The Case of the Lazy Lover

7

Mason circled the block which contained the Westwick Apartment Hotel, a twelve-story, commodious building with wide, individual balconies and sun porches for the front apartments, a modern building streamlined in appearance and thoroughly in keeping with the quiet, aristocratic atmosphere of Las Olitas.

Mason kept on driving, his forehead creased in thought. He turned down Eighth Street, found the Central Garage & Machine Works and went in.

It was a big garage with more than a dozen mechanics working in busy efficiency.

A workman was buffing a fender with a portable wheel from which sparks were fanning out in a stream. Over in a corner a man with a paint gun was spraying a fog of paint over the side of a car. The sound of hammers kept up an intermittent tattoo.

Mason found the manager, said, “I’m trying to find a witness.”

“Lots of people are. Mean anything for me?”

“It might.”

“What’s the name?”

“Jane Smith mean anything to you?”

“I’d have to look in the books. I don’t recall a Jane Smith offhand.”

“Doing anything right now for a Jane Smith?”

“I don’t think so.”

“She was in here this morning.”

“I don’t place her.”

“How about a Maurine Milford?”

“That’s different.”

“Has she got a car here?”

“She’s a customer. I can’t tell you anything about her.”

“Not her address?”

“Not her address.”

“Could I look at the car?” Mason asked.

“Got anything for me to look at?”

“I could show you an engraving.”

“Of what?”

“One of our past presidents.”

“I like engravings. I used to collect them.”

Mason took a bill from his wallet. The manager looked at it with calm appraisal.

Mason took another one from his billfold, placed it on top of the first, extended them both to the manager. “Rather nice work,” he said.

“Yours?” the garage man asked.

“Have a little engraving press,” Mason said. “I’m a great admirer of art, and I’m particularly fond of reproducing engravings of our former presidents.”

“That’s fine. Want to take a look at this car?”

Mason followed the garage man back through a door into another part of the shop. The manager motioned toward a new Lincoln.

“This it?” Mason asked.

“This is it.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Not much, now. There was a broken headlight, a bent fender and a few scratches.”

“She run into something?”

“Naw. Her child is a precocious little youngster and ran plumb out of teething rings. She left him sitting in the car while she went in to see the doc about changing his food formula. When she got back the little chap had squirmed out of the car and chewed hell out of the fender, then he bent it trying to get up and smash the headlight in.”

“And this is Maurine Milford’s car?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I thought you did.”

“The car,” the garage man went on, “belongs to a friend of hers. She had it out driving it when the accident happened. She wants to have it all fixed up so that her friend won’t know it’s been in an accident. That’s why it’s a rush job. It’ll be ready to roll out tonight, and the owner won’t be able to tell it even had a scratch.”

“Who’s the owner?”

“Me,” the garage man said, “I’m just dumb. You’re looking over the car. Seems to me it has a license on it, and there’s a state law, as I remember it, that says you have to have a certificate of registration attached to the steering post. Personally, I wouldn’t know anything about that. I’m going back to the shop now. I got some work to do. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t say,” Mason told him. “I’m just an engraver.”

“Well, I always like to talk to a man who goes in for that sort of art. Any time you have any more pretty I pictures, bring ’em around.”

Mason watched him leave the room; then the lawyer opened the door of the car, climbed into the driver’s seat, found the registration certificate attached to the steering post. The car was registered in the name of Patricia Faxon. The address was 209 West Mayward Avenue.

The lawyer sat there for a few moments. Then he slid out of the car and walked out of the garage. He drove directly to the Westwick Apartments.

Mason didn’t announce himself, but took the elevator to the eighth floor, found apartment 802, and pressed the button.

A young, vivacious girl, in a neatly tailored blue suit opened the door and regarded him with laughing, dark eyes.

But the lips were not garishly painted. They were almost subdued so that the eyes dominated the face.

“You’re Miss Milford,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

She laughed and said, “I have all the insurance I want, the apartment is furnished, I have plenty of books, and I don’t need a thing. I am not going to be here long enough to buy a radio. I don’t need a vacuum cleaner because that goes with the apartment maid service and...”

“I’m John Smith,” Mason said.

“Are you, indeed!”

“Yes,” he said. “Jane Smith’s older brother.”

“Oh,” she said, and then suddenly the animation left her face. She was showing him a mask of cautious appraisal. “Jane Smith? I don’t think I know her.”

“She rented a car from a drive-yourself agency,” Mason said. “She was last seen headed in the direction of Las Olitas.”

“Come in,” the girl invited.

Mason entered the living room of the apartment suite.

“I understand,” he said, “you are expecting your aunt to join you.”

“Yes.”

“And why the Jane Smith part of it when you rented the car?”

She said, “For reasons that I can’t explain I didn’t want to tell the car agency what my real name was or where I intended to live. I suppose I’ve violated some rule or regulation, and if you’ll tell me how much it is, I’ll give you the money and we’ll get all square.”

“It isn’t a matter of money,” Mason said, “but we like to know something about the moral risk involved, particularly when a car goes out for a long time.”

“All right. You can find out all you want about the moral risk. You have the cash deposit which certainly is generous enough to protect you. If you want, I’ll double that deposit or treble it.”

Mason said, “Money doesn’t take the place of a good moral risk.”

She laughed up at him and said, “Go on! Money beats morals any time. Just what are you after?”

“I’d like a case history.”

“Well, begin at the beginning. Just what do you want to know?”

“In the first place, why do you want an automobile?”

“I told your people. My aunt is coming to visit me. She’s never been in California before, and I want to show her around. Then again, I like to have an automobile for my own convenience.”

“You’re from the East?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Can you tell me where you were living before you came here?”

“I can, but I won’t.”

“You have driven an automobile before?”

“Naturally.”

“You have a driving license?”

“Of course.”

“May I see it?”

“No.”

Mason said, “Under the clause in the insurance policy, the company is supposed to let out automobiles only to persons who hold a driving license.”

“I do.”

“I’d like to look at it.”

“I gathered that, but I see no reason to show it to you.”

“Have you,” Mason asked, “had any trouble with driving an automobile? Have you been in any accidents within the past sixty days?”

“No.”

“Then,” Mason asked, “how does it happen that you are having the car of Miss Patricia Faxon repaired down here at the Central Garage & Machine Works?”

Her face went dead white at that. She looked at him for a long moment.

“Well?” Mason asked.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Mason said, “I’ll put it up to you. Who are you?”

“I’ve told you I’m Maurine Milford.”

Mason said, “I’m sorry, but I think you’re Patricia Faxon, and the aunt who is planning to come and visit you for a month is your mother, Lola Faxon Allred. My name is Perry Mason, and now if you’ll quit beating around the bush and tell me what it is you and your mother want, I may be able to help you.”

There was the panic of sheer desperation in her eyes. “You... you’re... you’re Perry Mason!”

“That’s right.”

“How did you find me?”

“I simply traced you here.”

“But you couldn’t have. It’s impossible. I’ve taken the greatest precautions. I’ve — why every time I’ve left the house, I’ve made absolutely certain I wasn’t being followed. I’ve gone to the greatest pains to see that I didn’t leave any back track and—”

Mason interrupted. “You left a back trail. I followed it. My detectives followed it. The police can follow it.”

“You weren’t supposed to get in touch with me,” she said. “I was supposed to get in touch with you.”

Mason said, “If I’d known you were Patricia Faxon when I started, I might have made different plans, but unfortunately you neglected to tell me that you intended to take an assumed name and an assumed identity. Now suppose you tell me why?”

“Suppose I don’t?”

Mason shrugged his shoulders. “It’s up to you.”

“I see no reason why I should, Mr. Mason. I’m going to tell you frankly that if — well, if certain things happen I’ll get in touch with you, and if they don’t, I won’t, and that’s final.”

Mason said, “I received a check in the mail for twenty-five hundred dollars, signed by Lola Faxon Allred.”

“I know you did.”

“And,” Mason went on, “you went to the bank at Las Olitas and drew out five thousand dollars, also on a check signed by Lola Faxon Allred.”

“Well?”

Mason said, “The check I received was a forgery.”

Her eyes widened. “A forgery, Mr. Mason?”

“That’s right.”

“It couldn’t have been. I know all about that check. Mother signed it. I saw her sign it.”

“A check on the First National Bank at Las Olitas?”

“No. On the Farmers, Merchants & Mechanics Bank in the city.”

Mason said, “That was the other check.”

“You mean you got two checks, Mr. Mason?”

“That’s right.”

“Two checks each for twenty-five hundred dollars?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s impossible!”

“I told you one of them was forged.”

“Won’t you — won’t you please sit down, Mr. Mason?”

Mason settled himself comfortably in one of the big overstuffed chairs. “Nice place you have here,” he said politely.

“Yes, I was very fortunate. What about this forged check?”

“All I can tell you is that the genuine signature from which the tracing was made was the signature on the letter your mother gave you for the cashier of the First National Bank here.”

“The letter I had?” she asked incredulously.

“That’s right, the Maurine Milford letter.”

“Why, I–I don’t believe it.”

“And,” Mason went on, “since your mother has eloped with your boy friend I thought that perhaps...”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Mason! What are you talking about?”

“Your mother running off with your boy friend.”

“Are you completely crazy, or are you laying some sort of a trap for me?”

“Didn’t your mother run off with Robert Gregg Fleetwood?”

“What do you mean ‘run off’ with him?”

“Leave her husband and elope. Aren’t they running away together and...?”

“Certainly not!” she blazed. “What are you trying to do? Are you just trying to get a rise out of me?”

Mason said, “I’m trying to represent your mother, Patricia, and I’m supposed to represent you in case you get in a jam. If your mother hasn’t gone off with Fleetwood, you’d better give me the facts, and fast.”

“But that check, Mr. Mason. I don’t see how in the world anyone could have...”

“Never mind the check for a minute,” Mason said. “Let’s get the lowdown on what’s happened to Fleetwood.”

“What do you mean ‘what’s happened to him’?”

Mason met her eyes steadily. “Did you,” he asked, “strike him with your car, Patricia?”

For a moment her eyes met his, defiantly. Then under the steady gaze of the lawyer’s eyes, her own eyes faltered.

“Did you?” Mason asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“And that’s why you’re having your car repaired? Why you’ve created the identity of Maurine Milford — trying to conceal the evidence that would indicate you had struck someone with the left front fender of your automobile?”

She said, “It’s a long story, Mr. Mason.”

“Then the sooner you start on it, the quicker we’ll get to an understanding.”

“Have you ever been out to our house?” she asked.

Mason shook his head.

“It’s virtually a double house,” she said, “with a patio. As a matter of fact, there really are two houses. Mr. Allred uses the south wing for his offices. The north wing contains the living quarters, and between the two, and connecting them, are the garages with servants’ quarters. It’s just as though you had two houses separated by a vacant lot, with the garages running along the back of the vacant lot, and the vacant lot being used as a patio.”

“Rather a public patio, isn’t it?” Mason asked.

“That’s the point. When Mr. Allred bought the place, he planted a hedge along the sidewalk. That hedge has now grown up very thick and heavy. It shuts the place off completely except for the gap where the driveway to the garages goes along the side of the north wing.”

“And what does all this have to do with what happened to Robert Fleetwood?”

“I’m coming to that. The hedge is close to the driveway. In the course of time, as the hedge grew and expanded, despite all the trimming it’s had, it’s spread out into the driveway so that there’s barely room to get a car through.”

“That’s all you want, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but... you remember it was raining Saturday night?”

Mason nodded.

She said, “My mother and I had been to a cocktail party. I don’t want you to think that we were the least bit tight, because we weren’t. But we had had three or four cocktails apiece.”

“Who was driving the car?”

“I was.”

“And you hit Fleetwood?”

“Not exactly... well, it wasn’t just like that.”

“How was it?”

“When we started for home it was rather late, and I was making time. It had been raining heavily and visibility was poor. The wet pavement seemed to sop up the headlights. When we got home I swung around the corner and started to turn into the driveway. Then I noticed that Mr. Allred’s car had been parked at the curb in such a way that the hind bumper actually stuck out just a little bit over the driveway. I probably could have stopped my car, backed around, made a perfectly straight run down the driveway and got into the garage. But as it was, I simply clipped a corner of the hedge. Well, the hedge was a little bigger and a little stronger than I had remembered it. The last time I put a car through the corner of the hedge it went through all right, but this time it — it struck something.”

“Fleetwood?” Mason asked.

“At the time I thought it was merely a heavy branch.”

“Is Fleetwood dead?”

“No, no. Don’t misunderstand me. He sustained a head injury and he’s suffering from amnesia. He can’t remember a thing.”

“And aside from that?”

“Aside from that, he’s all right.”

“When did you know you’d struck Fleetwood?”

“That’s just the point, Mr. Mason. I didn’t know it at the time. That’s the unfortunate part of it. That’s where all the trouble will come in.”

“Go ahead.”

“I knew that I’d struck something fairly solid, and said to Mother that that hedge certainly had grown up and that I guessed I’d nicked a bumper — and we both laughed. It seemed funny at the time. We were feeling good.”

“Then what?”

“Then we drove into the one of the garages that’s kept for my car, dashed into the house, showered and dressed for dinner.

“Mr. Allred told us that he and Bob Fleetwood had been working until late and he’d asked Bob to stay for dinner but Bob said he wanted to run down to his apartment and freshen up a bit first, that it would only take him fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“Fleetwood’s apartment is near your house?”

“That’s right. Within two or three blocks. You see, he works with Mr. Allred at all hours of the day and night, so he got an apartment near by.”

“Is he a special friend of yours?” Mason asked.

“Definitely not.”

“Wants to be?”

“I think so, yes. In a wolfish sort of way.”

“And doesn’t get anywhere?”

“No.”

“Then you haven’t been crying your eyes out?”

“Over what?”

“Over what happened.”

“I’ve been terribly upset over — well, over hitting him.”

“You did hit him when you clipped the corner of the hedge?”

“Yes.”

“When did you find it out?”

“Not until after dinner. We waited for Bob for nearly half an hour, then Mother decided to go ahead and have dinner. It was sometime during dinner that we mentioned to Mr. Allred that the hedge would have to be cut back and told him what had happened. He was full of apologies. He said he’d parked his car at the curb, intending to leave it there only for a few minutes. He hadn’t realized that the car was in the way. He said he’d move it right away.

“It was still drizzling and dark. Mr. Allred went out to move his car away from the driveway, and then — just as he backed it around to come down the driveway the headlights showed this — this object.”

“Fleetwood?”

“Yes.”

“You say he wasn’t killed?”

“No, he was unconscious. Mr. Allred thought he was dead, but I’d had some first aid experience and I was able to find a pulse.”

“So then what happened?”

“We brought him into the house. I started to telephone for a doctor, but Mr. Allred said we could put him in his car and he could get him to a hospital a lot quicker than we could wait for a doctor or an ambulance.

“Bob regained consciousness while we were talking. He opened his eyes and muttered something that was unintelligible, then closed his eyes again and then after a moment wanted to know where he was and wanted to know who he was.

“Of course, at the time, we felt that it was merely the fact that he was dazed. Apparently he’d struck his head on a curb when... when my fender had hit him.”

“There’s a walk on the inside of the hedge by the patio?” Mason asked.

“That’s right. There’s the public sidewalk along the street on the outside of the hedge, and then there’s a walk along the inside, flagstones set into the lawn, but there’s a cement curb, a sort of retaining wall running along the edge of the flagstone walk, with the lawn about eighteen inches higher than the flag walk.”

“All right,” Mason said. “Go on. What happened?”

“Well, it was obvious that the injury to Bob’s head had given him amnesia. He didn’t know who he was or where he was, or what it was all about.”

“And then what happened?”

She said, “I don’t know all of the details. I know that Mr. Allred and Mother had a whispered consultation and then went in the other room and talked for a while. You see, Bob Fleetwood is Mr. Allred’s right-hand man. He knows a lot about the business, and right at the present time there are some very important matters pending.”

“Such as what?” Mason asked.

“Well, for one thing, Mr. Jerome and Mr. Allred are having some trouble. I think they’re ready to dissolve the partnership. It’s a question of who pays the money and how much is taken. I think Fleetwood knows something there.

“Then there’s the lawsuit with Dixon Keith. I think Fleetwood is the key witness there, and if people should know that Fleetwood had lost his memory — well, even if he got it back, you know what a lawyer would do. He’d get Bob on the stand and ask him if such and such wasn’t the case, and if Fleetwood said ‘No,’ he’d ask him if it wasn’t true he’d lost his memory for a while and ask him how he knew he had made a complete recovery. He’d make things pretty tough for Bob.”

“So what?”

“So Mr. Allred decided that my mother had better tell Fleetwood she was his married sister, that Bertrand Allred was his brother-in-law, and I was his niece.

“And that’s absolutely everything there was to it, Mr. Mason. My mother and my stepfather took Bob Fleetwood...”

“Wait a minute,” Mason interrupted. “You mean your stepfather went with them?”

“Of course.”

“Where did they go?”

“They intended to go to some outlying suburb where no one would ever think to look for Bob. They intended to register somewhere and keep him very, very quiet. They knew that’s what a doctor would prescribe, to keep him quiet so as to avoid the aftereffects of concussion.”

“You don’t know where they went?”

“No.”

“You do know that Bertrand Allred went with them?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

Mason got up from the chair and began pacing the floor, hands pushed down deep in his pockets, his head thrust slightly forward.

“What is it, Mr. Mason?” she asked.

Mason said, “Then your mother didn’t have any romantic attachment for Fleetwood whatever?”

“Of course not. Certainly not.”

“She simply took him to some motel or auto camp where he could be quiet for a while?”

“Yes.”

“And Bertrand Allred knew about it?”

“He’s the one who suggested it. He went with them.”

Mason shook his head and said, “It doesn’t make sense. Wait a minute. Yes, it does, too.”

“What do you mean?”

Mason looked at his watch and said, “Where’s your mother now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Any way of finding out?”

“She was going to communicate with me.”

“What,” Mason asked, “is the idea of all this buildup?” and he included the apartment with a gesture of his hand.

She said, “I feel like a heel about this, Mr. Mason, but it was Mother’s idea. She thought that if — well, if anything happened and there should be any complications—”

“Go ahead.”

“She thought that — well, in case anything happened, that it would be a lot better if I could adopt the position that I’d loaned the car on Saturday evening to some friend. So we created the identity of Maurine Milford and decided to build her up a bit. We decided to let her live here in Las Olitas, take Patricia Faxon’s automobile in to have it repaired, tell a story about having hit something, try to keep the whole thing secret and...”

“And then as soon as any investigator started checking on the thing, he’d find that your description agreed with that of Patricia Faxon and would have discovered the whole scheme without any difficulty.”

“It wasn’t going to be that simple, Mr. Mason. I didn’t think people would identify me. But they were never going to have a chance to do it, except from a general description. Whenever I’ve been out as Maurine Milford, I’ve had a special make-up on that changed the shape of my mouth and everything. A superficial description would have been the same, but — well, I don’t think they could have proven anything. Within reasonable limits, we gals all look alike nowadays, except for details.”

“Reasonable limits is right,” Mason said.

“I know I shouldn’t have done it.”

“It was a damn fool thing to have done,” Mason said.

“But at the time we didn’t know — well, we didn’t know whether it would turn out Bob was seriously injured. Of course, if he had been, Mother was going to call a doctor, but the way things were, Mr. Allred thought it would be better for them to simply — well, to go to some motel where they could be quiet and pretend they were traveling places.”

“And where was Allred all this time?”

“Right there with them in the motel.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure.”

“Allred spent that night with your mother and Bob Fleetwood?”

“That’s my understanding.”

“And last night?”

She nodded.

“Where is he today?”

“Back at his office carrying on his business. He doesn’t want anyone to suspect that Fleetwood isn’t...”

Mason said, “Pat, I think it’s up to you and me to find your mother without delay.”

“Why?”

“Because it was Bertrand Allred who told me your mother was eloping with Bob Fleetwood.”

She thought that over for a space of almost a minute, then went to the coat closet, got her hat and coat and said, “Do you want me to go with you?”

“After a little while,” Mason said. “There’s no use rushing our heads off right now. I have a force of detectives combing every auto camp and motel looking for them.”

“You think Mother is in some danger?”

“I’ll put it this way. I don’t think it was your car that hit Bob Fleetwood. I think things were fixed so it would be easy for you to clip the corner of the hedge. I think that the person who really hit Fleetwood thought he was dead and left the body where you’d get the blame. Now add to that the fact that Bertrand told me your mother had eloped with Fleetwood. Do you get the picture?”

She watched him with wide, startled eyes. “Do you mean... what I think you mean?”

Mason nodded.

She said, “I saw him taking a revolver out of his desk drawer. Mr. Mason, we must do something.”

The lawyer nodded, said, “Sit down, Patricia. We’re doing it.”

“You mean there’s nothing to do except wait?”

“That’s right. I have men covering the country.”

She sat down. “I can’t believe Bertrand Allred would... would do a thing like that.”

“So far it’s just a guess on my part,” Mason said.

“No, no. It’s the truth. A dozen things point to it. I can see it all now.”

Mason said, “Here’s my telephone number at my apartment. Get your car. Go back to your home. Keep an eye on Mr. Allred. Keep the porch light on. If he starts to take his car out of the garage, switch the porch light off. That’s all you have to do. I’ll have detectives take over from there.”