The Case of the

  Haunted Husband

  Erle Stanley Gardner

  Copyright © 1941 by Erle Stanley Gardner. Renewed 1969 by Erle Stanley Gardner.

  Electronic Book: Copyright © 2013 by The Erle Stanley Gardner Trust

  Published by Della Street Press. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the copyright holder.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  STEPHANE OLGER gripped the counter over which hats were checked by the patrons of Zander's Tropical Shack. She could feel the skin drawn tight across her knuckles, could feel blood pounding in her cheeks as she watched the departing back of the manager.

  Back of her, Emily Carr, a poker-faced brunette with swiftly competent fingers and thin lips, went quietly about the job of straightening coats on the hangers.

  "Well," Stephane said, without taking her eyes from the manager's back, "that was crude."

  "He isn't noted for finesse," Emily Carr observed, smoothing a flap over a pocket, "Funny how much a man will try to get in one overcoat pocket – no, pardon me all to hell – how much he will get into an overcoat pocket... What are you going to do?"

  "Walk out – under my own power," Stephane Olger said.

  Emily Carr turned away from the rack of coats to survey Stephane's blonde beauty. "It won't work, Stephane. He is plenty smart. You have been high-hat with him. He isn't accustomed to that and he doesn't like it. So what? He gets a couple of patrons to put marked dollar bills in the tips. You check out the coin. The tips aren't there. Where does that leave you?"

  "Emily, I don't know what happened to that money. I distinctly remember both tips. I put them in the drawer, and ..."

  "And were called away?" Emily asked.

  "Yes, why?"

  "Oh, nothing. He lifted them out himself while you were gone – and left all the rest of the money. Then he checks up. You are responsible. You have been knocking down on tips. What are you going to do? You will do as he says now."

  "I wish I had slapped his face. I will do it yet."

  "He will blacklist you for dishonesty. Tip chiseling is the one thing they won't stand for in this business."

  "Emily, you never have trouble like that. I have plenty. What is wrong with me?"

  "You leave yourself wide open."

  "What is a girl supposed to do with a man who takes advantage of his position?"

  "Laugh him off," Emily carr said easily, "before he gets funny ideas."

  "I didn't notice any preliminaries."

  "I did. Not today, but yesterday, the day before, and most of last week. I went with a fighter once. He told me never to let the other man get set. He said to keep them off balance. Whenever the other man gets set, you are going to get jarred. Don't let them do it."

  Stephane said, "Well, I am tired of checking hats. I am going after something else. I have got a friend in Hollywood. You remember Horty?"

  Emily shook her head.

  "The girl who came to call on me when she was on her vacation. I brought her in here ..."

  "The girl with the upholstered curves?" Emily interrupted.

  "That's the one."

  "I shall bet nothing gets her goat," Emily Carr said.

  "You are right. She would take something like this right in her stride."

  "Listen, Stephane, use your brains. Don't get all worked up because ..."

  "I am fired?" Stephane asked.

  "That is what he said," Emily agreed. "Those were the words he used, but he doesn't mean it that way. He means that you are to come to him filled with tears and humility while you try to convince him someone else got the dough. I told you he wasn't noted for finesse."

  Stephane looked at her watch. "Think you can handle it alone, Emily?" she asked.

  "If you want it that way."

  "I do. If he comes back here looking for me, tell him I have decided to... Tell him I have decided to look for a new proposition."

  Emily Carr's sensitive mouth twisted into a quick smile. "He would appreciate that."

  "Yes, I suppose he would."

  "Need any dough?"

  "No. I shall hitchhike."

  "What's your middle name, Stephane?"

  "Claire. Why?"

  "All right, drop the Olger. It sounds hard, and with your complexion it sounds sort of Russian. Make it Stephane Claire. That will take. You can't tell, babe, you just might get a break in Hollywood. And if you get a break, you shall make good. You are not like those yellow blondes that fade fast. You have got that white-gold touch. You are metal, the kind of metal that takes a temper and holds it."

  "Thanks," Stephane said, and put on her coat and hat.

  "You are different from most of us in this game – and you are running away from something. What is it, a husband?"

  Stephane said, wearily, "No, from money with strings tied to it."

  "What money, and what strings?"

  "A rich uncle. He thought he could dictate to me – even pick out the man I was to marry."

  Emily studied her. "Better go back, kid."

  "Not me. I am headed for Hollywood. You can't tell, I might bust into pictures."

  "You might at that. Tell Sam Goldwyn hello for me. Tell Clark Gable I sent my love. Any messages you want to leave for the manager?"

  "Yes, one."

  Emily's eyes twinkled. "I will try and convey it to him so he will understand. Good-Bye, kid."

  "Bye."

  "Luck."

  "Thanks."

  Chapter 2

  THE MAN said, "That is Bakersfield ahead. I am sorry, I am not going through."

  "How far to Los Angeles?"

  "A little over a hundred miles. You can make it in a little over two hours' driving time. I wish you wouldn't insist on going through tonight."

  "Oh, I shall be all right. I have a friend in Los Angeles. I can stay with her."

  "I shall be glad to ... to get you a cabin. There is a very fine auto hotel here."

  "No, thanks. Don't bother."

  "It is rather late, and ..."

  Stephane smiled. "Listen, I can take care of myself. I have done this before."

  "Well, here is the traffic circle. Los Angeles traffic goes around... Tell you what I will do. I will run you out to a boulevard stop. It is in a well-lighted district. That will help you catch a ride."

  "Oh, don't bother. I can get a ride anywhere."

  "It is only a short distance."

  "You live here?" Stephane asked.

  "No. I am stopping over on business."

  Stephane opened the door. "All right," she said, smiling, "I am getting out. Quit worrying about me."

  "I wish you would let me take you down to the boulevard stop, and ..."

  "No. This is fine. Thanks a lot. I appreciate the ride and everything. You were – nice."

  She gave him her hand. He held it for a moment, a man in the late forties who looked on a girl of twenty-four as a mere infant. His solicitude was flattering but annoying. "I shall get along all right," she repeated, withdrawing her hand, smiling and closing the car door.

  He didn't drive on at once, but sat watching, as though waiting to size up the person with whom Stephane was going to ride.

  She came back to him, laughing. "Listen, you can't do that. It looks like a racket. Motorists won't stop when they see you parked here keeping an eye on me. I am sorry," she added at the expression on his face.

  He started the car. "Try and pick a woman driver. It's late, you know."

  Stephane, holding her handbag in her left hand, watched the tail light out of sight, then looked hopefully up the highway. It was only a little after ten. She should be in Los Angeles by one o'clock.

  For the space of nearly a minute, there were no cars, then they came in a bunch, four of them in a procession of blinding headlights. Stephane knew that cars in a string

  seldom stop. Each driver is too intent on jockeying for position and getting past the others to bother with hitchhikers. She stepped back a few paces.

  The cars bore down on her. White, blazing headlights dazzled her eyes. The first car roared past. The air currents sucking in behind the car whipped her skirts. She automatically raised a hand to her hat. The second, third, and fourth cars whizzed by. A fifth car was almost on her when she opened her eyes. It came on with a smooth hiss of power, a mere whisper of speed as it rocketed past, intent upon overtaking and passing the four cars ahead. Then the rear blazed into red light, weaved slightly as the brakes slowed the big car to a stop.

  Stephane glanced behind her to make certain the road was clear, and started to run. That running was a gesture. She hoped the driver would back up but he didn't, and when Stephane drew abreast of the car, she realiz
ed he was the sort who wouldn't.

  He matched the arrogant luxury of the car in every way, a man in the early thirties with dark, impudent eyes which shifted from her face to her legs as she climbed in beside him. He was wearing a dinner jacket, under a lightweight black topcoat. The hand on the gearshift lever was soft-skinned. The nails were well manicured. A diamond ring glittered on the fourth finger, and Stephane's nostrils caught the faint but unmistakable reek of whiskey. He had a short, black mustache, and drink-red eyes.

  But the man seemed competent. The car was a big modern machine geared for speed, totally different from the car in which she had made the long trip from San Francisco to Bakersfield.

  The man shifted through the gears. The motor noise became a reassuring whisper as the car sped forward.

  "Los Angeles?" he asked casually as he made the boulevard stop.

  "Yes. Are you going that far?"

  "Uh-huh. Cold?"

  She knew what was coming, so she smiled, despite the chill which had been gripping her ankles ever since sunset, and said, "No, I am fine, thank you."

  "Flask in that glove compartment. Nice stuff."

  "I am fine."

  "Better take a drink. It will warm you up."

  "No, thanks."

  He turned to look at her, dark eyes glittering with assurance. "You aren't going to go puritan on me, are you?"

  She laughed. "I am not puritan. I am just me."

  "All right, have it your own way. We will stop up the road a ways. I need a short one. Get out of some of this traffic first."

  For a few minutes he devoted his attention to driving. The car slid smoothly past the string of four cars which had been ahead of them. The wheels seemed to lift up the

  cement miles, roll them through the speedometer, and toss them scornfully behind. Stephane thought they must be doing sixty. She glanced at the needle of the speedometer. It was holding steady at eighty-five.

  "You don't believe in speed laws, do you?" she asked with a light laugh, making conversation.

  "No."

  By the time they reached Lebec, Stephane knew her man like a book. She took one short drink from the flask, listened to him gurgle down a good jolt of the whiskey.

  The man evidently had money. He seemed to take intimacy for granted. He had a quick, cynical mind. Back of his complacent assurance there was a cold savage something – a contempt for women. Here was a man, Stephane decided, whose attitude and temperament would appeal to but one type of woman – and because his experience had been confined to that selfish, vacuous-minded fringe, he judged the entire sex by those standards.

  But there was a cold wind blowing up on the ridge. The car had a heater which sent a current of warm air caressing her cold ankles, thawing out the numbness of her feet. The man was a good driver, and within a little more than an hour they should be in Los Angeles. She could kid him along and go on through in this car.

  Stephane played up to him as little as she could, just enough to keep him from putting her out on the road, a maneuver of which he seemed thoroughly capable.

  After the second drink, he screwed the cap back on the flask tossed it into the glove compartment. His hand patted her back, slid along her shoulder, down her arm, touched her leg briefly.

  "Okay, baby," he said, "let us get to L.A. And when I get there, I have got a job to do... a ... oh, well, what the hell?"

  He crowded the car into speed. A gust of wind hurtled against it, swaying it on its springs. The night was cold and intensely clear. The headlights streamed down the pavement in a brilliant fan of illumination. Oncoming motorists blinked their lights repeatedly, but that was all the good it did them. This driver wasn't one to bother with roadside courtesies. His own lights were bright enough to minimize the glare of lights from other machines.

  They were going faster now. Stephane could feel the car, despite its low center of gravity, swaying on the curves. She realized that that last drink he had taken had been pretty heavy. He was stealing glances at her now, glances which were frankly appraising. She pretended to be very much preoccupied, looking at the scenery through the right window so she wouldn't have to meet his eyes. Thank heavens, the front seat was wide enough so he couldn't ...

  "Come on over here, baby."

  She looked at him in surprise.

  "Come on. Don't be so standoffish."

  She laughed. "I always did like to sit in a corner."

  "Well, forget it, and come on over here."

  She slid over a few inches.

  "Hell, that's not over."

  "You need room for driving."

  "You can drive this bus with one finger. Come on... Say, what's the matter with you? You aren't an old-fashioned stick-in-the-mud, are you?... Oh, come on over... Here ..." His right arm circled her neck, dragged her over toward him. He gave one quick glance at the road, then, still holding the wheel with his left hand, forced her chin up.

  She saw his eyes, felt the touch of his lips. The reek of liquor was in her nostrils. She fought free, not worried so much about the embrace as about the careening course of the car. Her gloved hand shot to the steering wheel. "Watch where you're going," she cried sharply.

  He laughed and caught the wheel from her hands. The big car had swerved across to the left side of the highway. Now it came screeching back to the right, as an indignant motorist shot past, his palm pressed against the horn.

  "What are you trying to do, kill us both?" Stephane asked.

  "When I want something, I want it."

  She moved back toward the far corner of the seat. She was trembling.

  "All right, stop the car. I shall take a transfer."

  "No chance, sister. This is a nonstop flight."

  She was frightened, but wasn't going to show it. She calmly opened her purse, took out her compact and lipstick. She took off her right glove, placed lipstick on the tip of her little finger.

  He said, "We aren't finished yet."

  She turned calmly toward him. "I am."

  "Think you are going to pull that stuff with me?"

  "If you will stop the car, I will get out."

  He said, "There is the door."

  A ring of keys dangled down from the switch. She reached forward quickly, turned off the ignition, and jerked out the keys. She popped the keys into her purse, snapped it shut.

  "Your little devil," he said and lunged.

  She fought him back, pushing out with her right hand. The lipstick on her little finger left a long red streak down the front of his shirt. He grabbed her wrist. The car, with the ignition shut off, was slowing from eighty-five to seventy, from seventy to sixty. He was trying to wrench the purse from her left hand. As her grip resisted his efforts, he took his left hand from the steering wheel. Her lips pressed against his shirt.

  She raised her knee to push back against his body, twisting to look through the windshield.

  "Look out," she screamed and quit struggling.

  He paused for one pawing familiarity at her surrender, then whirled back to grab the steering wheel.

  The car had swerved far to the left. The pavement was three lanes wide. Two cars directly ahead blocked the right lane. A big truck and trailer were coming toward them in the left lane. Headlights in the middle line blazed through the windshield.

  The man swung the wheel hard to the right, automatically stepped on the throttle, then, as there was no response from the dead motor, tried the brakes.

  A slight jarring impact came from the rear as the car swerved under the sudden application of the brakes.

  There were headlights directly ahead. They grew larger. They bored directly into Stephane's face. She screamed ... and the headlights seemed to pounce on her. She had never realized headlights could be so widely separated, so bright, so close.

  A great wave of blackness submerged everything, headlights, cars, highway. There was a high-pitched tinkle of sound which persisted after that final crash. It was strange, she thought, that the sound of falling fragments of shattered glass would be so enduring. What had happened to the light? The wave of darkness had engulfed the road, why hadn't – and then the darkness flowed over all sound and submerged it, and flowed over her as well.

  Chapter 3

  STEPHANE WAS conscious of a flickering light – a light which came and went. There was pain in her chest, the sound of some liquid gurgling.

  Lights again, this time stabbing into her eyes. She raised her lids with an effort. The beam seemed to pierce her brain.