The Case of the Lazy Lover

10

The night garage man at the Westwick Hotel Apartments regarded the ten dollar bill which Mason handed him with eager appraisal.

“Who do you want killed, buddy?” he asked.

“Know anything about Maurine Milford?”

The man grinned. “Why?”

“Just wondering.”

“Not much.”

“Perhaps whatever it is will help.”

“Shucks,” the night man said. “I hate to take the money for what little I know, because it isn’t worth the ten bucks.”

Nevertheless, he folded Mason’s bill and pushed it down deep in his pocket.

“You can’t ever tell,” Mason said. “What is it?”

“The day man told me she slipped him a five buck tip to keep her car shined up and polished. The day man doesn’t have anything to do with that stuff. I do the work. The day man offered to split the tip with me, but I told him I thought I could get another five. Well, sure enough, this Milford woman was in the first part of the evening and took her car out. I gave it a few finishing touches. I told her I hadn’t had a chance to really work on it, but that I would when she brought it back. I managed to get it across to her that it was the night man that did the work.”

“So what?”

The man grinned and said, “A five. Added to your ten, that makes fifteen bucks for the night. That’s something!”

“And when did she bring the car back?”

“She hasn’t brought it back. Looks like an all night party to me.”

Mason said, “What do you do to keep yourself occupied down here?”

“What do I do? Gosh, buddy, I have all these cars to dust off, and the windshields have to be washed. I...”

“And then what do you do when it gets along in the small hours of the morning like this?”

The garage man grinned and said, “After all, ten bucks is ten bucks. I guess there’s no reason you and I shouldn’t get along. I pick a car that has nice comfortable cushions and a damn good car radio. I park it out where I can see the entrance in case anybody comes in, and turn on the radio and sit there and listen to whatever all night program is on. Some of them are pretty terrible, but it beats standing around on a cold cement floor and biting your fingernails. Then when you see someone coming in, you jump out of the car, switch off the radio, start scrubbing away at the windshield or polishing a fender. Like I was doing when you came in, buddy.”

Mason said, “Move over, we’ll listen to the radio together.”

“What’s your racket?” the man asked.

Mason said, “I’m sort of strong for the Milford girl.”

“Oh, oh! Beg your pardon, buddy — what I said about an all night party. I don’t know her at all. I was just shooting off my face.”

“It’s okay,” Mason said. “What station did you have on?”

“It’s some recordings,” the man said. “Not bad. They’ll come on with a breakfast program in about an hour and a half.”

“Disc jockey?”

“Oh, so so. He is pretty crude and amateurish, but he’s probably practicing up for daytime stuff. This is a good radio.”

Mason climbed in the car and sat with the night man. The radio warmed up and a record of cowboy music filled their ears.

“I like this stuff,” the garage man said. “Always wanted to be a cowboy — so I turn up washing off windshields at night. Helluva life!”

“Darned if it isn’t,” Mason agreed. “Will you have a smoke?”

“I’m sorry, buddy, but I don’t smoke in a car. There’s always the chance that the man who owns this particular heap might come walking in and...”

“Sorry,” Mason apologized.

“Get out and walk around when you want to smoke,” the man invited. “And then get back... oh, oh!”

His hand snaked out, turned off the radio.

“Out,” he said out of the side of his mouth, “quick.”

Mason opened the car on the right and slid out to the cement floor.

The garage man, with a rag in his hand, was assiduously polishing the fender on the car, as headlights came down the ramp from the street.

The night man put down the rag on the fender, walked across to the automobile, said, “Okay, I’ve got it.”

“Hello,” Patricia Faxon said as she jumped out of the car with a quick, lithe motion. “Guess I was out pretty late, wasn’t I?”

The night man merely grinned at her.

“Do the best you can with the car,” she said. “It’s streaked up a bit. When can I get it washed?”

“Not until tomorrow.”

“Well, that’s okay. Do the best you can with it. I...”

She suddenly stiffened at sight of Perry Mason.

“Hello,” the lawyer said.

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk with you.”

“How long have you been here?”

Mason merely smiled, said, “Let’s do our talking in your apartment, Patricia.”

“At this hour?” she asked.

Mason nodded.

She regarded him for a long moment with hesitant appraisal; then she led the way to the elevator shaft and pressed the button.

The elevator was on automatic at this hour of the night, and it responded promptly.

Mason held the door open for her. She entered the cage. Mason followed her. The door slid shut and Patricia pushed the button for the eighth floor.

Mason said, “I thought you were the frightened girl who couldn’t get back here fast enough.”

“I changed my mind.”

“What caused you to change your mind?”

She pretended not to hear him. The elevator stopped at the eighth floor. They walked down the corridor together. Patricia fitted a latchkey to the door, said, “I suppose you know you’re kicking my good name out of the window.”

Mason didn’t say anything.

She switched on lights in the apartment. Mason closed the door.

She said, “I’m going to fix myself a drink. A big one. What do you want?”

“What are you having?”

“Scotch and soda.”

“Okay by me. Where have you been, Pat?”

“Out.”

Mason said, “We might get farther if you’d be more co-operative.”

She laughed breezily and said, “I’ve heard that before somewhere. Believe it or not, I just drove out here from our house in the city.”

Mason followed her out into the kitchenette. She took a bottle of Scotch from the shelf, then took out two glasses; then she took ice cubes from the refrigerator.

“Been drizzling up in the mountains,” the lawyer said. “Rather nasty weather.”

“Is that so?”

“And,” the lawyer went on, “I noticed that your car was pretty much of a mess. Evidently you’ve had it out where it’s wet.”

She splashed Scotch into the glasses without bothering with the jigger measure that was on the shelf by the Scotch bottle.

“See your mother?” Mason asked.

She said, “You’ll find soda in the icebox, Mr. Mason.”

“See your mother?” he repeated, taking a siphon of soda water from the refrigerator.

“I think I want to let this drink take effect before I do any talking at all.”

“What’s the matter?” the lawyer asked. “Something to conceal?”

She made no answer, but led the way back to the living room, took a quick drink from the glass, said, “What’s this going to be, the third-degree?”

“Not unless it has to be. I want to know whether you saw your mother.”

“I...”

Knuckles tapped gently on the panel of the door. For one panic-stricken second, Patricia pretended not to hear them. Then the chimes sounded and Mason said casually, “Do you want to open the door, Pat, or shall I?”

Without a word, she put her drink on the stand by her chair, walked across and opened the door.

A woman’s voice said, “Thank heavens, you’re up, Pat. I...”

She broke off at the sight of Mason.

For a moment, she and Pat faced each other. Then the elder woman said, “I’m sorry. I guess I have the wrong apartment. I...”

“Come on in, Mrs. Allred,” Mason said. “One would hardly take you for Pat’s mother. You look more like her sister.”

She smiled and said, “It’s a nice opening line. I’ve heard it before. Aren’t you keeping Pat up rather late?”

Mason said, “It isn’t a line and it isn’t flattery. You might call it a professional appraisal of an article of merchandise I may have to sell to a jury.”

Patricia closed the door. “Perry Mason, Mother.”

“Oh!” she said in a single sharp exclamation.

“We’re having a drink,” Patricia went on. “You must be cold.”

“I’m numb,” her mother admitted.

“I’ll fix you one.”

Mrs. Allred smiled vaguely at Mason, hesitated a moment, then followed her daughter into the kitchen.

“Have any trouble getting in?” Patricia asked.

She said, “The night man at the desk was a little dubious, but I flashed him a smile and walked directly to the elevator with all of the assurance in the world. He finally decided I belonged here.”

“There’s ice there in the refrigerator, Mother. You want bourbon and soda?”

“That’s right.”

Mason could hear the gurgle of liquid, the clink of ice in a glass, then the sibilants of swift whispers.

The lawyer settled back in his chair, lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, arose politely when the two women reentered the room.

“Got it all fixed up?” Mason asked.

“What?” Patricia asked. “The drink?”

“No. The story.”

Patricia glared at him. Both women sat down.

Mason said, “You can beat around the bush if you want to. I don’t know how much time we have.”

Patricia said, “I told Mr. Mason about Bob Fleetwood, Mother. He knows how things are.”

Mrs. Allred said, “After all, Mr. Mason, I have nothing to conceal. I found accommodations at a little tourist camp up in the mountains. I had previously telephoned my husband where we would be, and he said he was coming up to join us.”

“Did he?”

She hesitated.

“Go on,” Mason said. “Let’s hear the story.”

She said, “Bob and I had a couple of drinks, killing time and waiting. Then Bob excused himself to go to the bathroom. He was in there quite a while. After a while I called to him to find out if he was all right. There was no answer. The door was locked from the inside.

“I was in a panic. I thought perhaps he’d taken something, or — well, you know, it could have been suicide.”

“But it wasn’t?”

“He had the key to the other cabin. I ran around to try the outside door of that cabin. It was open. The bathroom door on that side was open. He hadn’t stopped in the bathroom at all. He’d locked the door to my side, walked right on through, gone out the other door, taken my car and driven away.”

“Didn’t you hear your car when it drove away?” Mason asked.

“I heard it, but thought it was some other tenant. I didn’t have any idea it was my car. I’d left it parked in the driveway.”

“Where did he go?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did you do?”

“I walked out to the road,” she said, “and hitchhiked in. I don’t want to have that experience again.”

“How about your luggage?”

She said, “I had a small suitcase with me. I’d taken it out because there was a flask of whisky in it. We were waiting for Bertrand to join us.”

“Did Fleetwood know that?”

“Yes.”

“Had he recovered his memory?”

“No. He was all right otherwise, but he hadn’t recovered his memory.”

“And what about your husband?”

“I don’t know what happened to him, Mr. Mason. He never did show up.”

“You didn’t wait to find out, did you?”

“He was long overdue when Bob took the car. I... well, I don’t know what happened.”

“Did you try calling your house?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“What happened?”

“There was no answer.”

“No servants?”

“They sleep over the garage. They wouldn’t answer a phone at night.”

“So then you went out to the highway and hitchhiked back?”

“Yes.”

“Get the name of the motorist who took you in?”

“Motorists,” she said, making an exaggerated “s” sound. “That s-s-s-s-s stands for plural. There were three of them in succession. The last man was an old man.”

“Did he drive you directly here?”

“No. He got me in to where I could get a taxicab, however.”

“And your suitcase? Were you lying about leaving it in the car?”

“I left it at the depot. I checked it because I thought I might have some trouble getting in here with a suitcase. I thought I could walk in and get to Pat’s apartment all right, if I didn’t have a suitcase. If I did have, I knew I’d be stopped and have to make explanations.”

“Why didn’t you want to explain?”

“I wasn’t ready.”

“Why didn’t you go home?”

“Because I... because I was afraid to.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It was just a hunch I had. I wanted to be with Pat.”

“You telephoned your husband earlier in the evening and told him where you would be?”

“That’s right.”

“And he was to come right up?”

“As soon as he could get away. He said he’d be up about ten o’clock.”

“And how about Pat?”

“What about her?”

“Did you telephone her?”

For a moment, there was silence.

Mason said, “Of course, the police will check the calls.”

“What do the police have to do with it?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said, and then added significantly, “yet.”

“I don’t see where it needs to concern the police at all.”

“How many drinks had Fleetwood had?”

“A couple. We didn’t start drinking until after dinner. I guess it was about nine o’clock when we started drinking.”

“Were they loaded pretty heavy?”

“He seemed to be pretty thirsty,” she admitted. “I held him down as much as I could.”

“How big a flask?”

“A pint.”

“Any left in it?”

“No.”

“Did you telephone Pat?”

“Yes.”

“Ask Pat to come up?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I... I wasn’t certain that what I was doing was for the best. I wanted to have a showdown.”

“Tell your husband that over the telephone?”

“No. I didn’t phone Pat until nine o’clock, just before the office at the Snug-Rest closed up. Bob stole my car shortly after I called.”

“What did you tell Pat over the phone?”

“Just where I was, is all.”

“Ask her to come up?”

“Not directly.”

Mason looked at Patricia.

“I tried to call you,” she said. “You didn’t answer.”

“And why didn’t you call the Drake Detective Agency?”

“I thought I’d have a talk with Mother first.”

“Did you?”

“The cabin was empty when I got there.”

“You went in?”

“Yes.”

Mason turned to Mrs. Allred. “How long did it take you to get here?”

“I don’t know. I guess it was hours. Sometimes car after car would go by without stopping. Then the people who did stop seemed to want to go up the side roads. It was an experience I wouldn’t want to repeat. I’m a little hazy on the time element.”

“Yes,” Mason said drily, “I can see you are. You both are.”

Mason walked across to the telephone and was just about to pick up the receiver, when knuckles pounded on the door of the apartment.

“Good heavens,” Mrs. Allred said. “Who’s that?”

The knuckles pounded again, harder, more authoritatively.

Mason said, swiftly, “Both of you get this. Don’t do any talking. Let me do the talking.”

“But won’t it be worse if we don’t explain?”

“Don’t say anything,” Mason warned. “Let me do the talking.”

The chimes sounded, and again there was the sound of knuckles. Mason walked across and opened the door.

Lieutenant Tragg of the city homicide squad and Frank Inman of the sheriff’s office seemed far more surprised to see Mason than the lawyer was to see them.

“Come in,” Mason invited.

“What the hell,” Tragg said.

Mason said, “Mrs. Allred, this is Frank Inman of the sheriff’s office, and Lieutenant Tragg of the homicide squad. Gentlemen, this is Mrs. Bertrand C. Allred and her daughter, Patricia Faxon. Miss Faxon has rented this apartment under the name of Maurine Milford, because she is intending to become an authoress. She wanted a place where she could write without being disturbed.”

“Mrs. Allred, eh? Well, well, well,” Lieutenant Tragg said sarcastically. “And we have a Master of Ceremonies too! Suppose you let the women do the talking for a while, Mason.”

“Mrs. Allred has a cold,” Mason said, “and her daughter has a slight impediment of speech. Suppose you do the talking first.”

Tragg said, “You’re sure this is Mrs. Allred, Mason?”

“Her daughter should be sure.”

Tragg said to Mrs. Allred, “You ran away with Bob Fleetwood, didn’t you, Mrs. Allred?”

She started to answer the question.

Mason held up his hand, said, “Tut, tut, gentlemen. Can’t we be more diplomatic?”

Inman said, “What the hell are you doing in this, anyway?”

Tragg said, “He’s the mouthpiece. The fact he’s here at all is the best indication of guilt I know.”

Mason laughed and said, “As a matter of fact, I’m here on a civil case.”

“How do you know we aren’t?” Inman demanded.

“Merely from the personnel,” Mason said. “Suppose you tell us what’s happened?”

“We’d like to have some questions answered first.”

Mason said, “We’re allergic to questions until we know what happened.”

Inman said, “What the hell! I can take these women down and throw them in the hoosegow if I have to.”

“Sure you can,” Mason said, “and I can get a writ of habeas corpus if I have to.”

Tragg said, “This isn’t getting us anywhere. All right, if you want it the hard way, we’ll take it the hard way. When did you see Bob Fleetwood last, Mrs. Allred?”

“I... I...”

“Find out the reason for the question before you answer it, Mrs. Allred,” Mason said.

Tragg flushed. “All right, I’ll give you the reason for the question. Mrs. Allred’s automobile was found down at the bottom of a canyon on a mountain road. Bob Fleetwood was in it, and he was quite dead. Now suppose you do some talking, Mrs. Allred.”

“Bob Fleetwood dead!” she exclaimed.

“That’s what I said.”

“Take it easy,” Mason cautioned.

“Why,” she exclaimed, “he must have had too much to drink, then. He...”

“What was he doing driving your car in the first place?”

She said, “I don’t know. He simply took my car and drove away.”

“Without your permission?”

Mason stepped behind Tragg, frowned at her, and placed a finger to his lips.

She said, “That must explain everything. He was trying to get away. I thought he was suffering from amnesia, but I knew it might be just a gag. I told him I was his sister and he seemed to believe that and seemed perfectly willing to wait for his mind to clear.”

“This is a hell of a mixed up statement,” Inman said.

Tragg motioned him to silence and glanced significantly at Perry Mason. “We’re lucky to get anything,” he said, in a low voice.

Mrs. Allred said somewhat defiantly, “Mr. Mason, under the circumstances, I don’t see why we should run the risk of being misunderstood. I think that these people are entitled to a frank statement of what happened. Mr. Fleetwood was suffering from amnesia. I tried to bring him back to familiar surroundings by posing as his sister. I told him my husband was his brother-in-law. We thought that would keep him quiet and keep him from worrying, and would give his mind a chance to clear.

“We were staying at a motor court, and I was waiting for my husband. I had a flask of whisky and Bob Fleetwood had several drinks. He kept loading them pretty heavy. I tried to get him to stop, but he stayed with it until he emptied the flask.”

“You drink anything?” Lieutenant Tragg asked.

“I drank just as much as I felt that I could. I knew that after he got started, Bob was going to empty the flask, and I didn’t want him to do that. I mean I didn’t want him to get tight. I knew that every drop that I drank would leave that much less for him. I...”

“How many drinks did you have?”

“I had two. He had three.”

“Then what?”

“Then he took my car and started back to town.”

“Without your permission?”

“Yes.”

“Without your knowledge?”

“Yes.”

“And then what happened?”

“That’s all I know, but if he had an accident — well, it was on account of the liquor he’d been drinking. You can check that in some way, can’t you? Can’t you analyze his blood and find out?”

“Sure, we can,” Lieutenant Tragg said, “but we’d like to know a few things first.”

“What?”

“Well, in the first place,” Tragg said, “we came up here on sort of a blind lead. The officers who investigated the automobile accident found a key to these tourist cabins in the car. They went up to the tourist cabins and found they were empty. Then they got the manager out of bed and she told them about renting the cabin to Fleetwood and his sister and said you’d put through a couple of calls from the office just before the place closed up. The boys checked the numbers of those calls. One of them was to the Allred residence and the other one was here. They phoned us to investigate. There was no one at the Allred residence, so we came up here. We hardly expected to find you.”

“Well, I can explain everything. That’s exactly the way it happened.”

“Is it customary for the homicide squad to investigate automobile accidents?” Mason asked drily.

“Shut up, wise guy,” Inman said.

Tragg kept his eyes on Mrs. Allred, held her attention so that she failed to appreciate the significance of the lawyer’s remark.

“And you think Bob Fleetwood drove your car off the road?”

“I’m quite certain he did.”

“You think he was drunk?”

“He’d been drinking. I didn’t think he was drunk. No. But if he drove the car off the road, he must have been.”

“Well,” Tragg said, “there are a couple more things you’d better explain. One of them was why the car was locked in low gear when it was driven off the road.”

Mason said, “After all, Mrs. Allred, why don’t you wait until you know exactly what Tragg wants, before you...”

“Don’t try to lock the stable door after the horse has been stolen,” Tragg said.

Mason said, “I merely wanted to...”

“And while you’re explaining that,” Tragg said, “you might also explain how it happens that there’s blood on the carpet of the luggage compartment in your automobile.”

“Blood on the luggage compartment in my automobile?” she asked incredulously.

“That’s right.”

“Why, I... I haven’t the faintest idea how... you’re sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure.”

“I...”

Knuckles tapped on the door of the apartment.

Frank Inman opened it.

A plain-clothes officer stepped inside and said to Tragg, “Lieutenant, may I talk with you a moment? There’s some additional information just came in over the police radio in the car.”

Tragg stepped out in the corridor. Inman said to Mason, “As far as I’m concerned, we can get along without you.”

Mason merely smiled.

Lieutenant Tragg came back and said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Allred. I made a mistake.”

He was watching her with narrowed eyes.

“You mean there wasn’t an automobile accident? You mean my car didn’t go over the grade?”

“No,” Tragg said. “I mean that there was an accident. I mean that your car did go over the grade. I mean that there’s a dead man locked in the car, and I mean the car was deliberately driven over the grade in low gear. The thing I made the mistake on was the identity of the body. When the police made the first identification, they got off wrong because they found a billfold containing a driving license, social security number and a few other things belonging tb Robert Gregg Fleetwood; but after a while they also uncovered a billfold of someone else, and when they saw the descriptions they came to the conclusion that the dead man had been carrying Fleetwood’s billfold, but wasn’t Fleetwood at all.”

“Then who was he?” Mrs. Allred asked.

Tragg snapped the information at her as though he had been turning the words into bullets, “Your husband, Bertrand C. Allred,” he said. “Now tell us how he got in your car and was driven off the grade.”

“Why, I... I...”

“And how blood got over the carpet on the luggage compartment of your automobile.”

She hesitated. Her eyes wide with tragic appeal, she looked at Mason.

Frank Inman saw the glance. He stepped forward and took Mason’s arm. “And as far as you’re concerned,” he said to the lawyer, “this is where you came in and this is where you go out. Hold everything, Lieutenant.”

Tragg said, “I’d like an answer to that question now.”

Inman, taking Mason’s arm, pushed him out toward the corridor.

Mason said, “You can’t keep me from advising my client.”

“The hell I can’t,” Inman said. “I can put you out of here, and if you get rough I’ll get a damn sight rougher.”

Mason said over his shoulder, “Mrs. Allred, your rights are being curtailed. As your lawyer, I advise you to say absolutely nothing until the officers cease these highhanded methods. I want your silence not to be considered as any indication of guilt, or because you’re afraid anything you say might incriminate you, but simply as a protest against the highhanded and illegal methods of these police officers.”

Lieutenant Tragg said irritably to Inman, “You’ve done it, now. You’ve given him a chance to make a speech and make a good excuse.”

“I don’t give a damn,” Inman said. “That woman’s either going to explain her dead husband, or she’s going to be put under arrest.”

Mason said, “You can always reach me at my office, Mrs. Allred, or through the Drake Detective Agency.”

“Come on,” Tragg said, “we’re going to take a ride. Both of you women are going to headquarters.”

Inman pushed Mason out into the corridor, pulled the door of the apartment shut.

Mason walked down the corridor, took the elevator down to the lobby and said to the sleepy night clerk, “Where’s the phone booth?”

The night clerk regarded him curiously. “You live here?” he asked.

“No,” Mason said. “I’m an investor. I’m thinking of buying this hotel merely as an investment. How much do you suppose I should raise wages in order to get courtesy from the employees?”

The night clerk smiled dubiously, said, “The telephone booth is over there, in the corner.”

Mason went over and phoned Paul Drake’s office.

“Where’s Paul?” he asked the night operator.

“He went home and went to bed, said not to disturb him for anything short of murder.”

Mason grinned. “Okay, ring him up. Tell him that you’re following his instructions to the letter.”

“What do you mean?”

Mason said, “I mean that Bertrand C. Allred was murdered up on the mountain grade above Springfield. Then he was locked up in Mrs. Allred’s car, the car put in low gear and driven down over a steep grade. Drake has a man in Springfield. Tell him to get that man on the phone and have him start up there in a hurry! I want information, I want photographs and I want Fleetwood. You get that all down?”

“Yes, Mr. Mason. Do you want to talk with Mr. Drake?”

“Not now,” Mason said. “I’m working on another angle of the case and I don’t want to be tied up in a telephone booth when the time comes for action.”

He hung up, left the telephone booth, strolled to the door of the lobby, and looked out.

It was getting daylight. The sun was not up as yet, and the street outside showed cold and gray in the colorless light of dawn.

A police car with red spotlight and siren was parked at the curb. The radio antenna was stretched to its full capacity. The plain-clothes officer who had taken the message to Lieutenant Tragg was seated behind the wheel. The motor was running, and little puffs of white smoke put-put-put-put-put-putted from the end of the exhaust.

Mason stood there looking out of the door for a matter of some five minutes. The light strengthened. The objects on the street began to show color.

Mason glanced at his wrist watch, stretched, yawned and strolled over to glance at the indicator of the automatic elevator. It was still on the eighth floor.

The lawyer pressed the button which brought the elevator back down to the ground floor. He opened the door just far enough to break the electrical contact and kept the door from closing by inserting a pencil between the door and the door jamb. He then took a seat in the lobby, near the elevator.

Another ten minutes, and Mason heard a faint buzzing from the interior of the elevator, indicating that someone was trying to put it in service.

He walked over, removed the pencil from the door, opened the door, got in the elevator and let the spring on the door pull the door shut. As soon as the door snapped into position, the mechanism of the elevator gave a sharp, metallic click, and the cage started rumbling upward.

Mason stood over in the corner where he would be out of sight to anyone opening the door.

The cage lumbered up to the eighth floor, came to a stop.

The doors were opened. Inman pushed Mrs. Allred and Patricia into the elevator, followed them in. Tragg entered the elevator and closed the door. Inman said, “And if your lawyer is waiting in the lobby, don’t try to talk with him. You get me?”

They turned to face the door, and Mrs. Allred gasped as she saw Mason.

Inman jerked his head at the sound of the gasp. His hand started streaking for his gun. Then he stopped the motion midway to his holster.

“Ground floor?” Mason asked, and promptly pressed the button.

The cage started rumbling down to the ground floor.

Tragg said drily to Inman, “I told you he was smart.”

“What have you told them?” Mason asked Mrs. Allred.

“Shut up,” Inman said.

“Nothing at all,” Mrs. Allred said. “I followed instructions.”

“Keep on following them,” Mason said. “They’ll try everything in their power to make you talk. Simply tell them that your silence is a protest against their highhanded methods and that you want to have an interview with your attorney before you say anything. Remember that you were making a full and frank statement of everything that had happened until they became arbitrary and started pushing me around.”

Inman said, “It’s a big temptation to really start pushing you around!”

“Don’t lose your temper,” Mason told him. “It runs up your blood pressure and makes your face look like hell.”

Tragg said wearily, “Don’t be a damn fool, Inman! He’s trying to get you to start something. It’ll sound like hell in front of a jury.”

Inman lapsed into sullen silence.

The cage lurched to a stop at the ground floor.

Mason opened the door, said, “Ground floor, ladies and gentlemen. Department of frame-ups just ahead of you — separate cells, phony confessions, telling the daughter her mother’s confessed, telling the mother the daughter’s confessed, throwing in the stool pigeons and detectives as cell mates, and all the usual police traps, right this way!”

Inman pushed the women out into the lobby, turned back toward Mason, suddenly cocked his fist.

Lieutenant Tragg grabbed his arm.

The officers marched the women across the lobby to the police car, and drove away.

Mason sighed wearily, walked across the street to where he had left his own car parked, climbed in and started the motor.