Erie Gardner - The Case of the Lazy Lover

“And this is Maurine Milford’s car?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I thought you did.”

“The car,” the garage man went on, “belongs to a friend of hers. She had it out driving it when the accident happened. She wants to have it all fixed up so that her friend won’t know it’s been in an accident. That’s why it’s a rush job. It’ll be ready to roll out tonight, and the owner won’t be able to tell it even had a scratch.”

“Who’s the owner?”

“Me,” the garage man said, “I’m just dumb. You’re looking over the car. Seems to me it has a license on it, and there’s a state law, as I remember it, that says you have to have a certificate of registration attached to the steering post. Personally, I wouldn’t know anything about that. I’m going back to the shop now. I got some work to do. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t say,” Mason told him. “I’m just an engraver.”

“Well, I always like to talk to a man who goes in for that sort of art. Any time you have any more pretty I pictures, bring ’em around.”

Mason watched him leave the room; then the lawyer opened the door of the car, climbed into the driver’s seat, found the registration certificate attached to the steering post. The car was registered in the name of Patricia Faxon. The address was 209 West Mayward Avenue.

The lawyer sat there for a few moments. Then he slid out of the car and walked out of the garage. He drove directly to the Westwick Apartments.

Mason didn’t announce himself, but took the elevator to the eighth floor, found apartment 802, and pressed the button.

A young, vivacious girl, in a neatly tailored blue suit opened the door and regarded him with laughing, dark eyes.

But the lips were not garishly painted. They were almost subdued so that the eyes dominated the face.

“You’re Miss Milford,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

She laughed and said, “I have all the insurance I want, the apartment is furnished, I have plenty of books, and I don’t need a thing. I am not going to be here long enough to buy a radio. I don’t need a vacuum cleaner because that goes with the apartment maid service and...”

“I’m John Smith,” Mason said.

“Are you, indeed!”

“Yes,” he said. “Jane Smith’s older brother.”

“Oh,” she said, and then suddenly the animation left her face. She was showing him a mask of cautious appraisal. “Jane Smith? I don’t think I know her.”

“She rented a car from a drive-yourself agency,” Mason said. “She was last seen headed in the direction of Las Olitas.”

“Come in,” the girl invited.

Mason entered the living room of the apartment suite.

“I understand,” he said, “you are expecting your aunt to join you.”

“Yes.”

“And why the Jane Smith part of it when you rented the car?”

She said, “For reasons that I can’t explain I didn’t want to tell the car agency what my real name was or where I intended to live. I suppose I’ve violated some rule or regulation, and if you’ll tell me how much it is, I’ll give you the money and we’ll get all square.”

“It isn’t a matter of money,” Mason said, “but we like to know something about the moral risk involved, particularly when a car goes out for a long time.”

“All right. You can find out all you want about the moral risk. You have the cash deposit which certainly is generous enough to protect you. If you want, I’ll double that deposit or treble it.”

Mason said, “Money doesn’t take the place of a good moral risk.”

She laughed up at him and said, “Go on! Money beats morals any time. Just what are you after?”

“I’d like a case history.”

“Well, begin at the beginning. Just what do you want to know?”

“In the first place, why do you want an automobile?”

“I told your people. My aunt is coming to visit me. She’s never been in California before, and I want to show her around. Then again, I like to have an automobile for my own convenience.”

“You’re from the East?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Can you tell me where you were living before you came here?”

“I can, but I won’t.”

“You have driven an automobile before?”

“Naturally.”

“You have a driving license?”

“Of course.”

“May I see it?”

“No.”

Mason said, “Under the clause in the insurance policy, the company is supposed to let out automobiles only to persons who hold a driving license.”

“I do.”

“I’d like to look at it.”

“I gathered that, but I see no reason to show it to you.”

“Have you,” Mason asked, “had any trouble with driving an automobile? Have you been in any accidents within the past sixty days?”

“No.”

“Then,” Mason asked, “how does it happen that you are having the car of Miss Patricia Faxon repaired down here at the Central Garage & Machine Works?”

Her face went dead white at that. She looked at him for a long moment.

“Well?” Mason asked.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Mason said, “I’ll put it up to you. Who are you?”

“I’ve told you I’m Maurine Milford.”

Mason said, “I’m sorry, but I think you’re Patricia Faxon, and the aunt who is planning to come and visit you for a month is your mother, Lola Faxon Allred. My name is Perry Mason, and now if you’ll quit beating around the bush and tell me what it is you and your mother want, I may be able to help you.”

There was the panic of sheer desperation in her eyes. “You... you’re... you’re Perry Mason!”

“That’s right.”

“How did you find me?”

“I simply traced you here.”

“But you couldn’t have. It’s impossible. I’ve taken the greatest precautions. I’ve — why every time I’ve left the house, I’ve made absolutely certain I wasn’t being followed. I’ve gone to the greatest pains to see that I didn’t leave any back track and—”

Mason interrupted. “You left a back trail. I followed it. My detectives followed it. The police can follow it.”

“You weren’t supposed to get in touch with me,” she said. “I was supposed to get in touch with you.”

Mason said, “If I’d known you were Patricia Faxon when I started, I might have made different plans, but unfortunately you neglected to tell me that you intended to take an assumed name and an assumed identity. Now suppose you tell me why?”

“Suppose I don’t?”

Mason shrugged his shoulders. “It’s up to you.”

“I see no reason why I should, Mr. Mason. I’m going to tell you frankly that if — well, if certain things happen I’ll get in touch with you, and if they don’t, I won’t, and that’s final.”

Mason said, “I received a check in the mail for twenty-five hundred dollars, signed by Lola Faxon Allred.”

“I know you did.”

“And,” Mason went on, “you went to the bank at Las Olitas and drew out five thousand dollars, also on a check signed by Lola Faxon Allred.”

“Well?”

Mason said, “The check I received was a forgery.”

Her eyes widened. “A forgery, Mr. Mason?”

“That’s right.”

“It couldn’t have been. I know all about that check. Mother signed it. I saw her sign it.”

“A check on the First National Bank at Las Olitas?”

“No. On the Farmers, Merchants & Mechanics Bank in the city.”

Mason said, “That was the other check.”

“You mean you got two checks, Mr. Mason?”

“That’s right.”

“Two checks each for twenty-five hundred dollars?”