Erie Gardner - The Case of the Lazy Lover

The night garage man at the Westwick Hotel Apartments regarded the ten dollar bill which Mason handed him with eager appraisal.

“Who do you want killed, buddy?” he asked.

“Know anything about Maurine Milford?”

The man grinned. “Why?”

“Just wondering.”

“Not much.”

“Perhaps whatever it is will help.”

“Shucks,” the night man said. “I hate to take the money for what little I know, because it isn’t worth the ten bucks.”

Nevertheless, he folded Mason’s bill and pushed it down deep in his pocket.

“You can’t ever tell,” Mason said. “What is it?”

“The day man told me she slipped him a five buck tip to keep her car shined up and polished. The day man doesn’t have anything to do with that stuff. I do the work. The day man offered to split the tip with me, but I told him I thought I could get another five. Well, sure enough, this Milford woman was in the first part of the evening and took her car out. I gave it a few finishing touches. I told her I hadn’t had a chance to really work on it, but that I would when she brought it back. I managed to get it across to her that it was the night man that did the work.”

“So what?”

The man grinned and said, “A five. Added to your ten, that makes fifteen bucks for the night. That’s something!”

“And when did she bring the car back?”

“She hasn’t brought it back. Looks like an all night party to me.”

Mason said, “What do you do to keep yourself occupied down here?”

“What do I do? Gosh, buddy, I have all these cars to dust off, and the windshields have to be washed. I...”

“And then what do you do when it gets along in the small hours of the morning like this?”

The garage man grinned and said, “After all, ten bucks is ten bucks. I guess there’s no reason you and I shouldn’t get along. I pick a car that has nice comfortable cushions and a damn good car radio. I park it out where I can see the entrance in case anybody comes in, and turn on the radio and sit there and listen to whatever all night program is on. Some of them are pretty terrible, but it beats standing around on a cold cement floor and biting your fingernails. Then when you see someone coming in, you jump out of the car, switch off the radio, start scrubbing away at the windshield or polishing a fender. Like I was doing when you came in, buddy.”

Mason said, “Move over, we’ll listen to the radio together.”

“What’s your racket?” the man asked.

Mason said, “I’m sort of strong for the Milford girl.”

“Oh, oh! Beg your pardon, buddy — what I said about an all night party. I don’t know her at all. I was just shooting off my face.”

“It’s okay,” Mason said. “What station did you have on?”

“It’s some recordings,” the man said. “Not bad. They’ll come on with a breakfast program in about an hour and a half.”

“Disc jockey?”

“Oh, so so. He is pretty crude and amateurish, but he’s probably practicing up for daytime stuff. This is a good radio.”

Mason climbed in the car and sat with the night man. The radio warmed up and a record of cowboy music filled their ears.

“I like this stuff,” the garage man said. “Always wanted to be a cowboy — so I turn up washing off windshields at night. Helluva life!”

“Darned if it isn’t,” Mason agreed. “Will you have a smoke?”

“I’m sorry, buddy, but I don’t smoke in a car. There’s always the chance that the man who owns this particular heap might come walking in and...”

“Sorry,” Mason apologized.

“Get out and walk around when you want to smoke,” the man invited. “And then get back... oh, oh!”

His hand snaked out, turned off the radio.

“Out,” he said out of the side of his mouth, “quick.”

Mason opened the car on the right and slid out to the cement floor.

The garage man, with a rag in his hand, was assiduously polishing the fender on the car, as headlights came down the ramp from the street.

The night man put down the rag on the fender, walked across to the automobile, said, “Okay, I’ve got it.”

“Hello,” Patricia Faxon said as she jumped out of the car with a quick, lithe motion. “Guess I was out pretty late, wasn’t I?”

The night man merely grinned at her.

“Do the best you can with the car,” she said. “It’s streaked up a bit. When can I get it washed?”

“Not until tomorrow.”

“Well, that’s okay. Do the best you can with it. I...”

She suddenly stiffened at sight of Perry Mason.

“Hello,” the lawyer said.

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk with you.”

“How long have you been here?”

Mason merely smiled, said, “Let’s do our talking in your apartment, Patricia.”

“At this hour?” she asked.

Mason nodded.

She regarded him for a long moment with hesitant appraisal; then she led the way to the elevator shaft and pressed the button.

The elevator was on automatic at this hour of the night, and it responded promptly.

Mason held the door open for her. She entered the cage. Mason followed her. The door slid shut and Patricia pushed the button for the eighth floor.

Mason said, “I thought you were the frightened girl who couldn’t get back here fast enough.”

“I changed my mind.”

“What caused you to change your mind?”

She pretended not to hear him. The elevator stopped at the eighth floor. They walked down the corridor together. Patricia fitted a latchkey to the door, said, “I suppose you know you’re kicking my good name out of the window.”

Mason didn’t say anything.

She switched on lights in the apartment. Mason closed the door.

She said, “I’m going to fix myself a drink. A big one. What do you want?”

“What are you having?”

“Scotch and soda.”

“Okay by me. Where have you been, Pat?”

“Out.”

Mason said, “We might get farther if you’d be more co-operative.”

She laughed breezily and said, “I’ve heard that before somewhere. Believe it or not, I just drove out here from our house in the city.”

Mason followed her out into the kitchenette. She took a bottle of Scotch from the shelf, then took out two glasses; then she took ice cubes from the refrigerator.

“Been drizzling up in the mountains,” the lawyer said. “Rather nasty weather.”

“Is that so?”

“And,” the lawyer went on, “I noticed that your car was pretty much of a mess. Evidently you’ve had it out where it’s wet.”

She splashed Scotch into the glasses without bothering with the jigger measure that was on the shelf by the Scotch bottle.

“See your mother?” Mason asked.

She said, “You’ll find soda in the icebox, Mr. Mason.”

“See your mother?” he repeated, taking a siphon of soda water from the refrigerator.

“I think I want to let this drink take effect before I do any talking at all.”

“What’s the matter?” the lawyer asked. “Something to conceal?”

She made no answer, but led the way back to the living room, took a quick drink from the glass, said, “What’s this going to be, the third-degree?”

“Not unless it has to be. I want to know whether you saw your mother.”

“I...”

Knuckles tapped gently on the panel of the door. For one panic-stricken second, Patricia pretended not to hear them. Then the chimes sounded and Mason said casually, “Do you want to open the door, Pat, or shall I?”

Without a word, she put her drink on the stand by her chair, walked across and opened the door.

A woman’s voice said, “Thank heavens, you’re up, Pat. I...”