Erie Gardner - The Case of the Lazy Lover

Mason said, “I have a hunch there’s more to this than appears on the surface, Paul. I’m not too certain but what Allred isn’t planning to pull a fast one.”

“You mean getting a divorce?”

“It might suit him better to be a widower. I understand he has quite a lot of his wife’s money invested in mining properties.”

“I guess Allred does all right for himself,” Drake said. “He seems to have lots of dough.”

Mason said, “I’ll bet you even money that Allred forged that check for twenty-five hundred bucks that was sent to me.”

“Why?”

“That,” Mason said, grimly, “is one of the things I intend to ask him.”

“You think he’s up there in this Snug-Rest Motel?”

“Uh huh,” Mason said, and then gave his attention to his driving.

“Know the numbers of the cabins, Paul?”

“Yes. Cabins number four and five. There’ll be two entrances. Take it easy. We should be almost there.”

A sign flashed up in the headlights, gleaming whitely at them out of a cold drizzle, etching its dazzling message on their tired eyes, “Snug-Rest Auto Court One Mile.”

As Mason eased the speed of the car, the windshield wipers gathered speed, pulsed hysterically. Drake, straightening up in the seat, heaved a sigh of relief. He watched the figures on the speedometer, said, “You’ll have to slow down, Perry. You’ve gone eight-tenths of a mile since that sign. The place may be hard to see... It’s a cinch the cabins have all been rented, the lights turned off, and the people who run the place have gone to bed. Here it is, right ahead, Perry.”

Mason slammed on the brakes. The car started to skid on the wet road, then righted itself, and Mason turned into the unpretentious little tourist court.

“Take it easy,” Drake cautioned. “Cut off your motor as soon as you can locate the numbers. We’ll try to do it as quietly as possible. There it is, Perry. There’s the cabin, the one over there on the right. Thank heavens, it’s off by itself so we won’t have an audience.”

Mason swung his car to a stop in front of the two-cabin unit that had been erected slightly apart from the other cabins, uniform in their somewhat shabby austerity.

The lawyer switched off the ignition, then the headlights.

Drake opened the car door.

Mason got out on his side, and they stood for a moment in front of the car.

The rain was a localized mountain rain, a cold, cloud-shrouded drizzle. In the background somewhere a stream tumbling over rocks made noisy gossip with the night. Aside from these noises there was nothing for the ears. The auto court was wrapped in silence.

“They’ve gone to bed,” Drake said in a low voice.

Mason said, “I guess we’re in time, Paul. That’s a break.” He climbed the steps and knocked on the door.

There was no answer. He knocked again.

Paul Drake, who had made a quick circle around the cabins on a tour of inspection, came to stand beside Mason. “It’s a red herring,” he said.

“What’s the matter?”

“They aren’t here.”

“You mean someone else is...”

“No. I don’t think the cabin’s rented at all. There isn’t any car under the cabin shed.”

Mason tentatively turned the knob on the cabin door. The door was unlocked. The latch clicked and the door swung open, disclosing a dark interior.

Paul Drake said cautiously, “Take it easy, Perry. Someone’s in here. That’s fresh tobacco smoke. The curtains are all drawn.”

“Anyone home?” Mason called.

He was greeted by silence, the dark oblong of the open doorway seeming sinister in its black mystery.

“Someone’s here all right,” Mason said, as warm air came eddying out from the dark interior of the cabin. “A heater of some sort has been on in here, and that certainly is fresh tobacco smoke.”

“Okay, let’s back out,” Drake whispered, “and go to the office. Let’s check the registrations.”

“Anyone home?” Mason called again.

Again there was that wall of black, sinister silence.

Mason groped inside the door, running his fingers along the wall searching for a light switch.

“Don’t, Perry,” Drake begged. “Let’s go to the office first and...”

Mason clicked on the lights.

The room was empty.

“Come on in,” Mason said.

Drake hung back, but finally followed the lawyer into the room.

Mason closed the door. It was a typical tourist cabin in the medium-price range. Mason, looking swiftly around the room, kept up a running fire of comment to Paul Drake.

“Bed has been sat on, but not slept in. Tobacco smoke pretty fresh. Cigarette butts with lipstick on them. Oh, oh, Paul, here’s something.”

“What?”

Mason indicated a couple of glasses, leaned over to smell them.

“They had some drinks in these glasses,” Mason said, “and not very long ago. You can see the ice isn’t entirely melted. There’s still a spot of ice in the bottom of this glass.”

Drake started to reach for the glass. Mason grabbed his wrist, pulled it away, said, “Don’t touch anything right now, Paul, but remember there’s a speck of ice in one of these glasses. You can smell the odor of whisky.”

“There’s another room here,” Drake said in a low voice. “I still think we’re going to run into something, Perry.”

Mason opened a door which disclosed a rather dispirited looking kitchen, with a gas stove, a small electric icebox and a cupboard containing a few dishes, virtually the irreducible minimum of frying pan, coffee pot, stew-pan, four plates, four cups and saucers.

The lawyer opened a door, which led to a bathroom. There was also a door at the other end of the bathroom, which was closed.

“This goes to the other cabin,” Drake said. “Perry, I wish you’d keep out of this until after we’ve...”

The lawyer knocked gently on the closed door from the bathroom.

When there was no answer, he opened the door, stepped into the other room and groped for a light.

“They haven’t been in here at all,” he said. “This place is cold.”

Drake surveyed the empty room, said, “Well, I guess that’s it, Perry.”

Mason gave a quick look around the room, then closed the door. They walked back to the front cabin, switching out lights as they walked.

Mason said, “Two people. They sat around here for a while, had a couple of drinks, smoked, had the gas wall heater turned on... must have been here for quite a little while, Paul. Look at the number of cigarette stubs.”

“Suppose they got a tip we were coming?” Drake asked.

Mason shrugged.

“Of course,” Drake pointed out, “they could have gone someplace planning to come back.”

Mason shook his head. “Not a scrap of baggage anywhere. Let’s take a look in the icebox.”

Mason returned to the kitchen, opened the door of the icebox, pulled out the tray reserved for ice cubes, said, “Every ice cube taken out, Paul.”

He pressed his finger down on the surface of the water in the ice tray. Its thin coating of ice cracked under the pressure of his finger.

“I don’t get it,” Drake said.

“It means there was more than one highball,” Mason explained. “Probably two or three.”

Drake said nervously, “I hate to be prowling around in here, Perry. If we get caught...”

Mason replaced the tray in the icebox, snapped the door shut, clicked off the lights in the kitchen and said, “I feel the same way, Paul. We’re getting out.”

“Then what?”

“We’re going back. You’re going to bed. I’m going to drop you in Las Olitas. You can take a taxicab back to the city. I’m going to talk with Patricia. I think I’ve been on the receiving end of a fast one.”