The Case of the Lazy Lover (11 page)

Mason said, "After all, Mrs. Allred, why don't you wait until you know exactly what Tragg wants, before you…"

"Don't try to lock the stable door after the horse has been stolen," Tragg said.

Mason said, "I merely wanted to…"

"And while you're explaining that," Tragg said, "you might also explain how it happens that there's blood on the carpet of the luggage compartment in your automobile."

"Blood on the luggage compartment in my automobile?" she asked incredulously.

"That's right."

"Why, I… I haven't the faintest idea how… you're sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure."

"I…"

Knuckles tapped on the door of the apartment.

Frank Inman opened it.

A plain-clothes officer stepped inside and said to Tragg, "Lieutenant, may I talk with you a moment? There's' some additional information just came in over the police radio in the car."

Tragg stepped out in the corridor. Inman said to Mason. "As far as I'm concerned, we can get along without you."

Mason merely smiled.

Lieutenant Tragg came back and said, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Allred. I made a mistake."

He was watching her with narrowed eyes.

"You mean there wasn't an automobile accident? You mean my car didn't go over the grade?"

"No," Tragg said "I mean that there was an accident. I mean that your car did go over the grade. I mean that there's a dead man locked in the car, and I mean the car was deliberately driven over the grade in low gear. The thing I made the mistake on was the identity of the body. When the police made the first identification, they got off wrong because they found a billfold containing a driving license, social security number and a few other things belonging to Robert Gregg Fleetwood; but after a while they also uncovered a billfold of someone else, and when they saw the descriptions they came to the conclusion that the dead man had been carrying Fleetwood's billfold, but wasn't Fleetwood at all."

"Then who was he?" Mrs. Allred asked.

Tragg snapped the information at her as though he had been turning the words into bullets, "Your husband, Bertrand C. Allred," he said. "Now tell us how he got in your car and was driven off the grade."

"Why, I… I…"

"And how blood got over the carpet on the luggage compartment of your automobile."

She hesitated. Her eyes wide with tragic appeal, she looked at Mason.

Frank Inman saw the glance. He stepped forward. and took Mason's arm. "And as far as you're concerned," he said to the lawyer, "this is where you came in and this is where you go out. Hold everything, Lieutenant."

Tragg said, "I'd like an answer to that question now."

Inman, taking Mason's arm, pushed him out toward the corridor.

Mason said, "You can't keep me from advising my client."

"The hell I can't," Inman said. "I can put you out of here, and if you get rough I'll get a damn sight rougher."

Mason said over his shoulder, "Mrs. Allred, your rights are being curtailed. As your lawyer, I advise you to say absolutely nothing until the officers cease these highhanded methods. I want your silence not to be considered as any indication of guilt, or because you're afraid anything you say might incriminate you, but simply as a protest against the highhanded and illegal methods of these police officers."

Lieutenant Tragg said irritably to Inman, "You've done it, now. You've given him a chance to make a speech and make a good excuse."

"I don't give a damn," Inman said. "That woman's either going to explain about her dead husband, or she's going to be put under arrest."

Mason said, "You can always reach me at my office, Mrs. Allred, or through the Drake Detective Agency."

"Come on," Tragg said, "we're going to take a ride. Both of you women are going to headquarters."

Inman pushed Mason out into the corridor, pulled the door of the apartment shut.

Mason walked down the corridor, took the elevator down to the lobby and said to the sleepy night clerk, "Where's the phone booth?"

The night clerk regarded him curiously. "You live here?" he asked.

"No," Mason said. "I'm an investor. I'm thinking of buying this hotel merely as an investment. How much do you suppose I should raise wages in order to get courtesy from the employees?"

The night clerk smiled dubiously, said, "The telephone booth is over there, in the corner."

Mason went over and phoned Paul Drake's office.

"Where's Paul?" he asked the night operator.

"He went home and went to bed, said not to disturb him for anything short of murder."

Mason grinned. "Okay, ring him up. Tell him that you're following his instructions to the letter."

"What do you mean?"

Mason said, "I mean that Bertrand C. Allred was murdered up on the mountain grade above Springfield. Then he was locked up in Mrs. Allred's car, the car put in low gear and driven down over a steep grade. Drake has a man in Springfield. Tell him to get that man on the phone and have him start up there in a hurry. I want information, I want photographs and I want Fleetwood. You get that all down?"

"Yes, Mr. Mason. Do you want to talk with Mr. Drake?"

"Not now," Mason said. "I'm working on another angle of the case and I don't want to be tied up in a telephone booth when the time comes for action."

He hung up, left the telephone booth, strolled to the door of the lobby, and looked out.

It was getting daylight. The sun was not up as yet, and the street outside showed cold and gray in the colorless light of dawn.

A police car with red spotlight and siren was parked at the curb. The radio antenna was stretched to its full capacity. The plain-clothes officer who had taken the message to Lieutenant Tragg was seated behind the wheel. The motes was running, and little puffs of white smoke put-put-put-put-put-putted from the end of the exhaust.

Mason stood there looking out of the door for a matter of some five minutes. The light strengthened. The objects on the street began to show color.

Mason glanced at his wrist watch, stretched, yawned, and strolled over to glance at the indicator of the automatic elevator. It was still on the eighth floor.

The lawyer pressed the button which brought the elevator back down to the ground floor. He opened the door just far enough to break the electrical contact and kept the door from closing by inserting a pencil between the door and the door jamb. He then took a seat in the lobby, near the elevator.

Another ten minutes, and Mason heard a faint buzzing from the interior of the elevator, indicating that someone was trying to put it in service.

He walked over, removed the pencil from the door, opened the door, got in the elevator and let the spring on the door pull the door shut. As soon as the door snapped into position, the mechanism of the elevator gave a sharp, metallic click, and the cage started rumbling upward.

Mason stood over in the corner where he would be out of sight to anyone opening the door.

The cage lumbered up to the eighth floor, came to a stop.

The doors were opened. Inman pushed Mrs. Allred and Patricia into the elevator, followed them in. Tragg entered the elevator and closed the door. Inman said, "And if your lawyer is waiting in the lobby; don't try to talk with him. You get me?"

They turned to face the door, and Mrs. Allred gasped as she saw Mason.

Inman jerked his head at the sound of the gasp. His hand started streaking for his gun. Then he stopped the motion midway to his holster.

"Ground floor?" Mason asked, and promptly pressed the button.

The cage started rumbling down to the ground floor.

Tragg said drily to human, "I told you he was smart."

"What have you told them?" Mason asked Mrs. Allred.

"Shut up," Inman said.

"Nothing at all," Mrs. Allred said "I followed instructions."

"Keep on following them," Mason said. "They'll try everything in their power to make you talk. Simply tell them that your silence is a protest against their highhanded methods and that you want to have an interview with your attorney before you say anything. Remember that you were making a full and frank statement of everything that had happened until they became arbitrary and started pushing me around"

Imnan said, "It's a big temptation to really start pushing you around!"

"Don't lose your temper," Mason told him. "It runs up your blood pressure and makes your face look like hell."

Tragg said wearily, "Don't be a damn fool, Inman! He's trying to get you to start something. It'll sound like hell in front of a jury."

Inman lapsed into sullen silence.

The cage lurched to a stop at the ground floor.

Mason opened the door, said, "Ground floor, ladies and gentlemen. Department of frame-ups just ahead of you – separate cells, phony confessions, telling the daughter her mother's confessed, telling the mother the daughter's confessed, throwing in stool pigeons and detectives as cell mates, and all the usual police traps, right this way!"

Inman pushed the women out into the lobby, turned back toward Mason, suddenly cocked his fist.

Lieutenant Tragg grabbed his arm.

The officers marched the women across the lobby to the police car, and drove away.

Mason sighed wearily, walked across the street to where he had left his own car parked, climbed in and started the motor.

Chapter 11

Mason unlocked the door of his private office, entered, nodded to Della, scaled his hat toward the shelf of the hat closet, walked over to his desk and sat down.

"Didn't you sleep at all?" Della Street asked.

Mason shook his head. "Anything from Drake?"

"Yes. He's had a man up at the wreck and has some photographs. This man knew the highway police who were in charge, and he picked up about all the information there was."

"How did they happen to find the car?"

"At the point where the car was driven off the road, there was a guard rail."

"A hell of a place to pick to send a car off the road," Mason said "Car pretty badly smashed?"

"Smashed to kindling," Della said.

Mason said, "Get Paul Drake in here."

Della Street said, "Dixon Keith is waiting out there. He's been waiting for a while. He was in the corridor when we opened the office."

"Dixon Keith?" Mason asked.

"The one who has the fraud suit against Allred."

"Okay," Mason said, "get Drake first. Then go out and soothe Dixon Keith so he'll wait. Tell him I've phoned and expected to be in in just a few minutes. I don't want him to leave."

Mason settled back in the chair, stroked his forehead with his fingertip. Della Street put through a call to Paul Drake, said "He'll be right in, Chief. Did you have breakfast?"

"Breakfast and a shave," Mason said "A hot bath and clean clothes. Did the police find a gun on Allred's body by any chance?"

"I don't know," Della Street said. "I… here's Paul Drake!"

Drake's code knock sounded on the door of the office.

Mason nodded to Della Street. She opened the door, and Drake, gaunt and haggard, with stubble rough on his jaw, entered the room and surveyed Mason bleakly.

Mason grinned. "You look as though you've been busy."

"I have."

"I thought you told me that you kept an electric razor in your office so you could shave in between phone calls."

"I do," Drake said. "I have. But, what the hell? I haven't had any time between phone calls. I've been busy!"

"Give."

Drake said, "Me place where the car went off the road was within five miles of the Snug-Rest Auto Court. It's the worst place anywhere along the road, and the road is bad enough, at that. There's a guard rail. The car had plowed right through the guard rail. No wonder! It had been locked in low gear and the hand throttle pulled all the way out. The police were able to determine that much from what was left of the car."

"The body was first identified as that of Fleetwood?"

"That's right."

"Allred had Fleetwood's billfold?"

"He had Fleetwood's billfold, cigarette case, fountain pen. Quite a bit of stuff."

"Any explanation?"

"No explanation."

"And there was a key to the Snug-Rest Auto Court?"

"That's right. A key to Fleetwood's cabin."

"How did Allred get that?"

"No explanation so far, Perry. The key was loose in the car."

"There was blood on the carpet of the luggage compartment?"

"That's right."

"Did Allred have a gun?"

"No."

Mason said, "Paul, I want to find Fleetwood!"

Drake's laugh was sarcastic. "Who doesn't?"

"I want to find him just a little worse than anyone else wants to find him."

"When you find him, he'll be dead."

Mason said, "We have an inside track on one thing, Paul."

"What?"

"Fleetwood is either suffering from amnesia or was pretending to suffer from amnesia. If it's a genuine case of amnesia, he'll still be wandering around in a daze. If it's a gag, I think Fleetwood will try keeping it up."

"Unless he's dead," Drake said.

"Someone," Mason said, "drove that car off the grade. What time did it happen, Paul?"

"The clock on the dashboard says eleven-ten. Allred's wrist watch says eleven-ten."

"That, of course, could have been fixed. The watches could have been set ahead."

"Or behind," Drake said.

Mason nodded.

"What does Fleetwood's amnesia have to do with it?"

Mason said, "You have men up there, Paul?"

"Have I got men up there!" Drake said wearily. "I'll say I've got men up there. They're spotted around at every telephone, phoning in such information as they're able to pick up, and standing by for instructions."

Mason said, "I want to try side roads, Paul. I want the places where a man could wander off the main highway. Do you know if Fleetwood knows the country at all?"

"He should," Drake said. "It was up there that Allred and Fleetwood put through that mining deal there was trouble about, the one where they sold a controlling interest in the mine, then got the stockholders to believe there had been some skulduggery and…"

"I know all about that," Mason said. "So that was up in this Country, was it? And Fleetwood was Allred's right-hand man at the time?"

"Yes."

"Then he must be familiar with the country. All right. Cover every side road," Mason ordered.

"The police theory," Drake said, "is that Fleetwood started hitchhiking and is probably five hundred miles away by this time – unless he's dead. There's an idea on the part of some of the detectives that Fleetwood's body will be found not over three or four hundred yards from the Snug-Rest Auto Court."

"No chance that this thing was an accident?" Mason asked.

"You mean Allred?"

"Yes."

"Hell, no. The thing was typical. The killer made the same mistake such people always make. In place of leaving the car in high gear the way it would have been if the thing had been accidental, the killer left the car in low gear. Whoever it was, stood on the running board, pointed the car for the precipice, pulled the hand throttle all the way out, and stepped off the running board. The car roared down the slope, hurtled off into space and undoubtedly made a beautiful crash seconds later."

"Any bullet holes in the body?"

"No. Apparently he was killed by having been beaten over the head."

"Or hitting his head when the car went over the grade?"

"Probably he was dead before that. The autopsy surgeon seems to think he was."

"How long before?"

"The autopsy surgeon isn't sticking his neck out, but I gather he wouldn't be too much surprised if Allred had been dead for an hour or so before the car went over the grade."

"When did they discover it?"

"Around three o'clock in the morning. The traffic officers went to the Snug-Rest Auto Court as soon as they found the door key to a cabin there in the car. With those telephone calls it didn't take long to get the lead on that apartment at Las Olitas."

"If Mrs. Allred had been planning murder," Mason said, "she'd hardly have left as broad a clue as that!"

"You can't tell," Drake said. "My hunch is, Perry, that the police are right. Either Fleetwood is dead, or else he's making tracks. My best guess is he's on an airplane right this minute, or else dead as a herring."

"That amnesia business may be a big thing," Mason said. "He's already laid the foundation for it. It's what I'd do under those circumstances. Go ahead and cover the Springfield territory, every ranch, every house, Paul."

"Okay, if you say so."

"And in case they should find him," Mason said, "tell them not to tip their hand at all. Just beat it to a phone and let us know. That other detective agency still on the job, Paul?"

"I'll say it is, but the boys evidently aren't covering the local angles. They're looking for Fleetwood the same places the police are."

"That's always a mistake," Mason grinned. "Okay, Paul, get started."

Drake left the office and Mason nodded to Della Street. "Let's see what Dixon Keith wants, Della."

Dixon Keith, an alert, square-shouldered chap in the late thirties, had dark, restless eyes, dark hair that was beginning to thin at the temples, and the quick springy steps of an athlete. His legs were short, but he had broad shoulders and a thick chest.

He wasted no time in coming to the point.

"Mason," he said, "I guess you know about me."

Mason nodded.

"I'm having a lawsuit with Bertrand Allred and George Jerome. They're a couple of high-powered crooks who have been getting by with murder. I've found out a lot about them since I've engaged in a little business deal with them."

"And you have a lawyer who is representing you?"

"Yes."

"Don't you think it would be better for you to have your lawyer with you when you come here?"

Keith shook his head. "I can tell you what I want in very few words, Mr. Mason. It's purely a business proposition. It isn't a legal matter at all. It's straight business."

"What is it?"

"You and I are both over twenty-one, Mr. Mason. We know that no one gets something for nothing. I want something. I'm prepared to give something."

"What do you want, and what are you prepared to give," Mason asked, "bearing in mind that my primary duty is to my client?"

"That's right. You're representing Mrs. Allred, and unless I miss my guess, she's in a jam."

"Indeed?" Mason said, raising his eyebrows.

Keith said, "Look, Mason, let's not kid each other. You have your detective agency working on this case. I have my detective agency working on the case. You've got a damn good detective agency and I've got a damn good detective agency. I don't know how much you know and you don't know how much I know, but we wouldn't be paying out good money for detectives unless we were getting something. Right?"

Mason smiled, "Right!"

"Bertrand Allred's body was found in his wife's car. The car was driven over a rocky precipice and was left in low gear – a dead giveaway. It's a little difficult to do a job like that and leave the car in high gear, but it can be done."

"You talk as though you'd tried it,"Mason said.

"I did a little experimenting," Keith admitted, "in order to find out what a person would have to do to put a car over a slope like that. You can start it running in low gear, open the door, jump to the running board and get away pretty easy. But when you shift into high gear, then you have a problem on your hands. If there's a steep enough slope for the car to run off the highway through the brush, the car gets to going pretty fast before you can bail out. The best way is to put the car into high gear, turn the ignition on, put on the emergency brake, then get out, take off the emergency brake and let the car start rolling. As the car gathers momentum, since it's in gear it starts turning the motor, and that starts the engine running. Then if the hand throttle is on a little bit, the car really shoots ahead."

"Too bad you couldn't have told the murderer about that," Mason said.

"It is for a fact," Keith admitted. "Leaving the car in low gear was a technical error. That means you're going to have a little tougher job than you would have had otherwise."

"Assuming that my client is a murderer."

"Assuming that your client will be accused of murder," Keith said. "You know it and I know it."

Mason said, "You seem to have given this a good deal of thought."

"This thing is going to concern me," Keith admitted. "I have to find Robert Gregg Fleetwood."

"I understand quite a few people are looking for him."

"Let's not beat around the bush, Mason. You want him because you think that if you find him and get a statement from him, you may get something that will help your client. I want him because if I find him and get a statement from him, I can win my lawsuit. Furthermore, I can straighten out a lot of things.