A lady walks into Perry Mason’s office claiming she’s not a bride. Which is like saying gin isn’t wet. Della Street, who has eyes sharper than a tailor’s needle, knows better. The “friend” she prattles about? Pure fiction with a manicure.
Before you can say “I do,” the lady is knee-deep in murder charges. The evidence piles up like unpaid bills, and Mason must summon every ounce of cunning and a dash of larceny to keep her neck out of the noose. He even does his own gumshoe work - because why delegate when you can suffer?
Published in 1934, this fifth Mason outing is a decent read, though it has a hard edge that makes you want to hide under a Depression-era sofa. The millionaire in the story has the morals of a cat burglar and the charm of a tax bill, which feels about right for the Thirties. And Mason, bless his stoic little heart, remarks that the victim “needed killing.” That’s one way to tidy up society, though I wouldn’t recommend it for the Junior League.
The plot is intricate enough to make you dizzy, and
Gardner plays fair - he repeats the facts so often you could embroider them on
a pillow. I didn’t guess the culprit, which is refreshing, though perhaps I was
blinded by all that antique atmosphere. There’re no revelations that would
shock a virgin despite the title’s wink, and the trial is short, which is more
than I can say for some marriages.
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