Erie Gardner - The Case of the Lazy Lover

“Okay, Gertie,” Mason said in an undertone, “do your stuff.”

Gertie pushed forward into the circle of illumination from the gasoline lantern.

“You’re Mr. Overbrook?” she asked breathlessly.

“That’s right, ma’am.”

“Oh,” Gertie said breathlessly, “I’m so glad! Tell me, do you have William here? Is he all right?”

“William?” Overbrook asked vacantly.

“Her husband,” Mason interposed sympathetically.

The big rancher shook his head slowly.

“The man who lost his memory,” Mason explained.

“Oh,” Overbrook said. “Why, sure. You related to him?”

“He’s my husband.”

“How did you know where he was?”

“We’ve been tracing him, bit by bit,” Gertie said. “Tell me, is he all right?”

Overbrook said, “This place don’t look like much. It’s just a bachelor’s hangout, but you folks might as well come in. It’s a bit chilly out there.”

They filed into the little room in the front of the house.

“Where’s William?” Gertie asked.

“He’s out back here.”

Overbrook opened a door. “Hey, buddy.”

“Huh?” a man’s voice said sleepily.

“Somebody here to see you. Come on out.”

“I don’t want to see anyone. I’m sleeping.”

“You’ll want to see these people,” Overbrook said. “Come on. Excuse me just a minute, folks. I’ll get him up. I guess he’s sleeping pretty sound. He’s had a hard day, I reckon.”

They heard voices in the little room which adjoined the living room on the back.

Della Street said, in a low voice, “Is he apt to take a powder out of the back door, Chief?”

Mason said, “If he does, it’ll be an admission of guilt. If I’m right, and he’s faking, he’ll play out this amnesia business.”

The voices in the bedroom back of the living room abruptly ceased. They heard the sound of bare feet on the floor, then Overbrook was back in the room. “I don’t know how you handle such things,” he said. “Do you want to break it to him gently?”

“You didn’t tell him his wife was here?”

“No. Just told him some folks to see him.”

“I think the way to do it,” Mason said, “is to intensify the shock as much as possible. You see, amnesia is usually the result of mental unbalance. It’s an attempt on the part of the mind to escape from something that the mind either can’t cope with or doesn’t want to cope with. It’s a refuge. It’s the means a man uses to close the door of his mind on something that may lead to insanity.

“Now then, since that’s the case, the best treatment is a swift mental shock. We take this man by surprise. Don’t tell him who’s here, or anything about it. Just tell him some people want to see him. How did he come here? Did someone bring him?”

Overbrook said, “He came staggering up to the door last night. The dog started barking, and I thought at first it was a skunk or something. Then the way the dog kept up, I knew it was a man. I looked out to see if there were any automobile lights, but there weren’t, and — well, I’m sort of isolated up here so I loaded up the old shotgun and lit the gasoline lantern.

“This man came up to the door and knocked. I asked him who he was, and he told me he didn’t know.

“Well, we talked back and forth for a few minutes, then I had the dog watch him while I frisked him to see if he had any weapons at all, but he didn’t. He didn’t have a thing in his pockets. Not a thing. Not even a handkerchief. There just wasn’t a thing on him anywhere that would tell him who he was or anything about him.”

“Too bad,” Mason said.

“There was just one thing he did have,” Overbrook went on, “and that was money. He’s got a roll of bills that would choke a horse. Well, of course, I was a little suspicious, and then he told me his story. He said that he had certain little hazy memories, but he couldn’t remember who he was, that he was just too tired to think, he just wanted to rest. He didn’t want to answer any questions, he didn’t want anyone to know he was here. He said he’d be glad to help with cooking around the place, he’d pay me money, he’d do anything, but he just wanted to rest.”

Mason nodded sympathetically. “The poor chap gets these fits every once in a while. The only thing is, they’re of shorter duration each time. This is the third one he’s had in the last eighteen months.”

“Shell shock?” Overbrook asked.

“Shell shock.”

The door from the bedroom opened. A man in his late twenties, staring vacantly, his face slack-mouthed in lassitude, looked around the room with complete disinterest. His eyes held no recognition.

He was a man of medium height, weight not over a hundred and thirty pounds, with good features, dark eyes and a wealth of wavy, dark hair.

“William!” Gertie screamed, and ran toward him.

Fleetwood drew back a step.

“Oh, William, you poor, dear boy,” Gertie sobbed, and flung her arms around him, holding him close to her.

Mason breathed a very audible sigh. “Thank heavens, it’s William!” he said.

Overbrook grinned, like some big, overgrown Cupid, who had managed to bring a loving couple into each other’s embrace.

“I don’t suppose he had any baggage or anything,” Mason said.

“Came here just like you see him now,” Overbrook said. “I loaned him a razor and bought him a toothbrush.”

“Come on, William,” Mason said, going up and patting Fleetwood on the shoulder. “We’re here to take you home.”

“Home?” Fleetwood said suspiciously.

“Oh, William!” Gertie exclaimed. “Don’t you know me? Tell me, William, don’t you know me?”

“I’ve never seen you in my life,” Fleetwood said with some conviction.

Mason laughed heartily. “How do you know, William?”

Fleetwood looked at Mason with the eyes of a trapped animal.

“Of course, he doesn’t know,” Gertie said. “The poor boy can’t remember. Come, William, we’re here to take you home. You gave us an awful shock this time.”

“Where’s home?”

“William!” Gertie exclaimed reproachfully, and then after a moment added, “Don’t try to think of a thing. The doctor says that the thing to do is to get you home, get you around familiar surroundings and then let you rest. That familiar surroundings will do the trick.”

Mason said to Overbrook, “How much do we owe you?”

“Not a cent! Not a cent!” Overbrook exclaimed heartily. “He wanted to pay me, but I told him I’d do the best I could for him.”

Mason took a twenty dollar bill from his billfold. “Get yourself something,” he said, “a little something that you can remember the occasion by, something that will be a tangible expression of our gratitude. Come on, William, are you ready to go?”

“Go?” Fleetwood said, drawing back. “Go where?”

“Home, of course,” Gertie said. “Come on, darling. Just wait until I get you home.”

Fleetwood said, “You aren’t my wife. I’m not married.”

Mason laughed heartily.

“No, I’m not,” Fleetwood insisted.

“How do you know you’re not?” Mason asked in the amused tone of one dealing with a child who has taken some absurdly illogical position.

“I just feel that I’m not,” Fleetwood said.

“You won’t feel that way long,” Gertie promised, her voice husky with emotion.

Mason said with professional gravity, “I wouldn’t try to bring his memory right back now, Mrs. Raymond. I’d try and lead up to it gradually. These things take time.”

Fleetwood stood hesitant, trying to find some excuse by which he could refuse to go with these people, yet failing to hit upon any logical defense.