Erie Gardner - The Case of the Lazy Lover

“The whole thing will depend on split-second timing. We want to get away from there fast, before the shadow can make any possible connections with any kind of transportation, so be sure we have a smooth, steady, well-timed operation that goes like clockwork.”

“And then?” Della Street asked.

Mason said, “Then you make the first turn off the main road and I’ll tell you where to go from there. We’ll wind up in Gertie’s apartment. Gertie, you’re inviting us to spend the day and to have dinner. We’ll pick up some food at a delicatessen place, and wait up in your apartment.”

Gertie said, “Gee that’s swell. I just started one of those diets and I’ve counted calories until I feel like my belt buckle is scraping against my backbone. I’ve just been looking for a good excuse to throw the whole thing overboard, and I think this is it! You always did like tenderloin steaks, Mr. Mason, and my butcher said he’d been saving some for me. After all, when a girl changes from the status of an unattached female to a blushing bride, the occasion calls for some celebration.”

It was seven-thirty. Out in Gertie’s kitchenette the girls were busy doing the dishes. They had been cooped up in the place all day, playing cards, listening to the radio, phoning Paul Drake, dozing fitfully.

Perry Mason, sitting in the one overstuffed chair which the apartment offered, chain smoked cigarettes and frowningly regarded the faded carpet. As Paul Drake had so aptly pointed out, it could well be a week before they found any trace of Bob Fleetwood.

The open window on the shaft gave a partial ventilation, sufficient to let in some air, but not enough to dispel the heavy odors of cooking, the aroma of broiled steaks, of coffee.

For the third time in ten minutes Mason glanced impatiently at his wrist watch.

Abruptly the telephone rang.

Mason jumped for the instrument, scooped the receiver off the hook, said, “Yes, hello.”

Paul Drake’s voice, keen-edged with excitement, said, “We’ve got him, Perry!”

“Got Fleetwood?”

“That’s right!”

“Where?”

“He’s holed up at a little farmhouse — a little mountain ranch actually within five miles of where the car went off the grade.”

“Wait a minute! Della, grab a notebook and get these directions as I repeat them. Go ahead, Paul.”

Drake said, “At the foot of the grade you’ll see a sign on the right-hand side of the road that says, ‘Fifty miles of mountain grades ahead. Be sure you have plenty of oil, water and gas.’ Now you set your odometer to zero at that sign.”

“That’s at the foot of the grade?” Mason asked.

“Right. It’s just before you start climbing, about a hundred yards or so.”

“Okay, I’ve got it. Then what?”

“You go exactly thirty-one and two-tenths miles from that sign,” Drake said. “That puts you well up in the mountains, over the first ridge down in an elevated valley. There’s a stream running along in the valley, but it’s narrow and steep and you wouldn’t think there was any farming land within a hundred miles. But right at that point you’ll notice a side road that turns off. You follow that and it brings you to a little general store and post office at exactly one and four-tenths miles from the place where you turn off.

“Now you go right past the post office and take the first road that turns off to the left. It’s a rocky dirt road that looks as though it would pinch out within the first hundred yards. It doesn’t. It keeps on going. It’s a rough, twisting rocky road, but it climbs up a steep grade and brings you to a beautiful little elevated mountain plateau i with some good ranch land, about ten or fifteen acres of fine mountain meadow. There are two little ranches up there. You want the first one. You’ll be able to spot it from the name on the mailbox. The name is P. E. Overbrook. I don’t think he has any idea about what’s going on. There’s no electric power of any sort on his place. He doesn’t have a radio.”

“Does he know Fleetwood? Is it a hide out?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Drake said. “All I know is that when my man stopped at the ranch he saw Fleetwood walking around the house. He only had Fleetwood’s description, but he’s pretty certain.”

Mason repeated the names, distances and directions. “That right, Paul?”

“That’s right.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “We’re on our way. Are you in touch with your operative up there?”

“There’s a telephone service at the general store, but I don’t know how long you can get him there. And remember that up in that country it’s all party line stuff. There’ll be a lot of people listening.”

“I know,” Mason said. “If there should be any developments and you want to stop me, get someone up there to flag me down at the general store. We’ll make time.”

“Okay.”

Mason hung up the phone, turned to Della Street and said, “You got those down, Della? All those distances and names?”

“I have them, Chief.”

“Let’s go.”

Within fifteen seconds from the time the lawyer had hung up the telephone they were scrambling out of the apartment, Gertie still rubbing the last of the hand lotion on her hands.

Mason had taken the precaution to have his car filled with gas, and the machine, capable of road speeds in excess of ninety miles an hour, responded like a race horse as the lawyer struck the through-boulevard, crowding the speed limit, but keeping just under a rate which might result in a jail sentence.

Leaving the outskirts of the city, Mason stepped on the gas, and by nine-fifty had left Springfield behind and was climbing through the mountains.

Twenty minutes later, Della Street, who’d been watching the odometer, said, “You’re getting close, Chief.”

Mason slowed the car, while Della Street watched for the turn-off.

Within a few minutes they had made the turn-off, gone over the dirt road past the post office, found the left-hand turn and were climbing over a narrow, rocky road that twisted and turned up a steep grade, then debouched onto a mountain plateau.

There was a barbed wire fence on one side of the road. The headlights illuminated the rich green of the pasture land. A hundred yards farther on the headlights were reflected from the aluminum paint on a mailbox. The name P. E. OVERBROOK had been stenciled on the metal and Mason turned in on a short driveway.

The house was dark, and behind it a barn silhouetted itself against the stars. A dog started frenzied barking and the beam from the headlights reflected back in blazing points from the animal’s eyes.

Mason shut off the motor.

There was no noise, save the barking of the dog, and after a moment, little crackling noises which came from under the hood as the cold night air of the mountains pressed against the heated automobile engine.

The dog ran up to the car, barking, circling, smelling the tires, but not growling.

Mason said, “I think he’s friendly,” and opened the car door.

The dog came running up to walk stiff-legged behind the lawyer, smelling at his calves.

Mason called out, “Hello, anyone home?”

There was the flicker of a match, then after a moment, the reddish glow of an oil lamp.

“Hello! What is it?” a man’s voice asked.

“A very important message for you,” Mason said. “Open the door, will you?”

“All right. Wait a minute.”

They could see a bulky shadow moving around the room. Then, after a moment, the brilliant glare of a gasoline lantern gave additional illumination. They heard steps in the house and the door opened.

Overbrook, a big sleepy giant of a man with a nightshirt tucked into the waistband of jeans, was standing in the doorway, holding a gasoline lantern.