The Case of the Curious Bride (16 page)

"You figure this guy was her brother?" Mason asked.

"Sure he was her brother, and I figured I was going to pull a fast one. I remembered that her name had been Pender and that she came from Centerville. I could see that this bird wasn't going to do anything except listen to me sing my song and then slam the door in my face. I figured that if I could pull a good line on him, he'd take me into his confidence and loosen up. It was just one of those hunches that go across like a million dollars when they go across, and get you patted on the back as being a smart guy; and when they don't go across, they look like hell and get you fired. I didn't have time to think it over. I just played the hunch. I let my face light up with recognition and said, 'Why, say, don't you come from Centerville?'

"He looked at me sort of strange and gulped a couple of times and said, 'Who are you?', and I got a grin all over my face and said, 'Now I place you. Hell's bells, your name's Pender!', and with that I stuck out my hand."

"What did he do?"

"There," said Danny Spear, "is where he fooled me. There's where he slipped one over on me."

"Go ahead," Mason said.

"I played him for a hick," Spear remarked ruefully, "and what a dumb boob I was! I was watching him like a hawk to see how he'd take it. For a moment, he was flabbergasted as though I'd knocked him off of the Christmas tree, and then all of a sudden his face lit up into a smile, and he started pumping my hand up and down, and said, 'Sure, buddy, I remember you now. Come in.'

"Well, he kept hold of my right hand with his right hand and pulled me in the door. He was grinning like Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. He kicked the door shut with his left foot, pumped my hand up and down two or three times, said, 'How are all the folks back home?' and crossed his left over to my eye with a sock that damn near put me out. He let go of my right hand then, and smacked me one in the kisser that smashed me back up against the closet door. I bounced back just in time to connect with one in the solar plexus that took all the joy out of life. I remember something coming up and smacking me in the face, and realized it was the dirty carpet."

"What did he do?" asked Perry Mason.

"Tore a pillowslip into pieces, stuck some rags down my mouth, tied my hands and feet, opened the closet door and stuffed me inside."

"Were you out?"

"Not clean out, but groggy. Don't make any mistake whether I'd been out or not, there was no percentage in fighting that boy. He handled his fists just like the girl in your office handles the keys on the switchboard. Why, say, he juggled me around in the air like a Jap juggler tossing billiard balls."

"Go on," Mason said.

"After I was in the closet, he put on an act," Danny Spear went on ruefully, "and I'm damned whether I know if it was an act or not. Of course, when I saw what I was up against, I played 'possum and went limp as though I was out for keeps. I figured I might be able to twist my wrists a little and get some slack on the tie, so I pulled a dead flop. He tossed me in the closet as though I'd been a sack of grain he was putting in the barn. He closed the door and twisted the bolt – and, brother, let me tell you there's a strong bolt. It freezes that door into a wall as solid as a rock."

"What was the act he put on?" Mason asked curiously.

"Well, he went ahead with the packing up, and, believe me, he was in a hurry. He slammed open drawers and banged things into the suitcase and ran back and forth between the bed and the bureau like a rooster on a hot stove. About every two minutes he'd stop and call Garvanza three-nine-four-aught-one. He'd hold the phone for a minute or two and there wouldn't be any answer."

"That's the number of the Balboa Apartments," Mason said.

Danny Spear said, "I know it. He kept calling that number and asking for Miss Freeman."

"There was an answer then?"

"Yeah. Somebody answered at the other end all right, and he'd ask for Miss Freeman and wait awhile and then hang up. The closet door was pretty thin. I could hear every move he made and every word he said.

"What I'm getting at is that I don't know whether he knew I was listening and put on an act for my benefit, or whether he thought I was out, and was just talking, or whether he didn't give a damn one way or the other."

"I'm still listening," Mason said with a trace of impatience, "to find out just what you're getting at."

"Well, you see," Danny Spear explained, "I want you to get the picture, because it's important you see it just the right way. He kept packing and calling that number. Finally he got done packing. I heard the bed springs creak as he sat down on the edge of the bed. He called the same number again, asked for Miss Freeman, and then got her on the line. I heard him say, 'Hello, Doris, this is Oscar.' She probably told him not to talk over the telephone, because he told her the fat was in the fire and nothing made any difference now. He said that a detective had called on him and knew who he was. He gave her hell for being so dumb as to let a dick trail her to the hotel, and then he kept insisting that she told the two detectives who had called on her more than she'd admitted. She seemed to be all worked up, and after awhile he was soothing her and trying to quiet her down, instead of bawling her out, the way he'd started in.

"The thing that makes me suspicious about the conversation was that it was so long and so complete. They seemed to be gabbing over the telephone just as though they'd been farmers talking with the neighbors to while away a long evening, and, in the course of the conversation, she evidently asked him if he'd told her the truth. He started in and swore up one side and down the other that he'd told her the absolute truth, and he'd got as far as the door of Moxley's apartment and had rung the bell, trying to wake Moxley up, but that apparently Moxley had been asleep, because there wasn't a sound from the apartment. He said he figured the murder must have been committed before he got there. The girl evidently thought he might be trying to put sugar coating over the pill, and that he'd gone up to the room and cracked Moxley over the head. He kept denying it. They talked for darn near ten minutes.

"Now, that's the sketch. I give it to you complete, because it may make some difference. He may have put it on for my benefit. If he did, he was a darn good actor. If he was just sitting there, gassing with his sister, when he should have been taking it on the lam, he's just a hick. You pay your money and take your choice. Figure him either for a dumb guy with lots of beef and a sudden temper, or a bird who's as fast with his mind as he is with his fists, and that's plenty fast."

Mason asked crisply, "What happened after that?"

"Well, they put that song and dance on over the telephone for a while, and then the guy told her that they were going to have to take it on the lam."

"Did he use that word?" Mason asked.

"New, he said that they had to start traveling. Evidently she didn't want to travel with him, but he told her they were in it up to their necks now, and it was sink or swim and there wasn't any good in separating, that if they separated it left two trails for the cops to follow and if they stayed together it only left one. He told her he was getting a taxicab and for her to have her things all packed up."

"Then what?" asked the lawyer.

"Then he dragged a bunch of baggage around, grabbed a bag or two and beat it down the corridor. I twisted and wiggled and finally got my hands loose, got rid of the bandages, and went to work on the door. I could have got out by making a racket or by smashing out the panels with my feet, but that would have brought a crowd, and I figured you wanted me to play them close to my chest. So I got out my pocket knife and whittled through the thin part of the panels, and took the rest of it out with one kick that didn't make too much noise. I was afraid to telephone from here because the calls apparently go through the desk, so I beat it down to the corner and telephoned the agency. Drake wasn't in, but I got one of the boys and told him to get busy and sew up the Balboa Apartments, to take a look at all of the railroad stations and to cover the airport. I gave him a description of the pair. He couldn't miss them very well, with the kind of mouths that run in that Pender family, and the guy would loom up like a mountain anywhere."

"Perhaps," Mason said, "they hadn't left the Balboa Apartments when you telephoned."

"I was hoping they hadn't," Danny Spear said, "because I'd pulled enough of a bonehead play for one day. I figured that if I could get on their trail and find out where they were going, it would be a good thing."

Mason said rather testily, "Why didn't you tell me this over the phone?"

"Because," Spear rejoined, "I had a choice to make. I only had one shot. I knew that seconds were precious. I figured I could call the agency and get them to pick up the trail while it was hot. I knew if I tried to explain to you over the telephone, I'd lose a lot of time. After I got the agency to working on the thing, I figured there was no use telling you all the details, because there was nothing you could do, and if I tried to tell it over the telephone, it wouldn't have made sense anyway, so I wanted to get you down here just as quickly as you could come, and then I figured you could use your own judgment. I take it you don't want these people stopped, do you?" Perry Mason frowned thoughtfully, fell to pacing the faded, thin carpet. Slowly, he shook his head, said gravely, "No, I don't want them stopped. I want them kept going. I want to know where they are, so I can bring them back if I have to, but I want them kept moving."

Danny Spear looked at his watch. "Well," he said, "I'm sorry, but that's a clean breast of the whole situation. We can ring up the agency in half an hour and find out if the boys picked them up. Personally, I'd say it was a ten to one shot they did, because after they'd left the Balboa Apartments, it's a cinch they'd try a railroad train. They're the kind of people who figure nobody can catch up with a railroad train."

Abruptly Perry Mason grinned. "Well," he said, "let's get back to the office. Paul Drake will probably be there by that time."

"The case of Montaine versus Montaine," said Judge Munroe. "John Lucas, a deputy district attorney, representing the plaintiff; Perry Mason representing the defendant."

Rhoda Montaine gave an involuntary exclamation, stepped swiftly forward. The restraining arm of a deputy barred her way. "Carl!" she exclaimed.

Carl Montaine, his face bearing the evidence of sleepless nights and worried days, clamped his lips in a firm line, held his eyes straight ahead, marched toward the chair which had been prepared for him, sat down beside the deputy, leaving his wife standing, with incredulous dismay in her eyes, her face ghastly white. From the courtroom came a low murmur which was silenced by the peremptory gavel of a bailiff. Rhoda Montaine walked blindly toward the chair which had been reserved for her. Her tear-dimmed eyes made it necessary for the deputy at her side to guide her with a hand at her elbow.

Perry Mason, spectator of the silent drama, said no word, made no move. He wanted the full force of what had happened to impress the spectators; and he was careful not to intrude upon the stage. It was Judge Munroe who broke the tension of the courtroom.

"Both parties," he said, "to this action are in custody. The defendant is charged with murder. It is rumored that the plaintiff will appear as a witness for the People in the murder case. The Court notices that the action is filed on behalf of the plaintiff by a counsel in the district attorney's office. The Court wishes to announce, therefore, gentlemen, that there will be no deviation from the issues in this case. The action before the Court is one to annul a marriage, on the ground that there was a prior husband living. Counsel for neither side will be allowed to cross-examine opposing witnesses for the purposes of eliciting information which may subsequently be used in the trial of People versus Rhoda Montaine. Is that understood, gentlemen?"

Perry Mason bowed his head in silent assent. John Lucas flashed a glance of triumph at him. There could be no question but what the charge from the judge amounted to a distinct victory for the district attorney's office. Perry Mason could always have his client refuse to answer questions on the ground that the answer might incriminate her. The judicial admonition, therefore, amounted to a curtailment of Mason's right to cross-examine Carl Montaine.

"Call Carl Montaine as the first witness for the plaintiff," said Lucas.

Carl Montaine dug his hand into the shoulder of his father, who occupied a seat at the counsel table immediately adjacent to his son. The boy then marched with steady dignity to the witness stand, held up his right hand, was sworn, and then glanced inquiringly at Lucas.

"Your name is Carl W. Montaine?"

"Yes."

"You reside here in the city, Mr. Montaine?"

"Yes."

"You are acquainted with the defendant, Rhoda Montaine?"

"Yes."

"When did you first meet her?"

"At the Sunnyside Hospital. She was employed by me as a nurse."

"You subsequently went through a marriage ceremony with her?"

"Yes."

"Can you give the date of that?"

"The eighth day of June."

"Of this year?"

"Yes."

Lucas turned to Perry Mason with a wave of his hand.

"You may inquire," he said.

Perry Mason's smile was urbane. "No questions," he said.

The witness had apparently been carefully coached, in anticipation of a rigid cross-examination. Lucas had been in tense readiness to jump to his feet with an objection, should Mason ask any important questions. Both men showed their surprise.

"That's all," said Judge Munroe sharply. "Step down, Mr. Montaine."

Lucas was on his feet. "Your Honor," he said, "under the Code of Civil Procedure, we have a right to call the defendant to the stand for cross-examination as an adverse party, and in advance of any examination on the part of her counsel. I therefore desire to call Rhoda Montaine to the witness stand."

"Just what," asked Perry Mason, "do you expect to prove by this witness?"

Lucas frowned. "I don't believe," he said, "that it is necessary for me to disclose my plan for procedure nor the purpose of my examination."

"In view of the Court's statement," said Perry Mason, smilingly polite, "I was about to state that I thought we would stipulate whatever you wished to prove from this witness."

"Will you stipulate," asked Lucas, his voice harsh, driving and hostile, "that on the eighth day of June, when the defendant went through a marriage ceremony with Carl Montaine, she had previously been party to a marriage ceremony with another man; that this man's name was Gregory Lorton, alias Gregory Moxley, who was killed on the morning of June sixteenth of the present year?"

"I will," said Perry Mason.

Lucas showed surprise. Judge Munroe frowned thoughtfully. There was a rustle of motion in the crowded courtroom. "I also desire," said John Lucas, glancing at the Court, "to interrogate this witness as to the identity of a person who was buried in February of nineteen hundred and twenty-nine under the name of Gregory Lorton."

Perry Mason's smile became a grin. "In view of our stipulation," he said, "that the Gregory Lorton who was married to the defendant in this case was alive at that date, it becomes entirely immaterial in this action who it was that was buried under the name of Gregory Lorton. If you wish to pursue that inquiry in a criminal action, you have your right to do so. And, unfortunately, you also have the right to pursue that inquiry by giving out statements to the newspapers intimating that you suspect this defendant of having poisoned that individual."

Lucas whirled, his face red. "That insinuation is unjustified!" he shouted. "You can't…"

Judge Munroe's gavel banged on his desk.

"Counselor," he said to Perry Mason, "your objection is well taken. Your comments were entirely uncalled for."

"I apologize to the Court," said Perry Mason.

"And to counsel," suggested Lucas.

Perry Mason remained significantly silent.

Munroe looked from face to face. There was, perhaps, the faint twinkle of humor in his eyes. "Proceed," he said.

"That," said Lucas, "is our case," and sat down.

Perry Mason said, "Call Mrs. Bessie Holeman to the witness stand."

A young woman of perhaps thirty-two years of age, with tired eyes, strode to the witness stand, held up her right hand and was sworn.

"Did you," asked Perry Mason, "go to the inquest which was held over the remains of Gregory Moxley, alias Gregory Lorton, the man who was killed on the sixteenth day of June of this year?"

"I did."

"Did you see the remains?"

"I did."

"Did you recognize them?"

"Yes."

"Who was the man?"

"He was the man whom I married on the fifth of January, 1925."

The spectators gasped with surprise. Lucas half rose from his seat, sat down, then jumped up again. He hesitated a moment, then said slowly. "Your Honor, this line of testimony takes me completely by surprise. However, I move to strike out the answer as not responsive to the question, as incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial. It makes no difference how many prior marriages this man, Moxley, might have had before he married Rhoda Montaine. He might have had two dozen previous wives living. Rhoda Montaine could have filed suit for annulment during his lifetime. She did not. With his death, she becomes a widow. In other words, her marriage is not subject to collateral attack."

Perry Mason smiled. "The law of this state provides that a subsequent marriage contracted by any person during the life of a former husband or wife of such person with any person other than such former husband or wife is illegal and void from the beginning. In the Estate of Gregorson, 160 Cal., 61, it is held that a void marriage is subject to collateral attack.

"Obviously, Gregory Lorton could not enter into a valid marriage with Rhoda Montaine as long as Lorton's prior wife was living Therefore, the previous marriage of this defendant, being null and void, was no bar to a subsequent valid marriage to Carl Montaine."

"Motion to strike is denied," said Judge Munroe.

"Did you ever secure a divorce from the man who has been variously described as Gregory Moxley or Gregory Lorton subsequent to the fifth day of January, 1925?" asked Perry Mason.

"Yes."

Perry Mason unfolded a legal paper, presented it to Lucas with a flourish. "I show to counsel," he said, "a certified copy of the decree of divorce, and call to the attention of Court and counsel the fact that the decree of divorce was subsequent to the marriage of this defendant to Gregory Lorton. I offer this certified decree in evidence."

"It will be received," Judge Munroe said.

"Cross-examine," announced Perry Mason.

Lucas approached the witness, stared steadily at her and said, "Are you certain of the identity of this man you saw in the morgue?"

"Yes."

Lucas shrugged his shoulders, said to Judge Munroe, "That is all."

The judge leaned over his desk and said to the clerk of the court, "Bring me that one hundred and sixtieth California Reports, and volume sixteen of California Jurisprudence."

There was a restless silence in the courtroom while the clerk stepped into the Judge's chambers, returning with two books which the judge consulted thoughtfully. Judge Munroe looked up from the books and disposed of the case with a single sentence. "Judgment," he said, "must be entered for the defendant. The petition to annul the marriage is denied. Court is adjourned."

Perry Mason turned and caught the eye of the elder Montaine, an eye that was glittering and frosty. There was no expression whatever upon the face of the older man. John Lucas looked crushed. Carl Montaine seemed rather dazed, but C. Phillip Montaine retained his poise. It was impossible to tell whether he was surprised by the decision.

The courtroom buzzed with activity. Newspaper men sprinted for telephones. People milled into curious throngs, every one talking at once. Perry Mason said to the deputy who had Rhoda Montaine in custody, "I want to take my client into the jury room for consultation. You can sit in the door if you wish." He took Rhoda Montaine's arm, piloted her into the jury room, held a chair for her, sat across a table from her and smiled reassuringly.

"What does it all mean?" she asked.

"It means," said Perry Mason, "that Judge Munroe has held your marriage to Carl Montaine absolutely valid and binding."

"Then what?" she asked.

"Then," said Perry Mason, pulling the complaint from his pocket, "you are going to sue him for divorce on the grounds of extreme cruelty, in that he has falsely accused you of murder, in that he has betrayed the confidence you have made to him, in that he has, on numerous times and occasions, treated you in a cruel and inhuman manner. I have listed some of those times and occasions in this complaint. All you have to do is to sign it."

Tears came to her eyes. "But," she said, "I don't want to divorce him. Don't you understand, I make allowances for his character. I tell you, I love him."

Perry Mason leaned close to her, so that his eyes were staring steadily into hers. "Rhoda," he said in a low voice, "you've told your story. You've given the district attorney a signed statement. You can't deviate from that story now. You've got to stand or fall by it. So far, the district attorney hasn't been able to uncover the person who actually did stand on the doorstep and ring the doorbell of Moxley's apartment while Moxley was being murdered, but I have uncovered him. I have uncovered two of them. One of them may be lying. On the other hand, both may be telling the truth. The testimony of either one will get you the death penalty."

She stared at him with consternation in her eyes.

"One of them," Perry Mason went on, "is Oscar Pender, a man from Centerville who was trying to get money from Moxley. This money Pender was to get for his sister. Moxley had swindled Pender's sister out of her savings."

"I don't know anything about him," Rhoda Montaine said. "Who's the other one?"

Mason's eyes bored into hers. He said slowly, "The other one is Doctor Claude Millsap. He couldn't sleep. He knew of your appointment. He got up and drove to Moxley's house. You were there. The lights were out. He rang the bell. Your car was parked around the corner on a side street."

Rhoda Montaine was white to the lips. "Claude Millsap!" she said, in a whisper.

"You got yourself in this mess," Mason told her, "by not doing what I told you. Now you're going to follow instructions. We've won that annulment case. Your husband can't testify against you. The district attorney, however, has given the newspapers signed statements covering your husband's testimony. He's held your husband as a material witness, where I couldn't talk with him; but he's let every newspaper man in town talk with him. Now then, we've got to combat that propaganda. We're going to file this divorce. I've drawn it on the theory that your husband was guilty of cruelty in telling a bunch of lies to the district attorney, lies that linked you with a murder of which you are innocent."