Erie Gardner: The Case of the Lazy Lover

“That all?”

“That’s all I can tell you. You’ll probably think of something else as you go along.”

Drake heaved himself up out of the chair. “How about this daughter, Patricia? Can I tell her about the wire?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Tell her I’m from you?”

Mason thought for a moment, then said, “Tell her you’re a newspaper reporter first. Let’s see what story she has for publication. Then tell her who you are and say you’re working for me. See if it changes her story.”

“Anything else?” Drake asked.

Mason said, “I don’t need to draw you a diagram, Paul. Police records are full of cases of wealthy wives who disappear, husbands who think up one story and then another. It all follows a pattern.”

“You mean the husband bops the wife over the head, puts the body in the cellar, pours on a little cement, and then tells the neighbors his spouse has gone to visit ‘Aunt Mary’?”

“That’s the general idea.”

“In this case there’s a second person, Fleetwood.”

“It may be a big cellar.”

“Not let anyone know what’s cooking, I suppose?”

“That’s right.”

“Shall I let Patricia know why you’re looking for Mom?”

“No. Let her do the talking — and acting.”

“Okay,” Drake said. “How soon do you want this stuff?”

“Soon as I can get it,” Mason said.

“You always do,” Drake told him, and went out.

Mason said to Della Street, “You hold the fort, Della. I’m going to take a run out to Las Olitas. With luck I can see the bank president before he goes to lunch.”

Las Olitas clung to the orchard covered foothills in drowsy contentment.

Here were the homes of ranchers who were making a good living from the country. Here also were the houses of wealthy people who had removed themselves from the hurry and the bustle of the city to the tranquillity of the rich little suburb.

Situated a thousand feet higher than the plain below, with a backdrop of rugged mountains behind it, Las Olitas was bathed in sunshine. From its residential section, one looked out over a bluish haze of atmospheric impurities to the place where the big city belched nauseous gases into the air.

It was a forty minute drive from Mason’s office to the main street of Las Olitas, and Mason paused for a moment to admire the clear blue sky, the slopes of the mountains in the background. Then the lawyer left his car in a parking lot and walked a short distance to the First National Bank.

The institution seemed to reflect the temperament of the community. Large, spacious and carefully designed by skillful architects, the bank was permeated with an atmosphere of placid stability.

Mason, running his eyes down the row of open offices back of a marble partition, found a brass plaque bearing the words, “C. E. Pawling, President.” Mason also noticed that Mr. Pawling was, for the moment, disengaged.

The lawyer moved over to the marble partition and studied the president, a man of around sixty who wore an expensively tailored suit with an air of distinction, whose keen, steady eyes managed to radiate a smiling welcome to the world at large, yet all the time those eyes were making a hard appraisal based on shrewd objective observation.

Mason bowed and the man behind the desk instantly arose and came over to the marble counter.

“My name is Mason,” the lawyer said.

Pawling extended his hand.

“I’m a lawyer.”

“Yes, Mr.... not Perry Mason?”

“Yes.”

“Well, well, Mr. Mason! This is indeed a pleasure! Won’t you come in? I’ve read a lot about you. Are you thinking of opening an account, Mr. Mason?”

“No,” Mason said, as he walked through the mahogany gate which the bank president had opened. “I came to see you about a matter which, quite frankly, has puzzled me — the matter having to do with the interest and welfare of one of your depositors.”

“Indeed, Mr. Mason. Do sit down. Tell me about it.”

Mason said, “I received a check in the mail this morning, a check drawn on this bank in an amount of twenty-five hundred dollars.”

“Ah, yes,” Pawling said, his tone indicating that twenty-five hundred dollar retainers could well be paid by the majority of the depositors in his bank.

“I deposited that check with my own bank in the city, the Farmers, Merchants & Mechanics Bank.”

Pawling nodded.

“You have perhaps heard about it?” Mason asked.

Pawling said suavely, “I’d have to learn more of the details, Mr. Mason.”

“The person who signed that check,” Mason said, “was Lola Faxon Allred. She has an account also at this same bank where I carry my account. In examining the signature on the check, the bank officials became suspicious, called in a handwriting expert, and the handwriting expert pronounced the check a forgery.”

“Indeed.”

“I suppose that you were notified.”

“What is it you wish, Mr. Mason?”

Mason said, “I also received another check from Lola Faxon Allred, in an amount of twenty-five hundred dollars.”

Pawling was sitting quite straight in his chair now, his head tilted slightly so that he would be sure to catch every word the lawyer said.

“That check,” Mason said, “was good as gold. It was sent me by way of a retainer to represent Mrs. Allred in certain matters which concerned her. I am, therefore, in the position of having been a recipient of a forged check and the payee in a genuine check. I am also in the position of being Mrs. Allred’s attorney.”

“Ah, yes,” Pawling said.

Mason said, “My client is not available at the moment.”

“Indeed.”

“It occurs to me that the check on this bank which I received may not have been the only forgery which was perpetrated. Mrs. Allred, I believe, customarily makes her checks on a typewriter, does she not?”

“I believe so. Yes.”

“And only the signature in her handwriting?”

Pawling nodded.

Mason said, “I gather from certain things that I learned, that her account here is not too active. Of course, if a bank pays a forged check, the liability is that of the bank. But, I feel certain that my client would wish to take immediate steps to see that no further forgeries are perpetrated.”

Pawling pressed a button on his desk.

A secretary appeared from an adjoining office, became instantly attentive.

Pawling said, “Will you please get me a statement of the account of Lola Faxon Allred and cover all of the windows. I want any checks that have been presented today on the account.”

The secretary withdrew.

Mason said, “Am I correct in assuming the account is not very active?”

“I believe Mrs. Allred likes to have large amounts of cash on hand. She likes to keep her affairs in a rather liquid condition. I am assuming that as Mrs. Allred’s lawyer, you will not ask for information which she would not care to have given to you.”

“I feel certain that I will make no such request.”

Pawling nodded.

The secretary returned carrying a letter and a canceled check.

“The cashier intended to call this matter to your attention at the bank meeting tomorrow. He thought perhaps you should know about it, although it seems to be entirely regular in form. You will notice that the letter is addressed to him.”

Pawling took the letter and the canceled check, held both documents guardedly so that Mason could not see them. He studied the letter and the check for a few seconds, then drummed silently with the tips of his fingers on the edge of the desk.

At length he looked up and nodded to his secretary, said, “That’s all.”

The girl withdrew. Pawling turned to Mason. His eyes were no longer smiling. They were hard and steady in their appraisal.