Erie Gardner - The Case of the Lazy Lover

“That’s right.”

“I don’t want to go to police headquarters.”

“If you want to make the situation entirely legal,” Mason said, “that’s the place for you.”

“Who said anything about making it legal?”

“You didn’t want to come with me of your own free will,” Mason said. “You called it kidnaping. You’re mentally sick. You admit that you don’t know who you are. Perhaps, after all, Gertie has made a mistake, and police headquarters is the best place for you.”

“Suppose I remembered who I was? Then you’d have to turn me loose.”

“Then,” Mason admitted, “I’d have to turn you loose. Who are you, Fleetwood?”

Fleetwood hesitated for nearly ten seconds. “I don’t know,” he said at length.

“Well,” Mason told him, “if you’re William Raymond, you go with Gertie. If you’re Robert Fleetwood, you go to police headquarters.”

Fleetwood settled back in the cushions and said, “Okay, I go with Gertie. I guess it won’t be so bad, after all. Give me a kiss, sweetheart.”

“Not now,” Gertie said, suddenly cold. “You’ve repulsed me in public. I don’t know but what perhaps I’ll get a divorce.”

Fleetwood, suddenly beginning to enjoy the situation, said, “But I didn’t know who you were then, darling.”

“Do you now?”

“No, but I’m willing to take your word for it. I don’t give a damn whether you love me or not. You’re married to me.”

“No,” Gertie said, drawing away from him. “I’ve had a stroke of amnesia myself. I can’t remember who you are. I think you’re a stranger.”

Fleetwood said, “The whole outfit is nuts. Let me out of here!”

Della kept driving smoothly.

Mason gave himself to silent smoking.

After a while Fleetwood said, “Who’s this Allred you’ve been talking about?”

“I thought you might recognize the name.”

“It sounds sort of familiar. Tell me more about him.”

“What do you want to know about him?”

“Who was he?”

“What makes you think he’s dead?”

“I didn’t say he was dead.”

“You asked who he was.”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“But why didn’t you say, ‘Who is he?’ ”

“I don’t know. Maybe you gave me the impression he was a dead relative or something.”

“Do you think he’s dead?”

“I don’t know, I tell you! I don’t know a thing in the world about him. Now shut up and stop cross-examining me!”

They drove for more than an hour, then Fleetwood, who had apparently decided on a course of action, said, “I don’t want to go with you.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Home!”

“Where’s your home?”

“I tell you I don’t know, but I don’t want to go with you. You are going to deliver me to this man you were talking about — what’s his name — Dixon Keith? Yeah, I think that’s it.”

“You know Keith?”

“You mentioned his name. Where did you get all this about a doctor saying that I needed to be kept quiet?”

“That’s the standard treatment of victims of amnesia,” Mason said.

They had another long period of silence, Fleetwood thinking in scowling concentration.

They entered the city. Della Street turned to look questioningly at Mason.

The lawyer nodded.

“Now the interesting part about amnesia,” Mason went on, “is that when you do get your memory back and remember who you are, if you have had genuine amnesia, you won’t be able to remember a thing that happened during the period you were suffering from amnesia. Remember that, Fleetwood.”

“My name’s not Fleetwood.”

“Maybe it isn’t,” Mason admitted. “Anyway, remember one thing — when you get your memory back, and do know who you are, if you have had genuine amnesia, you won’t be able to recall anything that happened during the period when your mind was a blank. During your period of amnesia, you remember everything except who you are in your past life. Once the memory of your past life comes back to you, you. can’t recall anything about the interval of amnesia.”

“Why are you giving me all that good advice?”

“Oh, I just want you to make a good job of all this,” Mason said.

Della Street said over her shoulder, “How am I doing, Chief?”

“Keep crowding the signals,” Mason said.

Della Street nodded.

From time to time she jockeyed the car through signals after the red light had flashed, but before oncoming traffic, which was not particularly heavy at that hour of the night, engulfed her.

The fourth time she did this there was the low wail of a siren, and a motorcycle officer said, “I guess you’d better pull in to the curb, Ma’am! What’s your hurry?”

Mason rolled down the window on his side. “We’re going to police headquarters, Officer,” he said. “That’s the hurry. If you’ll escort us, we have a man to take there.”

“No, you don’t!” Fleetwood yelled. “You’re not taking me any place. You... Let me out of here!”

The officer kicked the prop under his motorcycle as Della Street brought the car to a stop. Fleetwood struggled with the door, trying to get past Gertie.

The officer said, “Wait a minute, buddy. Let’s take a look at this.”

“No, you don’t!” Fleetwood yelled. “You can’t arrest me! I haven’t done anything.”

“What’s this all about?” the officer asked.

“Police want this man,” Mason said calmly, “for questioning in connection with the murder of Bertrand C. Allred.”

Fleetwood jerked the door open.

“Hey, you!” the officer shouted. “Hold it!”

Fleetwood hesitated.

“Come on back here!” the officer said. “I don’t mean maybe! Hold it. What is this?”

Mason said, “This man is Robert Gregg Fleetwood. He was the last man to see Bertrand Allred alive.”

“Who are you?” the officer asked.

“I’m Perry Mason.”

Fleetwood shouted, “You’re Perry Mason!”

“That’s right.”

“Why, you dirty shyster!” Fleetwood shouted. “You’ve tricked me. You’re Lola Allred’s lawyer. I know all about you.”

“And how did you know I was a lawyer?” Mason asked. “And how did you know that Mrs. Allred’s first name is Lola?”

Fleetwood paused for a moment, took long breaths, and suddenly clapped his hand to his forehead, “I’ve got it now!”

“Got what?” the officer asked.

“The whole thing,” Fleetwood said. “It all comes back to me! For a minute my mind was going around in circles and now I suddenly know who I am. I’m Robert Gregg Fleetwood!”

“And where have you been?” Mason asked.

“I can’t remember,” Fleetwood said. “The last thing I can remember is a rainy night. I was talking with Bertrand Allred and I started to go home to get dressed for dinner and something hit me. I can’t remember a thing after that. My mind is a blank!”

Mason grinned at the officer, flashed him a broad wink, but his voice was sympathetic as he said, “Poor Fleetwood! He’s subject to fits of amnesia. Now when we picked him up in the mountains, he didn’t know who he was. He couldn’t remember his name at all.”

“It’s come back to me now,” Fleetwood said.

“And where have you been in the last two or three days?” Mason asked.

“I don’t know,” Fleetwood said. “I feel sick. I’m nauseated. My mind is a blank as far as the last few days are concerned.”

Mason said to the officer, “You want to use the siren and clear the way to police headquarters? I think Lieutenant Tragg of the homicide squad wants to talk with this man.”

The traffic officer said, “This is going to be a feather in my cap, Mason. I guess I owe you one for this. Come on, let’s go! Can this girl follow the siren?”