Erie Gardner - The Case of the Lazy Lover

Inman 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 the 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.

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 there 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 expect 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 fingertips. 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, “The 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 you 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.”