The Case of the Lazy Lover

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  “You girls drive on out Seventh Street, park the car at a point that’s far enough out so that my shadow can’t pick up a taxicab. You keep watch on the red interurban cars. I’ll be watching for you. When my car passes, I’ll signal you and you fall in behind the car. I’ll ride out to a point that’s sufficiently isolated, then get off. My shadow will, of course, be right behind me. But you’ll be there with the car. I’ll step into the automobile, and as I do so, I’ll tell you all about exactly how many minutes it took me to go from the terminal to the point where I got off. The shadow will think I was making some sort of a test to check up on the story of a witness and he’ll be left there twiddling his thumbs, hoping for a taxi, perhaps trying to stop some passing motorist and offer him five bucks to follow us.

  “The whole thing will depend on split-second timing. We want to get away from there fast, before the shadow can make any possible connections with any kind of transportation, so be sure we have a smooth, steady, well-timed operation that goes like clockwork.”

  “And then?” Della Street asked.

  Mason said, “Then you make the first turn off the main road and I’ll tell you where to go from there. We’ll wind up in Gertie’s apartment. Gertie, you’re inviting us to spend the day and to have dinner. We’ll pick up some food at a delicatessen place, and wait up in your apartment.”

  Gertie said, “Gee that’s swell. I just started one of those diets and I’ve counted calories until I feel like my belt buckle is scraping against my backbone. I’ve just been looking for a good excuse to throw the whole thing overboard, and I think this is it! You always did like tenderloin steaks, Mr. Mason, and my butcher said he’d been saving some for me. After all, when a girl changes from the status of an unattached female to a blushing bride, the occasion calls for some celebration.”

  Chapter 12

  It was seven-thirty. Out in Gertie’s kitchenette the girls were busy doing the dishes. They had been cooped up in the place all day, playing cards, listening to the radio, phoning Paul Drake, dozing fitfully.

  Perry Mason, sitting in one overstuffed chair which the apartment offered, chain smoked cigarettes and frowningly regarded the faded carpet. As Paul Drake had so aptly pointed out, it could well be a week before they found any trace of Bob Fleetwood.

  The open window on the shaft gave a partial ventilation, sufficient to let in some air, but not enough to dispel the heavy odors of cooking, the aroma of broiled steaks, of coffee.

  For the third time in ten minutes Mason glanced impatiently at his wrist watch.

  Abruptly the telephone rang.

  Mason jumped for the instrument, scooped the receiver off the hook, said, “Yes, hello.”

  Paul Drake’s voice, keen-edged with excitement, said, “We’ve got him, Perry!”

  “Got Fleetwood?”

  “That’s right!”

  “Where?”

  “He’s holed up at a little farmhouse—a little mountain ranch actually within five miles of where the car went off the grade.”

  “Wait a minute! Della, grab a notebook and get these directions as I repeat them. Go ahead, Paul.”

  Drake said, “At the foot of the grade you’ll see a sign on the right-hand side of the road that says, “Fifty miles of mountain grades ahead. Be sure you have plenty of oil, water and gas.’ Now you set your speedometer to zero at that sign.”

  “That’s at the foot of the grade?” Mason asked.

  “Right. It’s just before you start climbing, about a hundred yards or so.”

  “Okay, I’ve got it. Then what?”

  “You go exactly thirty-one and two-tenths miles from that sign,” Drake said. “That puts you well up in the mountains over the first ridge down in an elevated valley. There’s a stream running along in the valley, but it’s narrow and steep and you wouldn’t think there was any farming land within a hundred miles. But right at that point you’ll notice a side road that turns off. You follow that and it brings you to a little general store and post office at exactly one and four-tenths miles from the place where you turn off.

  “Now you go right past the post office and take the first road that turns off to the left. It’s a rocky dirt road that looks as though it would pinch out within the first hundred yards. It doesn’t It keeps on going. It’s a rough, twisting rocky road, but it climbs up a steep grade and brings you to a beautiful little elevated mountain plateau with some good ranch land, about ten or fifteen acres of fine mountain meadow. There are two little ranches up there. You want the first one. You’ll be able to spot it from the name on the mailbox. The name is P. E. Over-brook. I don’t think he has any idea about what’s going on. There’s no electric power of any sort on his place. He doesn’t have a radio.”

  “Does he know Fleetwood? Is it a hide out?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” Drake said. “All I know is that when my man stopped at the ranch he saw Fleetwood walking around the house. He only had Fleetwood’s description, but he’s pretty certain.”

  Mason repeated the names, distances and directions. “That right, Paul?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay,” Mason said. “We’re on our way. Are you in touch with your operative up there?”

  “There’s a telephone service at the general store, but I don’t know how long you can get him there. And remember that up in that country it’s all party line stuff. There’ll be a lot of people listening.”

  “I know,” Mason said. “If there should be any developments and you want to stop me, get someone up there to flag me down at the general store. We’ll make time.”

  “Okay.”

  Mason hung up the phone, turned to Della Street and said, “You got those down, Della? All those directions and names?”

  “I have them, Chief.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Within fifteen seconds from the time the lawyer had hung up the telephone they were scrambling out of the apartment, Gertie still rubbing the last of the hand lotion on her hands.

  Mason had taken the precaution to have his car filled with gas, and the machine, capable of road speeds in excess of ninety miles an hour, responded like a race horse as the lawyer struck the through-boulevard, crowding the speed limit, but keeping just under a rate which might result in a jail sentence.

  Leaving the outskirts of the city, Mason stepped on the gas, and by nine-fifty had left Springfield behind and was climbing through the mountains.

  Twenty minutes later, Della Street, who’d been watching the speedometer, said, “You’re getting close, Chief.”

  Mason slowed the car, while Della Street watched for the turn-off.

  Within a few minutes they had made the turn-off, gone over the dirt road past the post office, found the left-hand turn and were climbing over a narrow, rocky road that twisted and turned up a steep grade, then debouched onto a mountain plateau.

  There was a barbed wire fence on one side of the road. The headlights illuminated the rich green of the pasture land. A hundred yards farther on the headlights were reflected from the aluminum paint on a mailbox. The name P. E. OVERBROOK had been stenciled on the metal and Mason turned in on a short driveway.

  The house was dark, and behind it a barn silhouetted itself against the stars. A dog started frenzied barking and the beam from the headlights reflected back in blazing points from the animal’s eyes.

  Mason shut off the motor.

  There was no noise, save the barking of the dog, and after a moment, little crackling noises which came from under the hood as the cold night air of the mountains pressed against the heated automobile engine.

  The dog ran up to the car, barking, circling, smelling of the tires, but not growling.

  Mason said, “I think he’s friendly,” and opened the car door.

  The dog came running up to walk stiff-legged behind the lawyer, smelling at his calves.

  Mason called out, “Hello, anyone home?”

  There was the flicker of a match, then after a moment, the reddis
h glow of an oil lamp.

  “Hello! What is it?” a man’s voice asked.

  “A very important message for you,” Mason said. “Open the door, will you?”

  “All right. Wait a minute.”

  They could see a bulky shadow moving around the room. Then, after a moment, the brilliant glare of a gasoline lantern gave additional illumination. They heard steps in the house and the door opened.

  Overbrook, a big sleepy giant of a man with a nightshirt tucked into the waistband of jeans, was standing in the doorway, holding a gasoline lantern.

  “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, weighing 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 positi
on.

  “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 back right 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.

  Mason shook hands with Overbrook. “It’s a shame we had to disturb you,” he said, “but you know how amnesia victims are. We didn’t dare to wait until tomorrow morning. He might have got up at any time during the night, had no recollection of where he was, and started out into the night.”

  “Oh I remember being here, all right,” Fleetwood said. “You can leave me here. I’ll go back tomorrow.”

  Mason smiled indulgently. “How did you get here, William?” he asked.

  “I walked.”

  “From where?”

  “The highway.”

  “And how did you get to the highway? Did you ride with someone?”

  “I hitched a ride.”

  “From where?” Mason asked.

  Fleetwood met Mason’s eyes with sudden, cold hostility.

  “From where?” Mason repeated crisply. “Come on, William, from where?”

  “I don’t know,” Fleetwood said doggedly.

  “You see,” Mason said to Overbrook, and then added, “I really shouldn’t have done that, but I thought perhaps I could push his mind back to some point where he could begin to remember. Let’s go, Gertie. Come on, William.”

  Mason took Fleetwood’s right arm, Gertie his left. They started him for the door.

  For a moment, Fleetwood hung back, then sullenly accompanied them.

  “I don’t feel you’re my wife,” he blurted to Gertie, as he hesitated for a moment on the front porch.

  Gertie laughed nervously and said, “You didn’t last time, either, and then for a while you thought you were living in sin.” She laughed hysterically. “You, after five years of married life! Come on, darling.”