“Don’t think I’m going to educate you,” Della said. “I have no time to waste with amateurs.”
“Oh, it’ll all come back to me readily enough,” Drake said reassuringly.
They climbed in Mason’s car, swung away from the curb, turned east on the Fallbrook road and drove slowly until they found the Lomax mailbox. Then Mason slowed and located the driveway.
“Easy enough to find when you have the directions,” he said.
“It sure is.”
“The police haven’t any lead on Hackley, Paul?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think it’s even occurred to them to check back on Ethel’s stay in Nevada.”
The rutted driveway led past an orange orchard for about a quarter of a mile and up to a neat California bungalow which loomed dark and somber.
“Looks as though he’s either out or has gone to bed,” Drake said. “What do we do? Bust right in?”
“We bust right in,” Mason told him. “If he’s home we try to get him on the defensive and get him started answering questions. In other words, we pull a complete razzle-dazzle, if we have to.”
“Do we tell him who we are?”
“Not if we can avoid it. We just give him names, no more.”
“Okay,” Drake said. “Let’s go!”
Mason drove the car up to the front of the big house, braked it to a stop, waited a moment to see if there were any dogs.
A big, black German shepherd walked on tiptoe around the car, his mane bristling, his nose busily inquiring as to the identity of the late visitors.
“Don’t take any chances on that dog,” Drake warned. “Blow the horn and let’s get someone to come out here and escort us in.”
Mason said, “I’d rather try the doorbell, and catch him entirely by surprise. That dog looks intelligent.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It does with a dog,” Mason said, and opened the door of the car.
The dog immediately bristled in hostile silence.
Mason looked down, and caught the dog’s eye. “Look,” he said, as though addressing a human being, “I want to talk with the master of the house. I’m going to get out of this car and walk in a direct line right up to the porch and ring the bell. You can follow along behind me to make certain I don’t make any false move. How’s that?”
With the last two words, Mason raised his voice. Then, without an instant’s hesitation, stepped to the ground.
The dog lunged forward, keeping his nose within a half inch of Mason’s legs as the lawyer walked around the car and up to the porch. “It’s all right,” Mason assured Della Street who was watching with apprehensive eyes. He dropped his hands so that the open fingers were where the dog’s cold nose could explore them.
The lawyer walked up to the porch and pressed the bell button. He could hear the sound of chimes inside the house.
He waited a minute, then pressed the bell button several times in quick succession.
From the dark interior of the house there was the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps approaching the door. A light switch clicked on, then another. A door opened and through the glass in the window Mason could see the figure of a man in a double-breasted gray suit. The man shifted his right hand to a position near the left lapel of his coat. The lawyer caught a glimpse of a revolver in a shoulder holster.
The dog, facing the door, elevated his tail, the tip of it waving to and fro.
A bolt shot on the inside of the door. The man opened the door for an inch or two, a safety chain holding it in that position. A porch light clicked on, outlining Mason in brilliance.
“Who are you?” the man asked. “What do you want?”
“I’m looking for Alman Bell Hackley.”
“What do you want with him?”
“I want to talk with him.”
“What about?”
“Some properties he has in Nevada.”
“Nothing is for sale.”
“Do you want to hear what I have to say, or not?”
“If you have any business with me, go back to the hotel at Oceanside. Call on me after ten o’clock in the morning.” He started to close the door. Then, something about the dog’s attitude caught his attention, and he said suspiciously, “Say, how did you get past that dog?”
“I’m not past him. I just got out of the car and …”
“He’s not supposed to let anyone out of a car after dark.”
“He made an exception in my case,” Mason said.
“Why?”
“Ask the dog.”
The man frowned, said, “Just who are you anyway?”
Mason said, “I’m trying to find out something about Ethel Garvin.”
Hackley’s face became rigidly immobile.
“Know anything about her?” Mason asked.
“No,” Hackley said, and slammed the door.
“She was murdered early this morning,” Mason called through the closed door.
There was no response, but, on the other hand, Mason heard no sound of steps in the corridor indicating the man had turned away from the door.
“And she stopped here and had her gasoline tank filled,” Mason shouted.
There was a pause, then the door jerked open.
“What was that you said?” the man demanded.
“I said she stopped here sometime around twelve-thirty o’clock in the morning and had her gas tank filled.”
“You’re drunk or crazy, I don’t know which, and I don’t give a damn. Now get back in your car or I’ll tell the dog to tear a leg off.”
“Do that and I’ll sue you for damages and wind up owning your Nevada ranch,” Mason said.
“You talk big.”
“Go on,” Mason told him. “Tell your dog to tear off a leg and see what happens.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to talk about Ethel Garvin.”
There followed a long moment during which the slender, sinewy man behind the door met Mason’s eyes in thoughtful appraisal. Suddenly he reached a decision, removed the safety chain from the door and said, “Come in. If you want to talk I’m willing to listen.
“And before you leave you’ll tell me exactly what you meant by saying Ethel Garvin, whoever she is, stopped here at twelve-thirty o’clock this morning. Come right in, Mr.—?”
“Mason,” the lawyer said.
“All right, Mr. Mason, come in.”
Mason turned back toward the car, “Come on Della, and Paul,” he called.
“What about that damned dog?” Drake called irritably. “Can’t you put him in the house?”
“The dog remains where he is,” Hackley said. “He won’t do anything unless I tell him to.”
Della Street opened the door of the car, slid out to the ground, walked confidently toward the porch where Mason was standing. The dog turned to regard her, gave a low-throated, ominous growl, but made no move.
Drake, who had put one foot on the ground, heard the growl, promptly returned to the automobile and slammed the door.
“It’s all right,” Hackley called, and then to the dog, “Shut up, Rex!”
The dog ceased growling, regarded Della Street’s confident approach with hard-eyed appraisal, then slowly waved the tip of his tail. Drake, observing that Della Street made it all right, opened the door once more, placed his right foot on the ground tentatively, followed it with his left foot, and took two or three cautiously diffident steps toward the porch.
The dog bristled, growled, then suddenly made a lunge for Drake.
Drake whirled, raced back into the car just as the snarling dog flung himself against the door, his teeth snapping at the metal.
Hackley opened the door, ran out on the porch, yelled, “Rex! Down! Damn it, Rex, get down!”
The dog looked back over his shoulder, slowly and reluctantly sank to a crouching position on the ground.
“Here,” Hackley shouted. “Come here. Come here to me!”
The
dog turned and came toward Hackley as though expecting a beating.
Hackley said, “Damn you, I told you not to do that. Now you get down, and stay down.”
Hackley walked over to the car, said to Drake, “Come in. He won’t hurt you.”
Drake looked past Hackley at the dog, said, “If that dog makes a pass at me, I’m going to shoot him.”
“You won’t have any trouble with him as long as you get out and come in, and move confidently,” Hackley said. “But don’t ever start running from a dog, and don’t ever act as though you were afraid.”
“Stand still and let him tear a leg off, I suppose,” Drake said, sarcastically.
“The others didn’t have any trouble,” Hackley pointed out.
“The trouble I had,” Drake told him, “was enough to make up for all three of us.” He eased himself out of the automobile, followed Hackley to the porch.
“Come in,” Hackley said. “Rex, get the hell back out of the way.” He aimed a half-hearted kick. The dog, deftly avoiding his kick, stood watching Drake with Lips that curled back from his fangs.
Hackley said, “Come on in. Let’s go inside, sit down, and talk this thing over in a civilized fashion.”
He said to Mason, “All right let’s get this straight. Your name’s Mason. Who are the others?”
“Miss Street, my secretary,” Mason said.
Hackley’s bow was a model of polite deference. “Miss Street,” he said, “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“And Paul Drake,” Mason said.
“How do you do, Mr. Drake,” Hackley said shortly.
“Drake,” Mason added, “is a detective.”
“Oh,” Hackley announced, “it’s got that far, has it?”
“That’s right,” Mason told him, “where do we talk?”
“Come in and sit down.”
Hackley held the door open for the three, said, “Go right ahead through the first door to the left.”
Della Street led the way into the room which had been fitted up as a library, evidently a somewhat hasty job of superimposing books and shelves over what had at one time been merely the conventional living room in a country house.
“Sit down,” Hackley invited, making a sweeping inclusive gesture.
The party seated themselves.
“All right,” Hackley said, “now let’s hear what you have to say.”
“You’re getting the cart and the horse all mixed up,” Mason said. “We want to hear what you have to say.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“You knew Ethel Garvin.”
“Who says so?”
“I say so,” Mason said. “You knew her when she was in Nevada. You were quite friendly with her. You talked her out of getting a divorce from her husband. You told her that if she’d sit tight and let her husband think she’d secured a divorce, then when Edward Garvin had found some other interest he could be made to pay a lot of money for a settlement.”
Hackley said, “I don’t think I’m going to like you, Mr. Mason.”
Mason met his eyes, said affably, “I’m quite sure you’re not.”
There was a silence for several seconds.
“Now, then,” Mason went on, “Ethel Garvin came down to Oceanside at an early hour this morning. She stopped in here and had her gasoline tank filled. I don’t know what she told you, or what you told her, but I do know that she started out from here, drove down the road about two miles, stopped her car in a parking place off by the side of the road and was murdered.”
“I suppose,” Hackley said, “all this is just a conversational background, a barrage of words by which you’re trying to get me to commit myself. I’m quite certain that this Ethel Garvin, whoever she is, wasn’t murdered. I think you’re probably simply trying to get some admission out of me that I knew her in Nevada. Now, then, if you’ll put your cards on the table and tell me what you want to know and why you want to know it, we may get along a lot better.”
Mason said, “You have a telephone over there in the corner. Just ring the Oceanside police and ask them if Ethel Garvin was murdered at an early hour this morning.”
Hackley promptly got up, crossed over to the telephone, smiled and said, “That’s a very nice bluff you’re running, Mason, but it isn’t going to work because I’m going to call you cold. Whenever a man makes a pass at me, I call him.”
He picked up the receiver, said, “I want the police station, please,” and then after a moment said, “Can you kindly tell me whether an Ethel Garvin was murdered this morning somewhere near Oceanside? … Never mind who this is, I’m simply asking a question … Well, let’s put it this way. I might be a witness in case there’s anything to it …”
Hackley held the telephone in silence for several seconds, then said abruptly, “Thank you,” and slammed the receiver back into place.
He turned and faced his audience, then started pacing the floor, eyes half slitted in thought, his hands pushed down deep in the side pockets of his double-breasted coat. Abruptly he turned, standing with his back to the wall. “All right,” he said, “you win.”
“What do we win?” Mason asked.
Hackley’s smile was without mirth. “You’ve won your ante back, Mr. Mason, which is more than people usually win who start playing with me. Now you said this gentleman,” nodding his head toward Drake, “was a detective.”
“That’s right.”
“From Los Angeles, San Diego, or Oceanside?”
“Los Angeles.”
“Connected with the homicide squad there, Mr. Drake?”
Drake glanced at Mason and hesitated.
Mason smiled and shook his head. “He’s a private detective. I hire him.”
“Oh,” Hackley said, “and the charming young lady is your secretary?”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“Indeed. And you’re retained by someone I take it. You’re hardly investigating this case as a matter of philanthropy.”
“I’m retained by someone.”
“His name?”
“Edward Charles Garvin.”
“The husband of the woman who was murdered?”
“The ex-husband.”
“I see,” Hackley said. “Makes an interesting combination, doesn’t it?”
“Very.”
“All right,” Hackley said, “you’ve sneaked up on my blind side. You’ve caught me somewhat unawares and at a disadvantage. However, I’ll make my statement. No, don’t bother to take it down, Miss Street. I don’t think I care to have a reported interview at the present time. I’ll simply make a statement of fact that you people can have as the basis for whatever investigation you are making. I’ll make that much of a contribution to finding out who murdered that woman.”
He paused dramatically, said, “What I’m going to tell you is the whole truth.”
There was another momentary pause, and then he said, standing with his back to the wall, his eyes, moving from face to face watching to see how they were taking it, “I own a ranch in Nevada. It’s rather a large holding. I like it. I like to live there. I have never married because I don’t care for marriage. I am not a hermit, I like women, but the idea of settled domesticity simply doesn’t appeal to me, and never has.
“There’s a guest ranch, a so-called dude ranch, adjoining my property in Nevada. I find some of the guests who stay there are rather interesting. As you can well judge, many of these guests are not there simply because they like the idea of recreation on a guest ranch in Nevada. They’re there because they want to establish a six weeks’ residence in order to get a divorce.
“I’m frank to admit that some of those women have taken something of an interest in me and I in them. The woman who severs her domestic ties goes to a state where she has no friends, and finds herself, perhaps for the first time in years, entirely on her own, is apt to be lonesome and is apt to be seeking companionship. I happen to have a ranch that is ac
cessible. I happen to be available, and perhaps by some of them I am considered eligible.
“I had always lived on my ranch and enjoyed it until Ethel Garvin came to Nevada, to establish a residence on this adjoining dude ranch. I liked Mrs. Garvin. I enjoyed being with her, but gradually I began to realize that she was a very determined, and a very resourceful woman. I also began to realize that she had a very definite plan of operation, and that the plan in some way concerned my future.
“I waited until it became apparent that something had to be done. The situation was drifting to a point where I, for one, found it intolerable. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. We’d been too good friends for that. I didn’t want to tell her simply and plainly that I was not going to be at home when she called. I chose the easy way. I had long been looking for the right sort of investment in California. My real estate broker found this place. It was offered at what I considered a bargain as prices go these days. I told my dealer to close the deal very quietly and as far as possible to keep news of it out of the papers.
“When he had the property all in escrow, I simply slipped away from my ranch in Nevada. I left word for Ethel that I had been called away very suddenly on business that would keep me out of the state for some time, that I would get in touch with her as soon as an opportunity presented itself, but that in the meantime I was working on a deal that was so confidential I couldn’t take any chance of having any slip.
“Then I jumped in my own plane and flew to Denver. At Denver I put my plane in storage, took a passenger plane for Los Angeles and picked up a new automobile which had been ready for delivery to my order, and came here to this place.
“I was very careful not to let Ethel Garvin know where I was. The information that she is or was in California comes as a distinct shock to me, something in the nature of an unpleasant surprise. I had an idea she would think I was in Florida. I rather expected she would go there.
“Needless to say, she did not come here last night or any other time to have the gasoline tank of her automobile filled, and I haven’t seen her since I left Nevada.
“The news that she was murdered early this morning is more than a shock. It fills me with a sense of anger. She was a very lovable woman … The only comment that I could make is one that I hardly care to make under the circumstances. I will state that I happen to know that, during her lifetime, Ethel Garvin had a deep-seated fear of her husband. She was planning something. I don’t know exactly what it was but I do know that she was very much afraid of what her husband would do when she started to put her plan into execution.
The Case of the Dubious Bridegroom Page 13
