“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 any 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.”
Chapter 8
It was seven-thirty in the evening when the unlisted telephone in Mason’s apartment began ringing.
The lawyer, who had been studying the Advance Decisions, closed the printed pamphlet and picked up the telephone.
Patricia Faxon’s voice was sharp with panic. “I’ve failed, Mr. Mason,” she said.
“In what?”
“Mr. Allred managed to slip one over on me, somehow.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s gone. He isn’t here. I’m alone in the house. But he hasn’t taken his automobile out of the garage. It’s still there. I don’t know how he could have left.”
“Were there any visitors at the house?” Mason asked.
“Yes. That is, not right at the house. I think I told you he has an office in the south wing. He was over there during the first part of the evening, and he had at least one visitor.”
“Know who it was?”
“No, I don’t. It was some man, and they talked for a while and then the man drove away. The lights remained on in the office and well, just to check up, I made an excuse to run over to ask him a question, and—well, I’m there now.”
“But the lights are on?”
“Yes.”
“Evidently then, he intends to come back soon.”
“I suppose so, but—”
“If you hadn’t been checking up on him,” Mason said, “you would have thought he was still there because the lights were on?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t like that.”
“Neither do I. That’s why I’m phoning you. It—it looks as though he might be trying to build an alibi for something.”
Mason said, “Okay, Patricia. Now don’t get panic-stricken. If you need anything, call the Drake Detective Agency. The number is in the book. There’ll be someone there all night. If anything happens, call there and tell them who you are.”
“I don’t want to stay here, Mr. Mason.”
“Why?”
“Because, if he should be planning anything … I’m a witness … You see, I know why Mother left. I don’t want to be here alone with him. He’s capable of anything. I’m afraid of him.”
“He doesn’t know about this Las Olitas address of yours?” “No. No one does; only Mother.”
“Okay,” Mason said. “Go there. Sit tight. Good night now.”
Mason hung up the phone, called the Drake Detective Agency, got Paul Drake on the line, and said, “Paul, something’s going on. I don’t know just what it is, but I don’t like it.”
“What’s up, Perry?”
Swiftly he brought Paul Drake up to date.
“Allred’s probably not out of town,” Drake said. “Otherwise he’d have taken his own car.”
“Unless he has one planted somewhere. No news of Mrs. Allred?”
“No.”
“You’re covering auto camps?”
“All along the road. They could have driven somewhere around three hundred miles since ten o’clock this morning. We’re trying to cover the places where they could have holed up for the night.”
“What about the near auto courts?”
“What do you mean ‘near’?”
“Right around here.”
“Have a heart, Perry. There are too many of those. We’re picking up the ones within about a hundred miles and …”
“We’re overlooking a bet,” Mason interrupted.
“What do you mean?”
Mason said, “Allred spent Saturday night in the motel in Springfield. He also spent yesterday night in that motel. I have a hunch Mrs. Allred won’t stay in a motel with Fleetwood unless her husband is there. That means it has to be someplace within two or three hours’ drive. Check the motels in Spring field again. Check the near ones, Paul.”
“We can’t do it, Perry. There are just too darn many of them around the city, too many different roads that …”
“That’s all right. Put your Springfield man on the job. Check the courts in Springfield. Check the ones that are on the roads near Springfield.”
“Okay,” Drake said wearily. “We’ll try and do the best we can, Perry.”
Mason hung up and began pacing the floor, until after almost an hour, wearied by the sheer physical exertion, he flung himself once more into the big chair under the reading light. He was restless, nervous, and frowning and irritable. Two more hours found him dozing.
The phone rang again.
Mason jerked the receiver from its cradle, said, “Yes, what is it?”
Paul Drake said, “My face is red, Perry.”
“Shoot.”
“You called a turn. Frankly, the possibility hadn’t occurred to me.”
“Of the near-by auto camp? You mean you’ve located them?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“It’s a little place and it’s only about thirty-five miles from Springfield. It’s up in the mountains, on the road that cuts across the high mountain range and comes down to the desert on the other side. This place is a little auto court known as the Snug-Rest Auto Court. The
registration is the same as it was in Springfield, R. G. Fleetwood and sister.”
“The accommodations?”
“Double cabin with three beds.”
“Mrs. Allred’s car there?”
“I don’t know, Perry, whether it’s there right now or not, but the license number is her license number. It’s the party we want, all right.”
“Why don’t you know whether the car’s there now or not, Paul?”
“Because my man isn’t up there. He’s at Springfield. He couldn’t possibly have covered all the different roads except by telephone, and he’s been telephoning every auto court asking them to give him a list of reservations that were made any time during the day.”
“How long will it take us to get there?”
“Right around three hours, Perry.”
“We’re on our way!” Mason told him excitedly. “I’ll drive down and pick you up. Stick a gun in your pocket.”
“Going to take Della?”
“No. The party may be rough.”
“Want my man to go up and wait, keeping them under observation?”
“No. He may tip them off. Tell him to stay on the job in Springfield. We may want to call him for something there.”
“How soon will you be here?”
“Damn near as soon as you can get downstairs,” Mason said, hanging up the phone and grabbing his hat and coat from the chair.
His car was parked in front of the apartment building, fully serviced. Mason made time to the office building where Paul Drake, his thin frame wrapped in a heavy overcoat, climbed protestingly into the car.
“For the love of mike, Perry, have a heart! Don’t scare me to death getting there; and try to keep four wheels on the ground on some of the curves. That road from Springfield up over the mountains is a humdinger. Ever been over it?”
“Three or four times,” Mason said.
“Well, it’s a bad one. You go right straight up. You follow a stream for a ways and then zig-zag the side of a canyon until you hit the plateau country on top. It’s a damn mean road.”
“Then hang on,” Mason said. “I’ll try to get you there in one piece.”
“What’s the hurry?” Drake asked.
Mason said, “I have a hunch there’s more to this than appears on the surface, Paul. I’m not too certain but what Allred isn’t planning to pull a fast one.”
“You mean getting a divorce?”
“It might suit him better to be a widower. I understand he has quite a lot of his wife’s money invested in mining properties.”
“I guess Allred does all right for himself,” Drake said. “He seems to have lots of dough.”
Mason said, “I’ll bet you even money that Allred forged that check for twenty-five hundred bucks that was sent to me.”
“Why?”
“That,” Mason said, grimly, “is one of the things I intend to ask him.”
“You think he’s up there in this Snug-Rest Motel?”
“Uh huh,” Mason said, and then gave his attention to his driving.
Chapter 9
“Know the numbers of the cabins, Paul?”
“Yes. Cabins number four and five. There’ll be two entrances. Take it easy. We should be almost there.”
A sign flashed up in the headlights, gleaming whitely at them out of a cold drizzle, etching its dazzling message on their tired eyes, “Snug-Rest Auto Court One Mile.”
As Mason eased the speed of the car, the windshield wipers gathered speed, pulsed hysterically. Drake, straightening up in the seat, heaved a sigh of relief. He watched the figures on the speedometer, said, “You’ll have to slow down, Perry. You’ve gone eight-tenths of a mile since that sign. The place may be hard to see … It’s a cinch the cabins have all been rented, the lights turned off, and the people who run the place have gone to bed. Here it is, right ahead, Perry.”
Mason slammed on the brakes. The car started to skid on the wet road, then righted itself, and Mason turned into the unpretentious little tourist court.
“Take it easy,” Drake cautioned. “Cut off your motor as soon as you can locate the numbers. We’ll try to do it as quietly as possible. There it is, Perry. There’s the cabin, the one over there on the right. Thank heavens, it’s off by itself so we won’t have an audience.”
Mason swung his car to a stop in front of the two-cabin unit that had been erected slightly apart from the other cabins, uniform in their somewhat shabby austerity.
The lawyer switched off the ignition, then the headlights.
Drake opened the car door.
Mason got out on his side, and they stood for a moment in front of the car.
The rain was a localized mountain rain, a cold, cloud shrouded drizzle. In the background somewhere a stream tumbling over rocks made noisy gossip with the night. Aside from these noises there was nothing for the ears. The auto court was wrapped in silence.
“They’ve gone to bed,” Drake said in a low voice.
Mason said, “I guess we’re in time, Paul. That’s a break.” He climbed the steps and knocked on the door.
There was no answer. He knocked again.
Paul Drake, who had made a quick circle around the cabins on a tour of inspection, came to stand beside Mason. “It’s a red herring,” he said.
“What’s the matter?”
“They aren’t here.”
“You mean someone else is …”
“No. I don’t think the cabin’s rented at all. There isn’t any car under the cabin shed.”
Mason tentatively turned the knob on the cabin door. The door was unlocked. The latch clicked and the door swung open, disclosing a dark interior.
Paul Drake said cautiously, “Take it easy, Perry. Someone’s in here. That’s fresh tobacco smoke. The curtains are all drawn.”
“Anyone home?” Mason called.
He was greeted by silence, the dark oblong of the open doorway seeming sinister in its black mystery.
“Someone’s here all right,” Mason said, as warm air came eddying out from the dark interior of the cabin. “A heater of some sort has been on in here, and that certainly is fresh tobacco smoke.”
“Okay, let’s back out,” Drake whispered, “and go to the office. Let’s check the registrations.”
“Anyone home?” Mason called again.
Again there was that wall of black, sinister silence.
Mason groped inside the door, running his fingers along the wall searching for a light switch.
“Don’t, Perry,” Drake begged. “Let’s go to the office first and …”
Mason clicked on the lights.
The room was empty.
“Come on in,” Mason said.
Drake hung back, but finally followed the lawyer into the room.
Mason closed the door. It was a typical tourist cabin in the medium-price range. Mason, looking swiftly around the room, kept up a running fire of comment to Paul Drake.
“Bed has been sat on, but not slept in. Tobacco smoke pretty fresh. Cigarette butts with lipstick on them. Oh, oh, Paul, here’s something.”
“What?”
Mason indicated a couple of glasses, leaned over to smell them.
“They had some drinks in these glasses,” Mason said, “and not very long ago. You can see the ice isn’t entirely melted. There’s still a spot of ice in the bottom of this glass.”
Drake started to reach for the glass. Mason grabbed his wrist, pulled it away, said, “Don’t touch anything right now, Paul, but remember there’s a speck of ice in one of these glasses. You can smell the odor of whisky.”
“There’s another room here,” Drake said in a low voice. “I still think we’re going to run into something, Perry.”
Mason opened a door which disclosed a rather dispirited looking kitchen, with a gas stove, a small electric icebox and a cupboard containing a few dishes, virtually the irreducible minimum of frying pan, coffee pot, stewpan, four plates, four cups and saucers.
The lawyer opened a
door, which led to a bathroom. There was also a door at the other end of the bathroom, which was closed.
“This goes to the other cabin,” Drake said. “Perry, I wish you’d keep out of this until after we’ve …”
The lawyer knocked gently on the closed door from the bathroom.
When there was no answer, he opened the door, stepped into the other room and groped for a light.
“They haven’t been in here at all,” he said. “This place is cold.”
Drake surveyed the empty room, said, “Well, I guess that’s it, Perry.”
Mason gave a quick look around the room, then closed the door. They walked back to the front cabin, switching out lights as they walked.
Mason said, “Two people. They sat around here for a while, had a couple of drinks, smoked, had the gas wall heater turned on … must have been here for quite a little while, Paul. Look at the number of cigarette stubs.”
“Suppose they got a tip we were coming?” Drake asked.
Mason shrugged.
“Of course,” Drake pointed out, “they could have gone someplace planning to come back.”
Mason shook his head. “Not a scrap of baggage anywhere. Let’s take a look in the icebox.”
Mason returned to the kitchen, opened the door of the ice box, pulled out the tray reserved for ice cubes, said, “Every ice cube taken out, Paul.”
He pressed his finger down on the surface of the water in the ice tray. Its thin coating of ice cracked under the pressure of his finger.
“I don’t get it,” Drake said.
“It means there was more than one highball,” Mason explained. “Probably two or three.”
Drake said nervously, “I hate to be prowling around in here, Perry. If we get caught …”
Mason replaced the tray in the icebox, snapped the door shut, clicked off the lights in the kitchen and said, “I feel the same way, Paul. We’re getting out.”
“Then what?”
“We’re going back. You’re going to bed. I’m going to drop you in Las Olitas. You can take a taxicab back to the city. I’m going to talk with Patricia. I think I’ve been on the receiving end of a fast one.”
Chapter 10
The night garage man at the Westwick Hotel Apartments regarded the ten dollar bill which Mason handed him with eager appraisal.
The Case of the Lazy Lover Page 7
