doing the batting… Come on in, Paul."

The two men seated themselves in Mason's private office. Drake pulled a notebook from his pocket.

"Got something, Paul?"

"I think so."

"What is it?"

"You told me to check back on Moxley and find out everything he'd been doing, as nearly as I could."

"Yes."

"It wasn't easy. Moxley did time. He got out of jail broke. He needed money pretty badly. He was a lone wolf, so it's pretty hard to tell all that he did, but I've got a line on something that he did, that is, I think he did it."

"Go ahead," the lawyer said.

"We found out Moxley put through a long distance call to Centerville. We also discovered his trunk had a label from the Palace Hotel in Centerville. We checked the records of the Palace Hotel and couldn't find where Moxley had ever been registered there. However, there's one peculiar thing about his record. He'd keep changing his last name, but he'd nearly always keep his first name as Gregory. He probably did that so when people called him by his first name, he didn't have to watch his step to remember an alias. Anyhow, we went back over the records of the Palace Hotel, and found that a Gregory Freeman had been registered there for something over two months. So we took a look through the marriage licenses and found out that a man named Gregory Freeman had married a girl by the name of Doris Pender.

"We looked up the Pender woman and found that she'd been employed as a stenographer and bookkeeper in a creamery, there at Centerville. She was a steady, industrious worker and had saved up a little money that she'd put in stocks and bonds. Then she got married, gave up her job and moved away with her husband. Apparently, she didn't have any relatives there in Centerville, although the people at the creamery thought she had a brother some place in the northern part of the state."

Mason's eyes glittered with concentration. He nodded his head thoughtfully. "Good work, Paul," he said.

"So," the detective went on, "we checked through the meter connections of the electric light company, just on a chance that Gregory Moxley and this Pender woman might have lived here under the name of Gregory Freeman. We didn't find any connections under that name, but we did find a meter connection about two weeks ago under the name of Doris Freeman at the Balboa Apartments, at seven twenty-one West Ordway. She's got apartment 609. She's living there by herself. No one seems to know a thing about her."

"Perhaps," said the lawyer, "we can trace some telephone calls through the apartment switchboard, and…"

The detective grinned. "Listen," he said, "what do you think us guys do to earn our money?"

"Oh," Mason said pointedly, "do you earn it?"

"Wait until I finish and you'll say we do," Drake said. "I haven't told you anything yet."

"Go ahead then and tell me something."

"We found there was a switchboard in the lobby. There's some one on duty in the lobby all the time. The switchboard isn't particularly busy. They keep a record of calls that are made and the number of the apartment from which the calls come.

"We were afraid to try and pump the person who had the records, so we arranged to decoy him away from the desk for a few minutes, and one of my operatives slipped in and took a look in the book that lists the telephone records.

"These records aren't kept on an hourly basis – just by the date on which the calls are put through – but we found that this apartment was charged with a call to South nine-four-three-six-two on the sixteenth day of June, and that call was the first call in the book under date of June 16th, so it must have been made shortly after midnight."

"Where's the book?" asked the lawyer.

"Out there. But we got a photograph of the page that shows the call. That will keep them from doctoring the book, in case we want to bring it into court."

Mason nodded thoughtfully. "Good work," he said. "We may want to bring that book into court – and then, again, we may not. Have you got a good man that we can put on the job? One who's dependable, Paul?"

"Sure. I've got Danny Spear. He's the one who took the photograph."

"Is he good?"

"I'll say he is, one of the best in the business. You should remember him, Perry. We used him in that hatchet murder case."

Mason nodded. "Let's get him," he said, "and go on out there."

"To the Balboa Apartments?"

"Yes."

Drake picked up his hat. "Let's go," he said.