The Case of the Curious Bride Read Free Page B

Whenever she calls see that I have a chance to speak with her." He strode through the door, glowered savagely at the big leather chair in which the young woman had sat while she told her story. Light streaming in from the window caught something metallic. Mason stopped to stare, then walked to the chair and bent forward. A brown purse had slipped down between the cushions, only the clasp visible. Perry Mason pulled it out. It was heavy. He weighed it speculatively in his hand, turned and jerked open the door. "Come in, Della," he said. "Bring a notebook. Our caller left a purse behind her. I'm going to open it. I want you to inventory the contents as I open it."
    She jumped to wordless obedience, bringing notebook and pencil, pulling out the leaf of the desk in a matter-of-fact manner, opening the notebook, holding the pencil poised.
    "One white lace-bordered handkerchief," Perry Mason said. The pencil made pothooks over the pages. "One.32 caliber Colt automatic, number three-eight-nine-four-six-two-one."
    Della Street's pencil flew over the pages of the notebook, but she raised startled eyes to the lawyer. Perry Mason's voice droned on mechanically. "Magazine clip for automatic, filled with cartridges containing steeljacketed, soft-nosed bullets. A cartridge in the firing chamber of the gun. Barrel seems to be clean. No odor of powder discernible."
    He snapped the magazine clip back into the gun, closed the mechanism, replaced the ejected shell in the firing chamber, went on in the same droning monotone: "Coin purse containing one hundred and fifty-two dollars and sixty-five cents. A bottle of tablets marked 'IPRAL.' One pair brown gloves, one lipstick, one compact, one telegram addressed to R. Montaine, 128 East Pelton Avenue. Telegram reading as follows: AWAITING YOUR FINAL ANSWER FIVE O'CLOCK TO-DAY EXTREME LIMIT – (Signed) GREGORY.' A package of Spud cigarettes, a package of matches bearing advertising imprint, GOLDEN EAGLE CAFE, 25 WEST FORTY-THIRD STREET.'"
    Perry Mason's voice ceased the droning inventory. He held the purse upside down over the desk, tapped on the bottom with his fingers. "That seems to be all," he remarked.
    Della Street looked up from the notebook. "Good heavens!" she said, "what did that girl want with a gun?"
    "What does any one want with a gun?" Perry Mason inquired, taking a handkerchief and removing any fingerprints which might have been on the weapon. He dropped the gun into the purse, picked up the other articles with his handkerchief-covered fingers, polished them one at a time, dropped them back into the purse. The telegram he held for a moment then thrust it into his pocket. "Della," he said, "if she comes back, make her wait. I'm going out."
    "How long will you be gone, chief?"
    "I don't know. I'll give you a ring if I'm not back within an hour."
    "Suppose she won't wait?"
    "Make her wait. Tell her anything you want to. Go so far as to tell her I'm sorry for the way I treated her, if you want to. That girl's in trouble. She came to me for help. What I'm really afraid of is that she may not come back."
    He stuck the purse into his side pocket, pulled his hat down on his forehead, strode to the door. His pounding steps echoed along the corridor. He speared the elevator signal with his forefinger, caught a down cage and signaled a cab at the sidewalk. "One twenty-eight East Pelton Avenue," he said.
    Mason reclined in the cushions as the cab lurched forward, closed his eyes, folded his arms across his chest and remained in that position for the twenty-odd minutes that it took the cab to make the run to East Pelton Avenue. "Wait here," he told the driver as the cab swung in to the curb.
    Mason walked rapidly up a cement walk, mounted three stairs to a stoop and held an insistent thumb against the bell button. There was the sound of steps approaching the door. Mason took the telegram from his pocket, folded the message so that the name and address were visible through the tissue-covered