The Case of the Lazy Lover

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  “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 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 se
emed to want to go up 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?”