The Case of the Dubious Bridegroom

by Erle Stanley Gardner

“Tan colored.”

  “Lots of them are that color,” Mason said. “Mine is a light brown, Garvin’s is a light shade of bluish gray that would probably look tan in the light of a spotlight. You see all sorts of convertibles in the light colors.”

  “I know it,” Drake said. “I’m just telling you what the police have. Now by the time they get done with this witness he could be damned dangerous. You know what they’ll do. They’ll start coaching him and telling him what he saw until finally he’ll become convinced that he actually saw Garvin’s car. He’ll even recognize any dents in the fenders. He might get to thinking he remembers the license number.”

  Mason nodded moodily and said, “It’s a crime the way witnesses hypnotize themselves—sometimes with the aid of the police. I …”

  The door from the outer office opened and Gertie, the telephone operator and receptionist, came bouncing into the room only to stop short at sight of Paul Drake.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed, “I thought you and Della were alone.”

  “It’s all right, Mason said. “What is it?”

  “Mrs. Garvin is on the telephone, Mr. Mason. She’s calling from San Diego, and she’s all excited. She says she simply has to talk with you right away and—well, I thought perhaps you’d like to have me plug in both lines so Della could listen and perhaps take notes. She’s …”

  “Go ahead, do that, Gertie,” Mason said, “and then put her on the line.”

  As Gertie turned and ran back to the outer office, Mason nodded to Della Street and said, “Take a notebook, Della. Make notes on what she says.”

  Della Street nodded, opened her notebook, waited until the jingle on the bell showed that Gertie had put the call on both lines, then she nodded to Perry Mason. They picked up the receivers on the two telephones simultaneously.

  “Hello,” Mason said.

  Lorraine Garvin said hysterically, “Oh, Mr. Mason, I’m so glad I got you. I …”

  “Take it easy,” Mason said. “Tell me what’s happened.”

  “They tricked us.”

  “Who did?”

  “The police.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, the Mexican immigration authorities came to us and wanted to know how long we were remaining in Mexico and Edward told them he didn’t know, that we might go down to Ensenada and that we might be there for two or three weeks, we might even be there longer.

  “Well, they were very nice about it, but told us we’d have to get tourist cards. They said those tourist cards were good for six months, that they were issued at the immigration station at the border and that we wouldn’t have to go across the border to the U. S. side to get them but could just have them issued on the Mexican side.”

  “All right, then what happened?”

  “So we got in Edward’s car and started for the border, but when we got there, the officers kept pushing us over into a line of traffic that was off to the right Ed tried to explain to them that he wanted to get tourist cards but they didn’t talk English.”

  “All right, what happened?”

  “Well, the first thing we knew we were in a line of traffic that was headed for the United States side and we couldn’t get out of it. So Ed thought it would be best to just drive the car across and then swing right around and come back on the Mexican side. The cars were going right on through one right after the other, the officers at the border just looking to make sure there was no contraband and then motioning them on.”

  “You should have known better,” Mason told her, frowning.

  “We know better now,” she told him. “Well, it was just a trap. We tried to pull out and a couple of U. S. traffic officers blew whistles and yelled at us to get back into line and Ed told them we just wanted to get tourist cards and they said we’d have to go across and come around now, that we couldn’t get out of line. So we crossed over the border and the minute we did a car shot out from the United States side and drew alongside and that man Tragg grinned at us and said to Edward, ‘I told you we’d do it the hard way if you didn’t come the easy way,’ and they took Edward to San Diego and put him in jail.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m at the U. S. Grant Hotel in San Diego.”

  “They didn’t arrest you?”

  “No, they were very nice to me. They told me how very sorry they were to inconvenience me and that I could go back to Mexico in the car and get our bags. And then they called again and asked me if I had any objection to letting them look the car over.”

  “Where’s the car?”

  “In the garage here at the hotel.”

  “Hadn’t they looked it over before?”

  “Well, they looked it over when they took us in, but now it seems they want to take it and have it searched for fingerprints or something. They said they’d have to have it for about three hours.”

  Mason said, “Where are the keys to the car?”

  “In the car, I guess.”

  “When did the police telephone you?”

  “Just now.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I told them that I’d have to go across the border to get my bags and check out of that little hotel there in Tijuana. They told me that they’d give me a police car and …”

  Mason interrupted to say hurriedly, “Now, do exactly what I tell you to. Get tough with them. Tell them that you certainly aren’t going to be seen riding around in any police car; that you’re going back to get those bags; that they can send an officer with you if they want, but you’re going back in your own car and get those bags and check out of the Vista de la Mesa Hotel. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And see that you do that,” Mason said. “Don’t let them get their hands on that automobile for at least an hour and a half or two hours. Delay the thing just as much as you can. Don’t act as though you’re trying to conceal anything, but simply be mad and hurt and annoyed and independent. Be sure that you don’t tell the officers that they can’t have the car. Tell them they can have it as soon as you get back from across the border. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, but I don’t see why …”

  “You don’t have to,” Mason said. “Do exactly as I tell you and don’t tell anyone you’ve been talking with me. Now you understand what you’re to do?”

  “Yes, but I …”

  “Do it, then,” Mason said. “Delay things so it’s two hours if possible before the police get hold of your automobile. I’ve got to get busy. Have confidence in me. Do exactly what I tell you. Good-by.”

  Mason hung up the telephone.

  “What is it?” Drake asked.

  Mason, on his feet, his eyes sharp with excitement, said, “Just as you said, Paul. You know what’s going to happen? The police are trying to get hold of Garvin’s car. They tricked him into going across the border, and then nabbed him. Now they want to get his automobile. You know what they’re going to do with it? They’re going to take that automobile up to Oceanside, show it to Irving, have Irving say that that’s the car he saw, then let Irving look it all over carefully, and point out any little individual things he can find on the car—fender dents or dented hub caps or anything of that sort.”

  “Well,” Drake said, wearily, “there’s nothing you can do about it. After all, if Irving is the kind who falls for a deal like that …”

  “They all fall for it,” Mason said. “Don’t be silly. You know what happens with witnesses.”

  “What happens?” Drake asked, lighting his cigarette.

  Mason said, with feeling, “It’s been demonstrated dozens of times that if you have a crime committed in front of a whole room full of witnesses and then call on those witnesses to make a written statement of what took place, the statements will contain all sorts of variations and contradictions. People simply can’t see things and then tell what they’ve seen with any degree of accuracy.”

  “I suppose so,” Drake said.

  “Hell, it’s been d
emonstrated time and again,” Mason said. “It’s a favorite stunt in classes in psychology in college. But what happens when you have witnesses in the trial of a case? They get on the stand one after another and tell a story that might have been written on a mimeograph. A witness sees something. He tells it to the police. The police point out little discrepancies between his story and that of the other witnesses. They point out what must have happened. Then they let the fellow think it over. Then they talk with him again. Then they let him talk it over with other witnesses. Then they take him to the scene of the crime. Then they get the witnesses to re-enact what happened. By the time a witness gets on the stand he’s testifying to a composite of what he saw, what he thinks he saw, what the other fellow tells him he saw, and what he concludes, he must have seen, judging from the physical evidence. Look at what’s happening in this case right under our noses. They’ve found this witness. They’re going to take Garvin’s automobile and …”

  “I know,” Drake said, “but there’s nothing we can do.”

  “The hell there isn’t,” Mason said. “You take Della in your car. Follow me just as fast as you can.”

  “What are you going to do, Perry?”

  Mason said, “I’m going to take my convertible, drive it down to Oceanside, park it in just about the position the witness says that other car was parked. You and Della are going to get Mr. Mortimer C. Irving, tell him you want him to take a look at a car, and drive him down the highway. My convertible will be parked there and I’ll bet you ten to one the guy identifies my convertible as the one he saw—if he sees it before he sees Garvin’s car.”

  “And then what?” Drake asked dubiously.

  “And then,” Mason said, “we’re going to come back home and Mrs. Lorraine Garvin is going to tell the police they can ‘borrow’ her car to look it over. The police will rush the car up to Oceanside and ask Irving to identify it. Irving will then tell them that isn’t the car, that he’s already identified the car, that it’s a car with a certain license number.”

  “He won’t identify it if he thinks it belongs to you and knows who you are,” Drake said.

  “He won’t know who I am,” Mason told him, “and he won’t know whom the car belongs to.”

  Drake shook his head and said, “In the words of a man who has a lot more sense than I have in such matters, ‘include me out.’”

  “Why?”

  “It’s too damned dangerous. You can get into trouble over that.”

  “What sort of trouble?” Mason asked. “All we’re doing is asking a man to identify a car.”

  “And pulling a razzle-dazzle on him. You’re making him think it was the same car he saw there shortly after midnight and …”

  “And that’s exactly what the police are going to be doing,” Mason said. “The police adopt the position that it’s all right when they do it, but illegal when someone else does it. The hell with that stuff! Are you coming or not?”

  “Not,” Drake said positively. “I have a license to consider. That’s getting too close to …”

  Mason glanced over at Della Street.

  She pushed her chair back, started for the hat closet and said, “My car’s in the parking lot, chief. It’s all filled. I can’t make quite as good time with it as you can with that big convertible of yours, but I’ll be right on your heels if you keep anywhere near the speed limit.”

  Mason grabbed his hat. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Drake said, “There’ll be a hell of a squawk over that, Perry. They’ll …”

  “Let them squawk,” Mason said. “I’m not going to sit tight and let them put ideas in the mind of that witness. I’m not going to let them hypnotize my client into a murder rap. If I have a right to cross-examine a man and ask him how he knows that’s the car, after he’s given his testimony in court, I have a right to cross-examine him before he testifies and demonstrate to him that he can’t really tell one convertible from another. Come on, Della.”

  Chapter 14

  Perry Mason and Della Street stopped in front of the unpretentious little house on a side street in Oceanside.

  Mason, leaving Della Street at the wheel, left her car, climbed the steps and knocked on the door.

  A redheaded woman with a truculent manner jerked open the door. Deep-set blue eyes sized Mason up from a toil-worn face. She said, “We don’t want anything,” and started to slam the door.

  “Just a minute,” Mason said, laughing, “I want to see your husband.”

  “He’s working.”

  “Can you tell me where?”

  “At the Standard Service Station.”

  “He’s told you about the automobile he saw when he was driving back from La Jolla?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I want to talk with him about it,” Mason told her. “Did he describe it to you?”

  “All he could see was that it was a sort of a light-colored convertible. There was no one in it. It wasn’t the car that woman was driving when she was killed.”

  “You know what time he got home?”

  “I’ll say I know what time he got home,” she said. “Ten minutes to one. Sitting down there with those fellows swapping yams and gambling money that he hasn’t any right to risk! He’s a lousy poker player, always trying to bluff when he doesn’t have a good hand—coming back with a lot of stories and …”

  “We’ll find him at the filling station?”

  “That’s right.”

  Mason thanked her, walked rapidly back to the automobile, and had Della Street drive him to the filling station where he inquired for Mortimer Irving.

  Irving, a tall, slow-moving, genial individual with twinkling eyes who managed somehow to look a lot younger than his wife, grinned at them and said, “Yeah. I saw this car down there—didn’t think anything of it at the time but—well, you know, I saw the lights on and—oh, I don’t know, I just sort of wondered. I thought maybe some girl was having a little difficulty and had switched on the lights hoping it would attract attention and—shucks, I don’t know, I just turned my spotlight on it.”

  Mason said. “Could you get away from here for about half an hour?”

  “Nope.”

  “If I gave you ten dollars?” Mason asked.

  The man hesitated.

  “And another ten that you could slip to your buddy who’s on duty to take care of all the customers who came in while you were gone?”

  Irving tilted back his hat and scratched his head, thinking the matter over.

  “How much did you lose at the poker game?” Mason asked, his voice friendly.

  “A little over fifteen bucks.”

  “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Mason asked. “I’ll give you twenty dollars, another ten for the man who’s on duty with you, and another five for the boy who’s running the washrack to come over and help out in case cars get jammed up here. Then you can go ahead and tell your wife that you really made a profit on the trip to La Jolla, after all. You lost fifteen or sixteen bucks and got twenty back.”

  Irving said, “You sure do know how to sell a bill of goods, mister. If I could talk like that I’d be the top salesman for the whole United States. Just a second and I’ll go talk to the boys.”

  “Here’s the thirty-five dollars,” Mason said, counting out a twenty, a ten and a five. “You won’t be gone more than a few minutes.”

  Irving went over and talked with his assistant, then with the man at the grease rack. He came back with a grin, opened the rear door of the car, climbed in and said, “Now this is really going to be fun. I’ll enjoy going home tonight and meeting the wife. I was thinking I’d rather take a beating than to go back and hear about that money I lost in the poker game. Now I’m going to enjoy it.”

  Mason nodded to Della Street who drove the car rapidly down the highway.

  “You think you’d know this convertible if you saw it again?” Mason asked.

  “Well, to tell you the truth, I didn’t take a look at it so
much to see what make and year and model and all that stuff it was. I just looked it over the way a person would to see if people were in it. I was a little worried about—oh, I don’t know, I was thinking that some girl had maybe got out with a wolf who was getting a little too rough or something, and … shucks, I don’t know, I just saw the lights and I stopped and turned my spot-light on the car, that’s all. At night that way when you turn a spotlight on an automobile, the light brings the car out sharply against a dark background, but there aren’t any shadows, or anything. It’s what you’d call a flat picture if you were talking about it in terms of photography.”

  “I see you play around with a camera,” Mason said.

  “I do when I can get enough money to buy film. I get a great kick out of it.”

  “Well,” Mason said, “we’ll see if we can’t get you some film. What size does your camera take?”

  “Six-twenty.”

  “We’ll see what we can do about that,” Mason told him.

  Della Street started slowing the car.

  “Now, then,” Mason said, “there’s a convertible parked over there. Is that about the same position that the car was parked when you …”

  “That’s just about the same position and that’s just about the same kind of car. Just about that size and …”

  “And as nearly as you can tell,” Mason said, “that’s the same car. In other words, it has the same characteristics, generally, as the car you saw. It could be the same car.”

  “It could be,” Irving said.

  Della Street stopped the car, surreptitiously picked up a notebook and balancing it on her leg started taking down the conversation.

  “In other words, from your best recollection of the car that you saw parked here early in the morning when you were returning from La Jolla, you couldn’t say definitely that this car you’re looking at now is that car, and you couldn’t say that it isn’t that car.”

  “I’ll say it looks like the car,” Irving said. “In fact, from all I can tell from here, it is the car.”

  “You didn’t notice any distinguishing features?”

  “Just that it was a light-colored convertible and it was just about the same size and color and just about the same shape as this one. I—what do you want me to say? That this is the car?”