Erie Gardner - The Case of the Lazy Lover

“Fleetwood is lying about that. My husband was dead.”

“You’re certain?”

“I should be certain. I stood there for a moment by the door of the car. Then I put my foot on the running board, raised myself up and said, ‘Bertrand.’ He made no answer. I leaned over and felt of his wrist. It had that peculiar clammy feeling that tells its own story. But I wanted to make sure. I felt of his pulse. He was dead.”

“Then why didn’t you go back and call the police?”

She said, “I didn’t realize the situation in which I’d placed myself until after I’d entered the automobile. I realized then that the ground was so soft that every single track showed.

“Bob Fleetwood is right about one thing. After I got in the luggage compartment, I lay there for a while, very cramped in that small space. Then I remembered we always kept an electric lantern in there for use in case of an emergency in changing tires. I found the electric lantern and switched it on. By examining the catch, I felt sure I could pry the catch back and get the lid of the luggage compartment open if I had a lever of some sort. Then I thought of the jack handle. I found that and tried it. It was pretty hard to manipulate things while the car was moving over the road, particularly that dirt road. It was a little rough.

“However, I finally got the catch back and got the lid so I could raise it. I was just in the act of raising the lid when the car turned off the road and stopped. I pushed the cover of the luggage compartment up far enough to get out, and jumped to the ground. I heard the lid bang down behind me, and I started running.

“I don’t think I’d gone over thirty or forty feet when I heard Bob Fleetwood call out that everything was all right and not to worry; that Bertrand was unconscious.

“I kept right on running, but I looked back over my shoulder and saw Bob Fleetwood throw the gun away. Then he walked away from the car. And, as I told you, I returned to the car and found my husband was dead.

“It wasn’t until that time I realized that from the nature of the ground in which the car was sitting my tracks showed. They showed just exactly what I had done, and I knew that if I left tracks going back to the automobile, then leaving the automobile and going back to the road again, it would look as though I had returned to kill my husband with the jack handle.

“So I thought I’d drive the car to some place where the ground was firmer, where I could get out without leaving tracks. Then I got the idea, why not drive the car off the grade and make it look as though my husband had lost control of the car?

“Well, I did that, and that was when I got the idea of pretending that Bob had stolen my car. I thought that would pass the buck to him, and then if anything turned up, in order to save his own skin, he’d have to say that he killed Bertrand in self-defense. I... well, I guess I didn’t do a very good job of thinking, but I’d been through a lot that night, Mr. Mason.”

Mason said, “Is this the truth?”

“It’s the truth.”

“Look at me.”

She met his eyes.

“If I’d known this a long while ago,” Mason said, “I could probably have tied the killing to Bob Fleetwood. As it is now, you’ve lied and Fleetwood has lied. A judge or jury will have to toss up to decide which is telling the truth.

“The fact that Fleetwood threw the gun away makes me feel your husband was dead when Fleetwood left the car, but because you lied at the start, you’ve given Fleetwood all the trumps to play against us.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Mason.”

“Look here, is this the truth?”

“Yes.”

Mason said, “If you are changing your story simply because you think Fleetwood’s testimony has given you a good chance to crawl out from under, you’re a fool.”

“No, I’m not just changing my story. I’m— I have Pat to think of... I...”

She started to sob.

Mason said, “Well, I’m not going to let you change your story. I’m not going to let you tell any story for a while. You aren’t to talk with anyone — anyone. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“And don’t ever forget, a good lie can sometimes have all the grace of artistry, but only the truth can have the ring of sincerity.”

And Mason raised his hand, beckoned to the deputy.

Mason, Della Street and Paul Drake sat at a luncheon table in a restaurant at the country town where Judge Colton was presiding over the preliminary investigation.

“Well,” Mason said, “at this late date, my client tells me another story, Paul.”

“The same thing that Fleetwood says?”

“Just about. She says her husband was dead when she entered the car after Fleetwood had left it. If she’s telling the truth on that, I don’t know how I’m ever going to get a jury to believe her.”

“I’d say that Allred must have been dead when Fleetwood threw the gun away,” Drake said. “Otherwise, Fleetwood would hardly have thrown the gun. That’s the act of a man who is trying to get rid of a murder weapon. He’d struck Allred on the head hard enough to kill him, and he knew it. The weapon he used had been the barrel of the gun, and when he threw the gun away it was a very natural, logical, and typical effort on the part of a murderer to get rid of the murder weapon.”

“I know,” Mason said, “but I don’t know whether a jury will know. In all probability, the other way is better. If it’s the truth.”

“What other way?” Drake asked.

“Make the jury realize the character of Bertrand Allred. Let the jury feel that Allred was still alive when his wife got in the car; that she started to drive him home; that Allred regained consciousness and started struggling with her, trying to overpower her; that she hit him then and killed him in self-defense.”

“You could make quite a case that way,” Drake said.

“It’s a case that would appeal to the sympathies of the jurors all right, particularly in view of Fleetwood’s testimony. But what bothers me is that I can’t be certain it’s the truth. Mrs. Allred may be trying to climb aboard and ride along on Fleetwood’s story.”

“Well, what do you care? Fleetwood has to give her a free ride — now.”

“But I’m afraid to have her tied to something unless it’s the truth. Believe me, Paul, when you’re in a jam the truth is the only thing solid enough and substantial enough to rely on.”

“Of course, your client hasn’t been on the stand yet,” Drake pointed out. “The only one she’s told her story to is you.”

Mason said, “I’d like to reopen the case. I’d like to cross-examine Fleetwood a little more in detail about his reason for throwing the gun away, and just what he was trying to accomplish. And yet, there was something about the whole story...” Mason pushed the lunch dishes to one side, took the diagram Humphreys had made from his pocket and spread it on the table. He carefully studied the tracks.

“It’s mathematical,” Drake said. “That part of Fleetwood’s story has to be true. It’s corroborated by his tracks.”

Mason, studying the diagram Humphreys had given him, suddenly began to chuckle.

“What is it?” Drake asked.

“Darned if I know, Paul,” the lawyer said, “but I have an idea germinating in my mind. There’s a very strong possibility that Mrs. Allred is still lying to me.”

“You mean now?”

“Right now. That her present story is false.”

“But why would she do that?”

“Because Fleetwood has told such a damn good lie that she thinks there’s no use trying to fight against it, and because by corroborating Fleetwood’s story she stands a better chance of getting the sympathy of a jury than by telling the truth, which no one will believe.”