Erie Gardner - The Case of the Lazy Lover

“You think Fleetwood was in touch with her, Perry?”

“He must have been. Try the telephone company, inquire at the motel where they stayed. Cover the gasoline stations along that mountain highway. I’ll bet ten to one that the phone call Fleetwood put in from the jail wasn’t the first time he’d called her since he left. And if he’d called her before, I’ll bet she’s mixed up in this thing, right up to those delicately arched eyebrows of hers.”

Drake groaned. “I knew you’d leave me with one of those rush jobs that are such a headache.”

Mason grinned. “I try not to disappoint people. This will give you a preliminary warm up. A little later I expect to have a real job for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh huh. I want you to reconstruct Bernice Archer’s time from Saturday noon on. I want to know where she was every minute, what she was doing, and with whom she did it. Have you found out anything about Overbrook?”

“Just neighborhood reputation. He’s a good egg, slow spoken, honest and poor. He mortgaged his property a year or so ago when he made an unfortunate investment, but he’s a steady, hard worker and is getting the mortgage paid off. In the meantime, he won’t spend a nickel for anything except his dog. He will buy food for the dog. He’s tight as a shrunken collar. They say he hardly ever leaves the ranch and pinches every penny, even to the extent of buying stale bread.”

“Any chance he knew Fleetwood?”

“Not a chance in ten million, Perry.”

“Okay, Paul, keep plugging.”

“On Overbrook?”

“No. The picture on him seems complete. Start working on that phone call to Bernice Archer. I’m betting ten to one such a call was made.”

Drake opened his mouth in a great yawn. “I knew that sleep I had was just coincidental,” he said.

It was shortly before six o’clock when the telephone in Mason’s apartment rang a strident summons.

The lawyer, who had been dozing in the big easy chair, with the telephone on the table beside him, picked up the receiver, said hurriedly, “What have you found out?”

Paul Drake’s voice came over the line.

“Well, we got another break, Perry.”

“What?”

“We’ve traced a telephone to Donnybrook 6981, Bernice Archer’s number. It was called on Monday night at about seven o’clock. The call was placed from a service station about five miles from Springfield. My men went out and interviewed the man who runs the station, a fellow by the name of Leighton, and he remembers the incident perfectly.”

“Go on,” Mason said excitedly. “What happened?”

“A car drove up and stopped at the gas pumps. A woman who answers the description of Mrs. Allred said she wanted the tank filled right up to the brim. There was a man in the car who answers Fleetwood’s description. He seemed sunk in a sort of a lethargy. The way Leighton describes him, he was a lazy bump on a log who sat still and let the woman bustle around. He thought the guy was drunk at first and then came to the conclusion that he was just plain lazy.

“Then the woman went into the rest room, and the minute she got out of sight, Fleetwood came to life. He rushed out of the car, dashed into the service station, grabbed the public telephone, dropped a dime, yelled for long distance, and called this number.

“The service station man remembers it particularly, because he got such a kick out of it. He thought that Mrs. Allred was the guy’s wife, and that this fellow was trying to make a surreptitious date with his girl friend, or else explain why he had to break a date. The service station man didn’t say anything, but kept on with the chores of filling the tank, checking the oil and water, washing off the windshield, scrubbing the windshield wings and all of that. It had been raining a little earlier in the afternoon and had settled down to a drizzle along in the evening.

“The man stood there waiting for his call to come through and watching the door of the women’s rest room. Before the call was completed, the woman came out and the man dropped the receiver like it was a hot potato, ambled back to the car and settled down in the cushions with a look of utter vacancy on his face.

“The phone began to ring while the woman was paying for the gasoline. The attendant glanced at the man in the automobile, and the man all but imperceptibly shook his head. After the car had driven away the attendant went over, picked up the receiver and answered the phone. The operator said that they were ready with Donnybrook 6981, that Miss Archer was on the line, and the service station man explained that the party who had placed the call had been unable to wait for it. There was some argument, the long distance operator claiming that the entire time consumed in getting the call had been less than four minutes. But the attendant said it didn’t make any difference whether it had only been ten seconds, that the person who had placed the call was gone and what were they going to do about it.”

“That was Monday night?” Mason asked.

“Monday night, a little after seven o’clock.”

Mason said, “Okay, thanks! Don’t go to bed yet, Paul; you may have work to do.”

“Of course I’ll have work to do,” Drake said. “I’ll have work to do tonight too. Have a heart, Perry. Give a guy a rest.”

“You can rest in between cases,” Mason said. “Stick around your office, Paul. I think I’m going to get some action.”

Mason hung up the phone, then called police headquarters and asked for Lieutenant Tragg.

Tragg’s voice sounded harsh and weary from loss of sleep. He answered Mason’s call and said, “It isn’t everyone I’d talk to at this hour. When do you give me that break you promised?”

“Right away. I’m coming up now. Wait for me.”

“Hell, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Okay. You won’t have to wait over fifteen minutes longer. I’ll bust Fleetwood’s amnesia wide open for you.”

“Not that way,” Tragg said. “You give me the ammunition and I’ll do the shooting.”

“This won’t work that way,” Mason said. “But I promised I’d crack him and I will. Only I have to be the one that does it. If you try it, it’ll be a bust.”

“Well, come on up,” Tragg said. “I’ll be in the office waiting.”

Mason said, “Okay, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Mason slipped on his coat and made time to police headquarters.

Tragg’s office was impressive, the walls being decorated with display cases in which were knives, guns and blackjacks; below each of the weapons was appended a history of the case in which it had been used.

The furniture in the office told its own story of drama. The massive oak tables were charred along the edges where burning cigarettes had been placed while someone answered the phone, only to spring into immediate action at word of some homicide or attempted homicide, leaving the cigarette unnoticed to burn a deep groove into the table. Here and there were scratches and nicks where someone had thrown a captured gun or knife onto the table, or where some prisoner in desperation had beaten his handcuffed wrists against the wood.

“Well,” Lieutenant Tragg said, “what’s the score?”

Mason said, “Fleetwood is holding out evidence.”

“You said that over the telephone.”

“I’ll prove it!”

“Go ahead.”

“Get Fleetwood in here.”

“He’s going to be a witness for the prosecution.”

“On what?”

“Well,” Tragg said, “he...”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “The man’s memory is blank. He can’t remember anything. Therefore he can’t be a witness.”

“He can be a witness to some preliminary matters.”