The Case of the Lazy Lover (12 page)

"Fleetwood has for some time been Allred's right-hand man. Allred hatches up the schemes and Fleetwood helps put them into execution. Fleetwood has a lot of admiration for Bertrand Allred and would do damn near anything Allred told him to.

"From all I can find out about Fleetwood, he wanted to get ahead in the world. He had the idea that you didn't get ahead by being too damn altruistic, If you wanted things out of the world, you went out and got them. Otherwise, you didn't get them. Allred inculcated that philosophy in him.

"Now if Fleetwood wants to talk, and I think perhaps he may want to talk, he can tell a lot. The things he'll tell are things I want to hear, but I want to hear them first.

"I'm going to make you a proposition. You want to get hold of Fleetwood before anyone else gets hold of him. If you find Fleetwood, I feel sure you'll talk with him about the thing that you want to know about. Then you'll turn him over to the police.

"That's where my proposition comes in. I'll pay you well not to turn him over to the police, but to turn him over to me."

Mason grinned. "You have detectives working on the job. You admit you've found out quite a good deal. Now suppose you get hold of him before I do. Will you turn him over to me? After you've got a statement from him?"

Keith shook his head determinedly.

"Why not?"

"Because I want the good will of the police. I can make quite a grandstand if I can turn Fleetwood over to the police. After I get a statement from him, I want to be damned certain that statement isn't changed in any way. I think perhaps the police can help me there a little bit."

"So you want me to play ball with you, but you won't play ball with me?"

Keith didn't hesitate for a minute. "That's quite right."

Mason merely smiled.

"On the other hand, Mr. Mason, I have inducements which I can offer."

"Money?"

"Money."

"How much?"

"Quite a bit. A certain amount for being put in touch with Fleetwood, and a further amount if he can answer some of the questions I want answered."

"What are they?"

"I'll leave you a list. I'll leave you a list that will contain the answers that I hope Fleetwood will give, the answers that will be to my advantage."

Mason shook his head and laughed.

"What's wrong with that?" Keith asked.

"Everything's wrong with it," Mason said. "You want me to act as a sort of a coach for Fleetwood."

"I don't see what you mean."

"The hell you don't You'll give me a certain, rather modest, amount for putting you in touch with Fleetwood. You'll give me quite a bit more money in the event he answers questions the way you'll want them answered. You'll leave me the list of the questions and a list of the answers you want Fleetwood to give. I'd be a damn poor lawyer if I didn't realize that it was to my advantage to have Fleetwood answer the questions just that way, and it would be quite a temptation in running over the list with him to try and see that he did answer them that way."

"Well, what's wrong with that? It's done every day. Whenever any lawyer takes a suit, he knows what answers the witnesses are supposed to give if he's going to win that suit."

Mason said, "The discussion is academic, anyway, because when I get hold of Fleetwood, I'm going to take him to the police myself. That's in case the police want him."

"You can get one thousand dollars by turning him over to me."

"Okay," Mason said grinning. "The line forms at the right."

Keith's eyes narrowed. He studied Mason thoughtfully for a few seconds, then said, "Mat should have occurred to me earlier. Mason, I want to be sure that if there's any line that forms at the right, I'm standing at the head of it."

"So I gathered."

"All right, just so you know. I'll top any other bid," Keith said and walked out.

Mason got up and started pacing the office floor, swinging rhythmically back and forth, his thumbs pushed into the armholes of his vest, his head bowed in concentration.

Della Street was watching him silently when the phone on Mason's desk rang. She picked up the instrument.

"Hello… yes, Paul… okay… All right, hang on to the line; I'll tell him." Della looked over at Mason, "Drake says there are detectives watching the office here, He says he thinks they are employed by Dixon Keith and that the idea is that if you should start out of here in a hurry, the detectives will figure you're going to get Fleetwood and will tag along behind."

Mason laughed. "I'd already anticipated that Let me talk with Paul." Mason picked up the telephone, said, "Hello, Paul. I'm going to leave the office. I'll shake the shadows and establish headquarters where the shadows can't pick me up.

"You stick in your office and wait for my call. I think this man Fleetwood is a lot more important than anyone realizes."

"Okay," Drake said, "but what are you going to do if you locate him, Perry? Think you can make him talk?"

"I'll try to make him talk," Mason said, "but I'll sew him up first."

"Suppose he doesn't want to go with you?"

"I'll make him. I think I know how it can be done."

"Well, that's your funeral," Drake said. "There are penalties for kidnapping, you know."

"I know," Mason said. "I read a law book once."

Drake laughed, "Watch your step, Perry. This is going to get pretty hot."

Mason hung up the phone and said to Della Street, "I want to ditch those detectives, Della, and I want to do it in such a way it will never occur to them that I deliberately ditched them. Get Gertie in here, will you? Tell her to lock the outer door. We'll close up the office."

Della Street nodded, glided out of the office, and a few moments later returned with Gertie, the big, affable, somewhat overweight receptionist.

Mason said, "I want you to do something for me."

"Anything," she said.

"How would you like to act the part of a married woman for a while?"

Gertie grinned. "What is this, Mr. Mason, a proposal or a proposition?"

"A proposition."

"They all are," Gertie said. "Tell me what I'm supposed to do."

"I'm hoping we can locate a man by the name of Fleetwood. He either is an amnesia victim or he's pretending to be an amnesia victim. I'm rather anxious to find out which."

Gertie nodded.

"The police are looking for Fleetwood, and at least one other private detective agency is looking for him. The man is hotter than a stovelid.

"Now then, the play is to get Fleetwood where he is entirely in our control. That isn't going to be easy. Fleetwood isn't going to want to play. If it really is amnesia, he's going to need convincing. If he has been faking, he's not going to like any part of it. But a man who is pretending amnesia is exceedingly vulnerable."

"How?" Della asked.

"If you tell him anything about his past life, he isn't in any position to contradict you."

Della Street's face lit up as Mason's idea impressed itself upon her. 'Then you mean that Gertie…"

Mason grinned.

"What's this bird like?" Gertie demanded.

"I think he's quite a wolf, Gertie. Long eyelashes, dark wavy hair, the romantic type…"

"Sold," Gertie announced, and then added with a laugh, "and, I'll either crack that alibi of his or I'll prove that he has genuine amnesia. One or the other."

Mason said, "I'll bet you will! But first, detectives are watching the office. I want to ditch them once and for all, but I don't want them to know that I am trying to ditch them or they will realize we've got something important on.

"Here's what we'll do. We leave the office together. Downstairs in the lobby we stop and chat for a minute or so. Then I leave you two as though I were starting for court.

"You go into the department store across the street. I'll take the car, drive two blocks down the street and park in front of a fire plug. At this time of day cars will be parked solid everywhere else. Now, the shadows, if they're clever, will be following along behind. There will be two of them, one to stay in the automobile and the other to follow me in case I should leave my car. They won't be able to park anywhere near me, and they won't dare to double-park. That will take care of the car and the driver. He'll just have to keep going. The second man will have to jump out and follow me on foot. I won't try and ditch him at all. I'll go to the nearest telephone, call up Paul Drake, give him some instructions, leave the phone and start walking down the street as though, after my conversation with Drake, I'd thought of something else I had to do.

"You girls leave the department store, walk down the street and you'll find my automobile parked in front of a fire plug on the right-hand side two blocks down. I'll pick the first fire plug I can find. Della, you have the keys to my car. There'll probably be a parking tag on it. You may even find the cop in the act of putting on the tag and he'll star bawling you out. Don't pay any attention to that. Just get in and drive off. I'll go into the interurban station. My man will be following me, of course, but by that time his partner and his car will be out of the running. Now you synchronize your watches with mine. I'll take the first interurban car that leaves after an interval of exactly twenty minutes to the second from the time I say good-by to you girls. I'll be back in the car in a seat on the right-hand side, next to the window. For all my shadow can tell, I'll be going all the way on the interurban.

"You girls drive on out Seventh Street, park the car at a point that's far enough out so that my shadow can't pick up a taxicab. You keep watch on the red interurban cars. I'll be watching for you. When my car passes, I'll signal you and you fall in behind the car. I'll ride out to a point that's sufficiently isolated, then get off. My shadow will, of course, be right behind me. But you'll be there with the car. I'll step into the automobile, and as I do so, I'll tell you all about exactly how many minutes it took me to go from the terminal to the point where I got off. The shadow will think I was making some sort of a test to check up on the story of a witness and he'll be left there twiddling his thumbs, hoping for a taxi, perhaps trying to stop some passing motorist and offer him five bucks to follow us.

"The whole thing will depend on split-second timing. We want to get away from there fast, before the shadow can make any possible connections with any kind of transportation, so be sure we have a smooth, steady, well-timed operation that goes like clockwork."

"And then?" Della Street asked.

Mason said, "'Then you make the first turn off the main road and I'll tell you where to go from there. We'll wind up in Gertie's apartment. Gertie, you're inviting us to spend the day and to have dinner. We'll pick up some food at a delicatessen place, and wait up in your apartment."

Gertie said, "Gee that's swell. I just started one of those diets and I've counted calories until I feel like my belt buckle is scraping against my backbone. I've just been looking for a good excuse to throw the whole thing overboard, and I think this is it! You always did like tenderloin steaks, Mr. Mason, and my butcher said he'd been saving some for me. After all, when a girl changes from the status of an unattached female to a blushing bride, the occasion calls for some celebration."

Chapter 12

It was seven-thirty. Out in Gertie's kitchenette the girls were busy doing the dishes. They had been cooped up in the place all day, playing cards, listening to the radio, phoning Paul Drake, dozing fitfully.

Perry Mason, sitting in one overstuffed chair which the apartment offered, chain smoked cigarettes and frowningly regarded the faded carpet. As Paul Drake had so aptly pointed out, it could well be a week before they found any trace of Bob Fleetwood.

The open window on the shaft gave a partial ventilation, sufficient to let in some air, but not enough to dispel the heavy odors of cooking, the aroma of broiled steaks, of coffee.

For the third time in ten minutes Mason glanced impatiently at his wrist watch.

Abruptly the telephone rang.

Mason jumped for the instrument, scooped the receiver off the hook, said, "Yes, hello."

Paul Drake's voice, keen-edged with excitement, said, "We've got him, Perry!"

"Got Fleetwood?"

"That's right!"

"Where?"

"He's holed up at a little farmhouse – a little mountain ranch actually within five miles of where the car went off the grade."

"Wait a minute! Della, grab a notebook and get these directions as I repeat them. Go ahead, Paul."

Drake said, "At the foot of the grade you'll see a sign on the right-hand side of the road that says, 'Fifty miles of mountain grades ahead. Be sure you have plenty of oil, water and gas.' Now you set your speedometer to zero at that sign."

"That's at the foot of the grade?" Mason asked.

"Right. It's just before you start climbing, about a hundred yards or so."

"Okay, I've got it. Then what?"

"You go exactly thirty-one and two-tenths miles from that sign," Drake said. 'That puts you well up in the mountains over the first ridge down in an elevated valley. There's a stream running along in the valley, but it's narrow and steep and you wouldn't think there was any farming land within a hundred miles. But right at that point you'll notice a site road that turns off. You follow that and it brings you to a little general store and post office at exactly one and four-tenths miles from the place where you turn off.

"Now you go right past the post office and take the first road that turns off to the left. It's a rocky dirt road that looks as though it would pinch out within the first hundred yards. It doesn't. It keeps on going. It's a rough, twisting rocky road, but it climbs up a steep grade and brings you to a beautiful little elevated mountain plateau with some good ranch land, about ten or fifteen acres of fine motmtain meadow. There are two little rashes up there. You want the first one. You'll be able to spot it from the name on the mailbox. The name is P. E. Overbrook. I don't think he has any idea about what's going on. There's no electric power of any sort on his place. He doesn't have a radio."

"Does he know Fleetwood? Is it a hideout?"

"I can't tell you that," Drake said "All I know is that when my man stopped at the ranch he saw Fleetwood walking around the house. He only had Fleetwood's description, but he's pretty certain."

Mason repeated the names, distances and directions. "That right, Paul?"

"That's right."

"Okay," Mason said. "We're on our way. Are you in touch with your operative up there?"

"There's a telephone service at the general store, but I don't know how long you can get him there. And remember that up in that country it's all party line stuff. There'll be a lot of people listening."

"I know," Mason said. "If there should be any developments and you want to stop me, get someone up there to flag me down at the general store. We'll make time."

"Okay."

Mason hung up the phone, turned to Della Street and said, "You got those down, Della? All those directions and names?"

"I have them, Chief."

"Let's go."

Within fifteen seconds from the time the lawyer had hung up the telephone they were scrambling out of the apartment, Gertie still rubbing the last of the hand lotion on her hands.

Mason had taken the precaution to have his car filled with gas, and the machine, capable of road speeds in excess of ninety miles an hour, responded like a race horse as the lawyer struck the through-boulevard, crowding the speed limit, but keeping just under a rate which might result in a jail sentence.

Leaving the outskirts of the city, Mason stepped on the gas, and by nine-fifty had left Springfield behind and was climbing through the mountains.

Twenty minutes later, Della Street, who'd been watching the speedometer, said, "You're getting close, Chief."

Mason slowed the car, while Della Street watched for the turn-off.

Within a few minutes they had made the turn-off, gone over the dirt road past the post office, found the left-hand turn and were climbing over a narrow, rocky road that twisted and turned up a steep grade, then debouched onto a mountain plateau.

There was a barbed wire fence on one side of the road. The headlights illuminated the rich green of the pasture land. A hundred yards farther on the headlights were reflected from the aluminum paint on a mailbox. The name P. E. OVERBROOK had been stenciled on the metal and Mason turned in on a short driveway.

The house was dark, and behind it a barn silhouetted itself against the stars. A dog started frenzied barking and the beam from the headlights reflected back in blazing points from the animal's eyes.

Mason shut off the motor.

These was no noise, save the barking of the dog, and after a moment, little crackling noises which came from under the hood as the cold night air of the mountains pressed against the heated automobile engine.

The dog ran up to the car, barking, circling, smelling of the tires, but not growling.

Mason said, "I think he's friendly," and opened the car door.

The dog came running up to walk stiff-legged behind the lawyer, smelling at his calves.

Mason called out, "Hello, anyone home?"

There was the flicker of a match, then after a moment, the reddish glow of an oil lamp.

"Hello! What is it?" a man's voice asked.

"A very important message for you," Mason said. "Open the door, will you?"

"All right. Wait a minute."

They could see a bulky shadow moving around the room. Then, after a moment, the brilliant glare of a gasoline lantern gave additional illumination. They heard steps in the house and the door opened.

Overbrook, a big sleepy giant of a man with a nightshirt tucked into the waistband of jeans, was standing in the doorway, holding a gasoline lantern.

"Okay, Gertie," Mason said in an undertone, "do your stuff."

Gertie pushed forward into the circle of illumination from the gasoline lantern.

"You're Mr. Overbrook?" she asked breathlessly.

"That's right, ma'am."

"Oh," Gertie said breathlessly, "I'm so glad! Tell me, do you have William here? Is he all right?"

"William?" Overbrook asked vacantly.

"Her husband," Mason interposed sympathetically.

The big rancher shook his head slowly.

"The man who lost his memory," Mason explained "Oh," Overbrook said. "Why, sure. You related to him?"

"He's my husband."

"How did you know where he was?"

"We've been tracing him, bit by bit," Gertie said. "Tell me, is he all right?"

Overbrook said, "This place don't look like much. It's just a bachelor's hangout, but you folks might as well come in. It's a bit chilly out there."

They filed into the little room in the front of the house.

"Where's William?" Gertie asked

"He's out back here."

Overbrook opened a door. "Hey, buddy."

"Huh?" a man's voice said sleepily.

"Somebody here to see you. Come on out."

"I don't want to see anyone. I'm sleeping."

"You'll want to see these people," Overbrook said. "Come on. Excuse me just a minute, folks. I'll get him up. I guess he's sleeping pretty sound. He's had a hard day, I reckon."

They heard voices in the little room which adjoined the living room on the back.

Della Street said, in a low voice, "Is he apt to take a powder out of the back door, Chief?"

Mason said, "If he does, it'll be an admission of guilt. If I'm right, and he's faking, he'll play out this amnesia business."

The voices in the bedroom back of the living room abruptly ceased. They heard the sound of bare feet on the floor, then Overbrook was back in the room. "I don't know how you handle such things," he said. "Do you want to break it to him gently."

"You didn't tell him his wife was here?"

"No. Just told him some folks to see him."

"I think the way to do it," Mason said, "is to intensify the shock as much as possible. You see, amnesia is usually the result of mental unbalance. It's an attempt on the part of the mind to escape from something that the mind either can't cope with doesn't want to cope with. It's a refuge. It's the means a man uses to close the door of his mind on something that may lead to insanity.

"Now then, since that's the case, the best treatment is a swift mental shock. We take this man by surprise. Don't tell him who's here, or anything about it. Just tell him some people want to see him. How did he come here? Did someone bring him?"

Overbrook said, "He came staggering up to the door last night. The dog started barking, and I thought at first it was a skunk or something. Then the way the dog kept up, I knew it was a man. I looked out to see if there were any automobile lights, but there weren't, and – well, I'm sort of isolated up here so I loaded up the old shotgun and lit the gasoline lantern.

"This man came up to the door and knocked. I asked him who he was, and he told me he didn't know.

"Well, we talked back and forth for a few minutes, then I had the dog watch him while I frisked him to see if he had any weapons at all, but he didn't. He didn't have a thing in his pockets. Not a thing. Not even a handkerchief. There just wasn't a thing on him anywhere that would tell him who he was or anything about him."

"Too bad," Mason said.

"There was just one thing he did have," Overbrook went on, "and that was money. He's got a roll of bills that would choke a horse. Well, of course, I was a little suspicious, and then he told me his story. He said that he had certain little hazy memories, but he couldn't remember who he was, that he was just too tired to think, he just wanted to rest. He didn't want to answer any questions, he didn't want anyone to know he was here. He said he'd be glad to help with cooking around the place, he'd pay me money, he'd do anything, but he just wanted to rest."

Mason nodded sympathetically. "The poor chap gets these fits every once in a while. The only thing is, they're of shorter duration each time. This is the third one he's had in the last eighteen months."

"Shell shock?" Overbrook asked.

"Shell shock."

The door from the bedroom opened. A man in his late twenties, staring vacantly, his face slack-mouthed in lassitude, looked around the room with complete disinterest. His eyes held no recognition.

He was a man of medium height, weighing not over a hundred and thirty pounds, with good features, dark eyes and a wealth of wavy, dark hair.

"William!" Gertie screamed, and ran toward him.

Fleetwood drew back a step.

"Oh, William, you poor, dear boy," Gertie sobbed, and flung her arms around him, holding him close to her.

Mason breathed a very. audible sigh. "Thank heavens, it's William!" he said.

Overbrook grinned, like some big, overgrown Cupid, who had managed to bring a loving couple into each other's embrace.

"I don't suppose he had any baggage or anything," Mason said.

"Came here just like you see him now," Overbrook said. "I loaned him a razor and bought him a toothbrush."