The Case of the Lazy Lover

16

The clock on the wall of the visitors’ room of the county jail said that it was ten minutes past nine in the morning. Mason sat on one side of the heavy steel mesh which separated the two ends of the room. Mrs. Allred sat on the other side. At the far corner a matron waited for the lawyer to finish his visit with his client.

“What did you tell Lieutenant Tragg?” Mason asked her.

“Not a thing. He never came near me.”

“That’s bad,” Mason conceded.

“Why is it bad?”

Mason sketched out Fleetwood’s story, while Mrs. Allred listened intently. When he finished, there was a few moments’ silence.

Then Mrs. Allred said quickly, “It’s all a complete lie, Mr. Mason.”

Mason shook his head. “Something corroborates Fleetwood’s story. I don’t know yet what it is. If Tragg hasn’t been hot after you for a statement, it means Fleetwood’s story gets a good corroboration, all the way along the line. There are tracks, for one thing. There is only one explanation. You haven’t been telling me the truth.

“Fleetwood stalled around long enough with one thing and another, but when he finally came through with the story, he came through with a humdinger. It’s a story that puts you in the position of committing a nice little murder. And the nice part of it is that provocation is there. And motivation is there. The thing is so marvelously tailored that the jury will sympathize with you, but will decide that you’re technically guilty, probably of manslaughter.”

She said, “Fleetwood must have killed him, Mr. Mason.”

The lawyer shook his head. “I’m not so certain,” he said.

“But he must have! It had to be either Bob Fleetwood or me.”

“So it would seem.”

“And I know that I didn’t kill him!”

Mason said, “I wish that I could find some way of making a jury share your conviction.”

“Do you feel that — that I’m in a spot?”

“Fleetwood’s story,” Mason said, “is one that sounds convincing.”

“Even to you?”

Mason said, “I make it a point in my business to believe my clients always.”

“If I weren’t your client, Bob Fleetwood’s story would convince you?”

“It might,” Mason admitted. “I wanted to see what you had to say about having been in the luggage compartment of that car.”

“I never was.”

“Do you know of anyone who was?”

“No.”

“There’s blood on the carpet. The officers found that.”

“So I understand.”

“And you can’t explain that? You didn’t have a bloody nose?”

“No.”

Mason said thoughtfully, “You know, if it had only occurred to you to tell the story that Fleetwood told, but dress it up with a few variations, it might have accounted for everything, including the blood on the carpet of the luggage compartment.”

“But I told you the truth, Mr. Mason.”

“There are times,” Mason said, “when an artistic lie can crowd the truth right off the stage. The interesting thing is that Fleetwood’s story is so beautifully logical and puts you in such a sympathetic light in front of the public. But it also hangs the technical killing of your husband right around your neck. I wish you could find some way of accounting for how blood got on the carpet of the luggage compartment.”

“Well, I can’t.”

“That’s the nice part of Fleetwood’s story,” Mason said. “It accounts for everything. It gives the police a beautiful, beautiful case.”

“Against me?”

Mason nodded.

“I didn’t kill my husband, Mr. Mason.”

“Well,” Mason said, “you’ve got to talk. It’s got to a point now where it’s your story against Bob Fleetwood’s. Your story can’t explain certain things. Fleetwood’s does. There’s some evidence I don’t know about. Tragg’s out investigating it now. If that evidence corroborates Fleetwood’s story the way it would seem to, the killing is wrapped around your neck. I can get you off with manslaughter, or I might get a self-defense acquittal, but the responsibility for the fatal blow is yours.”

“What evidence is there that could possibly give such corroboration?”

“Tracks for one thing.”

“Well, my story is the truth.”

“I hope it is,” Mason said and signaled to the matron that the interview was over.