FOREWORD
I WAS NOT one of Erie Stanley Gardner s very best friends. There
were hundreds who could rightly be so named， for if ever a man
had the gift of friendship，， it was he. Almost everyone called him
Uncle Erie for reasons ~ost in the annals of long usage， and I came
to know him well enough to share that privilege. I met him first in
New York， and after that， now and again in Hollywood， which is
what outlanders call the Santa Monica， Westwood， and Beverly Hills
environs of Los Angeles. And， as writers do， when the spirit moved，
we exchanged letters through the years.
That first introduction in New York was at the apartment of
Baynard Kendrick， whose books， like Gardner s， were published by
William Morrow and Company. I was on my annual working visit
to New York， and my editor for many years， Marie Freid Rodell，
took me along with her to a pre-Mystery Writers of America meet-
ing there. Gardner had just flown in from the Bahamas， where he
had been covering the trial of Alfred de Marigny for the murder
of Sir Harry Oakes. I remember him that day as a large， serious
man， dressed impeccably in a dark blue suit， and I remember how
at once he put his imprint on the gathering. Later， when we met
in California， I discovered that he wasn t a big man physically， but
that he was， rather， of .less than average height; that he was more
at home in his usual casual Western attire than a dark blue suit;
and that although he was a serious man， he was also a merry one.
My husband， Levi Allen Hughes， and I spent one happy weekend
at Gardner s Rancho del Paisano in Temecula. I never thought of
posterity at the time or I might have made copious notes of the
visit. Instead， I just enjoyed myself. My husband， being a born and
bred Westerner， talked hunting and fishing with Erie， and gold and
silver mines， and Baja California， which we had just discovered.
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