Tut, tut, Mr. M!
Mason’s face darkened as he read the column. “Damn snooping buzzard!” he said. “Why do newspapers have to employ people to snoop around in gutters?”
“And alleys,” Della Street said.
“And alleys,” Mason amended. “How the devil do you suppose he got the information?”
“You forget that you’re pretty well known now,” she said. “Who was the athletic stranger?”
“A big tub of lard,” Mason said. “I should have smashed his jaw. Some fellow trying to show off to the women with him. He grabbed my coat as I went by and gave her just enough time to get out of the way.”
“Who was your girl friend?”
“She said her name was Virginia Colfax,” Mason said. “Judging from the law of probabilities, I would say that there was possibly one chance in one hundred million that Colfax actually was her last name, but I have a hunch the Virginia part may be all right.”
With a wry smile he told Della about the invasion of his office the night before.
“And what did she want?”
“She wanted out. I should have called the police in the first place.” Della raised her eyebrows. “Called the police?”
“Well,” Mason said, “I admit it would have looked rather incongruous,” and then suddenly he threw back his head and laughed wholeheartedly. “A smart little devil,” he said, “and she certainly slipped one over on me. I thought I was escorting her down to the parking lot so she could point out her car to me.”
“And something slipped?”
“Something came up unexpectedly, Della — her right hand.”
“Why?”
“She was smart enough to know that bystanders would sympathize with a woman who was trying to get away from the pursuing wolf. She apparently knew that a taxicab customarily waited in front of our office building, and she knew that there would probably be people on the sidewalk... As it was, she had all the breaks. I definitely didn’t.”
“I’m afraid,” Della Street told him, “that it’s not safe to trust you alone up here in the office. I told you I’d be glad to come up last night and work with you.”
“I didn’t want to bother you,” Mason said. “I worked pretty late — oh well, it was an adventure, anyway.”
Mason opened the drawer in the lower left-hand side of the desk, took out the handkerchief the girl had left behind.
“What do you make of that, Della?”
Della Street regarded the square of linen. “Dirty,” she said.
Mason nodded. “She wiped the grime of the fire escape from her hands. What’s the scent, Della?”
Della Street clamped a thumb and forefinger on a corner of the handkerchief, raised it gingerly.
“Oh, oh,” she said, “your visitor uses expensive perfume.”
“What is it?”
“Ciro’s ‘Surrender,’ I think.”
“I’ll try and remember it,” Mason said. “What’s new in the office, Della?”
“There’s a Mr. Garvin waiting outside,” Della Street said. “He’s anxious to see you. He has offices in the same building, on the floor above us, in fact — the Garvin Mining, Exploration...”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Mason said, “The Garvin Mining, Exploration and Development Company.”
“You’ve noticed the name on the directory?” she asked.
“Virginia Colfax,” Mason said, “was supposed to be a secretary working for that organization. By all means, show Mr. Garvin in. Let’s see what he looks like. There’s a chance he may be the other point of a triangle.”
“He’s a well-rounded point, then,” Della Street said, laughing.
“Heavy?”
“Well-fed.”
“How old?”
“Around forty. Well-tailored, manicured. Probably accustomed to getting what he wants when he wants it.”
“Well, well! Apparently he has the external appearance of a first point in a triangle. The second could be a jealous wife, and the third a blond girl with smoldering slate-gray eyes and a — well, you know...”
“I believe ‘superb figure’ is the cliche you’re trying to think of,” Della Street said as she moved toward the door of the reception room. “I’ll bring Mr. Garvin in.”
Garvin ostentatiously consulted his wrist watch as he entered the office. “Thought you’d never get here, Mason,” he said. “Been waiting twenty minutes. Damn it, I don’t like waiting for anyone.”
“So it seems,” Mason said dryly.
“Well, I’m not talking about this instance,” Garvin said. “I mean generally. I’ve noticed you coming in and out several times, Mason. Never thought I’d have occasion to consult you but — well, that’s the way it is.”
“Sit down,” Mason told him. “What can I do for you?”
Garvin glanced at Della Street.
“She stays,” Mason said. “Makes notes, keeps my time straight and my appointments.”
“This is a delicate matter.”
“I specialize in delicate matters.”
“I recently married a mighty fine young woman, Mason. I... well, it’s important that nothing happen to that marriage.”
“Why should anything happen to your marriage?”
“There are — complications.”
“Tell me about it. How long have you been married?”
“Six weeks,” Garvin said somewhat belligerently.
“A second wife?” Mason asked.
“There’s the rub,” Garvin told him.
“Well, let’s have it,” Mason said.
Garvin settled himself in the overstuffed client’s chair, after first unbuttoning his double-breasted coat. “Mason,” he said, “how good are Mexican divorces?”
“They have a certain value,” Mason said. “It depends on the jurisdiction.”
“How much value?”
“Well,” Mason told him, “they all have a certain psychological value.”
“What do you mean?”
“Technically,” Mason said, “when a man has a Mexican divorce and remarries, the authorities could get tough about it. Actually they don’t do very much about it, where it appears a man acted in good faith, because if they did, they wouldn’t have enough jails in the country to hold all the persons charged with bigamy. It would break up all sorts of families, disrupt the domestic life of the state, and, after the state had gone to the trouble and expense of getting a conviction, the judge would usually impose a sentence of probation.”
“They’re good, then.”
“Some good,” Mason said smiling. “Of course if you want a careful, exact opinion, it would take study. While it isn’t generally known, the Mexican government doesn’t want to have its border courts made a dumping ground for our domestic entanglements. It’s done a lot to clean up situations which did exist. But our courts are under no legal obligation to be bound by the validity of Mexican divorces.”
“Hang it, Mason,” Garvin said, “I’m afraid I’m in a jam.”
“Suppose,” Mason said, “you begin at the beginning and tell me what it’s all about?”
“I married a girl named Ethel Carter ten years ago,” Garvin said. “She was a mighty sweet girl then. I remember how completely hypnotized I was — and hypnotism is the right word for it, too, Mason, don’t make any mistake about that. As it turned out, she was a cold, clever, scheming — well, I hate to use the word that comes to my mind in front of a lady,” and Garvin bowed in the direction of Della Street’s desk.
Mason said, “Love brings out the best in people. When love leaves, it frequently happens the best is gone. Perhaps there was trouble on both sides.”
Garvin shifted his position. “Well, perhaps,” he said, “it’s barely possible. But what I want you to realize now, Mason, is that she’s a holy terror.”