The Case of the Lazy Lover

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 the 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 odometer 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 i 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. Overbrook. 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 distances 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 odometer, 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 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 reddish 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, weight 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 position.

“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 right back 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.”

They trooped out to the automobile. The dog, having accepted them now as visitors who had been given the approval of his master, stood to one side, gently wagging his tail. Overbrook, in the doorway, beamed at them with a broad, good-natured smile.

Mason opened the door of the automobile.

Fleetwood hesitated.

Gertie gave him a swift push that sent him scrambling into the machine.

“Come on,” Gertie said. “Don’t think you’re going to get away from me again. You poor darling.”

Mason said to Della Street, “You’d better drive the car, Della,” and climbed in the back seat with Gertie and Fleetwood.

Della Street turned the car, blatted the horn in three quick blasts by way of salute, waved at Overbrook, and started back along the dirt road.

“Just what do you folks want?” Fleetwood asked.

“We want you,” Mason said.

“Well, what right have you got to take me with you? I don’t want to go with you. Let me out of the car!”

Mason said, “Why, William, do you want to leave your wife?”

“She isn’t my wife!”

“How do you know she isn’t?”

Gertie leaned over and kissed him affectionately. “Just wait, darling.”

“Say, what is this?” Fleetwood asked.

Mason said, “Of course, there could be a mistake.”

“I’ll say there’s a mistake!”

“In case you aren’t William Raymond,” Mason said, “then your name is Robert Gregg Fleetwood, and there are a few things the police want you to explain. Now tell me, William, do you think you’re William Raymond, or do you think you’re Robert Gregg Fleetwood?”

“I tell you I don’t know who I am!”

“Well, we’ll do the best we can to straighten you out,” Mason said.

“Who is this Fleetwood?”

“Oh, just another man who disappeared, the victim of amnesia. The police are looking for him.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing. I’m not going to stay with you until I know who I am. I don’t like the idea of this woman claiming I’m her husband.”

“Do you think you’re Fleetwood?”

“No.”

“Then you must be William Raymond.”

“You stop the car and let me out of here. I guess I have some rights.”

Mason said, “Let’s look at it this way. Either you’re William Raymond or you’re Fleetwood. Now if you think that you’re being abused, we’ll take you right to police headquarters, and you can tell your story there. They’ll have a psychiatrist who will do the best for you. They’ll either hypnotize you or give you a good dose of scopolamine. That’ll start you talking and make you tell the truth. The drug lulls the conscious mind into oblivion and is the same as a hypnosis. It makes the subconscious take over. You’ll answer questions just as a person talking in his sleep will answer questions.”

“I don’t want to go to any police station,” Fleetwood said in sudden panic.

“Well, you’re either going to a police station or going home with Gertie. Just make up your mind which.”

Fleetwood said to Gertie, “Okay. This is a game two can play at. If you want to play married, it’s okay by me. You’re a nice looking dish at that.”

Mason said, abruptly, “Did you murder Bertrand Allred, Fleetwood?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“When did you last see Allred?”

“I don’t know any Allred.”

Mason said, suavely, “Now, this was after you had lost your memory, Fleetwood. Amnesia victims remember everything that happened after their initial loss of memory. In other words, you remember starting out with the woman who said she was your older sister and then you both took her car and drove off — and then you met her husband. Do you remember that?”

“I don’t remember anything.”

“Since when?”

“I don’t have to answer your questions. Who are you, anyway?”

Mason said, “You’d have to answer police questions.”

“Why do you keep calling me Fleetwood?”

“Because you’re either Fleetwood, in which event you’re going to police headquarters; or you’re William Raymond, in which event you’re going home. Now just who do you think you are?”

“I guess I’m William Raymond if this girl says so,” Fleetwood said.

“I certainly should know my own husband,” Gertie said in mock indignation.

“Now, look,” Fleetwood said, suddenly suspicious. “I’m not going through any marriage ceremonies with any woman and I’m not going to register anywhere with any woman as husband and wife. I’m not going to get trapped into any common law marriage, or anything of that sort!”

“Listen to him,” Gertie said reproachfully. “He wants to get away from me. Why, darling, before we were married, you told me I was the only woman in the world for you, that...”

“For God’s sake, will you shut up!” Fleetwood shouted.

“And then, of course,” Mason went on suavely, “if you are Fleetwood, there’s a man by the name of George Jerome who wants to talk with you, and another man named Keith, who is very anxious to get in touch with you. I could probably get myself a piece of change by delivering you to either one of them. Keith, in particular, is very anxious to get in touch with you. Nice fellow, Keith. Do you know him?”

“I don’t know anyone!”

“Now, William, don’t be difficult,” Gertie said chidingly.

“God, but you get in my hair!” Fleetwood said.

“I’m being rebuffed,” Gertie said archly, “and by my own husband. That wasn’t the way you talked five years ago, that moonlit night on the lake, William.”

Della Street reached the paved highway, turned back down the mountains, sent the car gliding smoothly along the curves.

“I could bust my way out of here, you know,” Fleetwood said. “I don’t see anyone who’s going to stop me.”

“Look again,” Mason told him.

“This is kidnaping. You know what that means.”

“It’s not kidnaping. I’ve simply found a victim of amnesia. I’m taking him to police headquarters.”

“Me? Police headquarters?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t want to go to police headquarters.”

“If you want to make the situation entirely legal,” Mason said, “that’s the place for you.”

“Who said anything about making it legal?”

“You didn’t want to come with me of your own free will,” Mason said. “You called it kidnaping. You’re mentally sick. You admit that you don’t know who you are. Perhaps, after all, Gertie has made a mistake, and police headquarters is the best place for you.”

“Suppose I remembered who I was? Then you’d have to turn me loose.”

“Then,” Mason admitted, “I’d have to turn you loose. Who are you, Fleetwood?”

Fleetwood hesitated for nearly ten seconds. “I don’t know,” he said at length.

“Well,” Mason told him, “if you’re William Raymond, you go with Gertie. If you’re Robert Fleetwood, you go to police headquarters.”

Fleetwood settled back in the cushions and said, “Okay, I go with Gertie. I guess it won’t be so bad, after all. Give me a kiss, sweetheart.”

“Not now,” Gertie said, suddenly cold. “You’ve repulsed me in public. I don’t know but what perhaps I’ll get a divorce.”

Fleetwood, suddenly beginning to enjoy the situation, said, “But I didn’t know who you were then, darling.”

“Do you now?”

“No, but I’m willing to take your word for it. I don’t give a damn whether you love me or not. You’re married to me.”

“No,” Gertie said, drawing away from him. “I’ve had a stroke of amnesia myself. I can’t remember who you are. I think you’re a stranger.”

Fleetwood said, “The whole outfit is nuts. Let me out of here!”

Della kept driving smoothly.

Mason gave himself to silent smoking.

After a while Fleetwood said, “Who’s this Allred you’ve been talking about?”

“I thought you might recognize the name.”

“It sounds sort of familiar. Tell me more about him.”

“What do you want to know about him?”

“Who was he?”

“What makes you think he’s dead?”

“I didn’t say he was dead.”

“You asked who he was.”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“But why didn’t you say, ‘Who is he?’ ”

“I don’t know. Maybe you gave me the impression he was a dead relative or something.”

“Do you think he’s dead?”

“I don’t know, I tell you! I don’t know a thing in the world about him. Now shut up and stop cross-examining me!”

They drove for more than an hour, then Fleetwood, who had apparently decided on a course of action, said, “I don’t want to go with you.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Home!”

“Where’s your home?”

“I tell you I don’t know, but I don’t want to go with you. You are going to deliver me to this man you were talking about — what’s his name — Dixon Keith? Yeah, I think that’s it.”

“You know Keith?”

“You mentioned his name. Where did you get all this about a doctor saying that I needed to be kept quiet?”

“That’s the standard treatment of victims of amnesia,” Mason said.

They had another long period of silence, Fleetwood thinking in scowling concentration.

They entered the city. Della Street turned to look questioningly at Mason.

The lawyer nodded.

“Now the interesting part about amnesia,” Mason went on, “is that when you do get your memory back and remember who you are, if you have had genuine amnesia, you won’t be able to remember a thing that happened during the period you were suffering from amnesia. Remember that, Fleetwood.”

“My name’s not Fleetwood.”

“Maybe it isn’t,” Mason admitted. “Anyway, remember one thing — when you get your memory back, and do know who you are, if you have had genuine amnesia, you won’t be able to recall anything that happened during the period when your mind was a blank. During your period of amnesia, you remember everything except who you are in your past life. Once the memory of your past life comes back to you, you. can’t recall anything about the interval of amnesia.”

“Why are you giving me all that good advice?”

“Oh, I just want you to make a good job of all this,” Mason said.

Della Street said over her shoulder, “How am I doing, Chief?”

“Keep crowding the signals,” Mason said.

Della Street nodded.

From time to time she jockeyed the car through signals after the red light had flashed, but before oncoming traffic, which was not particularly heavy at that hour of the night, engulfed her.

The fourth time she did this there was the low wail of a siren, and a motorcycle officer said, “I guess you’d better pull in to the curb, Ma’am! What’s your hurry?”

Mason rolled down the window on his side. “We’re going to police headquarters, Officer,” he said. “That’s the hurry. If you’ll escort us, we have a man to take there.”

“No, you don’t!” Fleetwood yelled. “You’re not taking me any place. You... Let me out of here!”

The officer kicked the prop under his motorcycle as Della Street brought the car to a stop. Fleetwood struggled with the door, trying to get past Gertie.

The officer said, “Wait a minute, buddy. Let’s take a look at this.”

“No, you don’t!” Fleetwood yelled. “You can’t arrest me! I haven’t done anything.”

“What’s this all about?” the officer asked.

“Police want this man,” Mason said calmly, “for questioning in connection with the murder of Bertrand C. Allred.”

Fleetwood jerked the door open.

“Hey, you!” the officer shouted. “Hold it!”

Fleetwood hesitated.

“Come on back here!” the officer said. “I don’t mean maybe! Hold it. What is this?”

Mason said, “This man is Robert Gregg Fleetwood. He was the last man to see Bertrand Allred alive.”

“Who are you?” the officer asked.

“I’m Perry Mason.”

Fleetwood shouted, “You’re Perry Mason!”

“That’s right.”

“Why, you dirty shyster!” Fleetwood shouted. “You’ve tricked me. You’re Lola Allred’s lawyer. I know all about you.”

“And how did you know I was a lawyer?” Mason asked. “And how did you know that Mrs. Allred’s first name is Lola?”

Fleetwood paused for a moment, took long breaths, and suddenly clapped his hand to his forehead, “I’ve got it now!”

“Got what?” the officer asked.

“The whole thing,” Fleetwood said. “It all comes back to me! For a minute my mind was going around in circles and now I suddenly know who I am. I’m Robert Gregg Fleetwood!”

“And where have you been?” Mason asked.

“I can’t remember,” Fleetwood said. “The last thing I can remember is a rainy night. I was talking with Bertrand Allred and I started to go home to get dressed for dinner and something hit me. I can’t remember a thing after that. My mind is a blank!”

Mason grinned at the officer, flashed him a broad wink, but his voice was sympathetic as he said, “Poor Fleetwood! He’s subject to fits of amnesia. Now when we picked him up in the mountains, he didn’t know who he was. He couldn’t remember his name at all.”

“It’s come back to me now,” Fleetwood said.

“And where have you been in the last two or three days?” Mason asked.

“I don’t know,” Fleetwood said. “I feel sick. I’m nauseated. My mind is a blank as far as the last few days are concerned.”

Mason said to the officer, “You want to use the siren and clear the way to police headquarters? I think Lieutenant Tragg of the homicide squad wants to talk with this man.”

The traffic officer said, “This is going to be a feather in my cap, Mason. I guess I owe you one for this. Come on, let’s go! Can this girl follow the siren?”

“You get your siren going good and loud,” Mason said, “and don’t look behind you. She’ll have the radiator pushed right up against the rear wheel of your motorcycle.”

“Let’s go!” the officer said.

Gertie slammed the car door shut. Fleetwood settled back into sullen silence, between Mason and Gertie.

The officer kicked on his red spotlight and the siren. Della Street threw the car into second gear and then after the second block, slammed it back into high.

They screamed their way through the frozen night traffic of the city, until, within a matter of minutes, the officer flagged them to a stop in front of police headquarters.

He walked back to the car, said to Fleetwood, “Okay, buddy, you come with me!”

Fleetwood opened the door of the car, crowded past Mason.

“Right this way,” the officer said to Fleetwood.

Fleetwood gave Mason a venomous look, turned and followed the officer.