It was some fifteen minutes later that Drake eased his car to a stop in front of an apartment house. “This is the place,” he said. “We’ll probably have to drive a couple of blocks in order to find a parking space. It’s pretty well cluttered up with automobiles.”
Mason said, “Looks like a place across the street there. That’s a fire plug.”
“How about it?”
“Sure,” Mason said, “provided you can park and still leave access to the plug in case there should be a fire.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Drake told him. “In case there’s a fire these boys get to the fire plug all right. It’s kind of tough on your automobile, but they get there. I saw one car that had been left locked in front of a fire plug. There was a fire and the fire department just chopped a hole in both sides of the car, put the hose right on through and went to work. When the owner came back, he had a car with a tunnel chopped through it and tickets for overtime parking and tickets for parking in front of a fire plug.”
“Probably cured him,” Mason said. “Wait a minute, Paul. That man looks as though he’s going to get in a car and drive away. If he has a parking place … there he is, unlocking that Dodge. Hey, Paul, drive on past, fast!”
Mason dropped down, out of sight.
“What’s the matter?” Drake asked, speeding up.
“That fellow,” Mason said, “is George Jerome, Allred’s partner.”
“Want to try to tail him?” Drake asked.
“Hell, no,” Mason said. “It isn’t where he’s going that’s important. It’s where he’s been.”
“You mean he’s …”
“Sure,” Mason said. “He’s been calling on this girl friend of Fleetwood’s. What did you say her name was?”
“Bernice Archer.”
“Drive around the block,” Mason said, “then come on back. Perhaps we can get in the parking place that Jerome had.” Drake said, “He’s a big brute, isn’t he?”
“Uh huh.”
“A powerful man like that could pick a fellow up and break him with his bare hands. I’d hate to get tangled with him in an alley on some dark night.”
“We may have an opportunity to do that very thing before we get done,” Mason said. “He’s mixing in this case altogether too much to suit me.”
“What does he want?”
“He says he wants to get Fleetwood’s testimony nicely sewed up in order to protect him in a lawsuit.”
Mason got back on the seat. Drake drove around the block, found that the parking place which had been vacated by Jerome’s car was still available, and skillfully parked his car.
The doors of the apartment house were closed and locked at this hour of the night, but there was an electric callboard and buzzer system.
Drake ran his finger down the directory until he came to the card of Bernice Archer, then pressed the button opposite it.
“Suppose she’ll use the speaking tube?” Drake asked. “If she does, what’ll we tell her?”
“She’ll probably buzz the door open,” Mason said. “She’ll think it’s Jerome coming back.”
They waited for a moment, then Drake pressed the button again.
The electric buzzer signified that the catch had been thrown back on the street door. Mason, who had been standing with his hand on the knob, pushed it open, said, “Okay, Paul, here we go.”
The small lobby was dimly lit, but they could see a corridor and an oblong of bright light which indicated the location of the automatic elevator.
“Jerome left the elevator for us,” Mason said.
They walked down the thinly carpeted corridor, entered the elevator, and Drake pressed the button.
The elevator rattled slowly upward.
“You do the talking,” Drake asked, “or do you want me to?”
“You start in,” Mason said. “Introduce yourself as a detective. Don’t say whether you’re police or private, unless she asks. Start asking her questions about Fleetwood, about when she heard from him last, and things of that sort. I’ll chip in if she gives me an opening. Don’t introduce me. She may think I’m another detective.”
The automatic elevator stopped. The door slowly opened. Drake, sizing up the numbers on the apartments, said, “Okay, Perry, it’s down here to the right.”
Drake knocked at the door.
The woman who opened it was about twenty-five, a blonde with clear blue eyes and skin which needed but little make-up. The silk robe did not conceal much of a strikingly good figure.
There was a wallbed in the room which had been let down. The covers were rumpled and the pillow showed that it had been in recent use. The door to the closet was open, showing several dresses on hangers.
Drake, assuming a hard-boiled voice, said, “I’m Paul Drake. You may have heard of me. I’m a detective.”
“May I see your credentials, please?” she asked very quietly.
Drake glanced dubiously at Perry Mason, then produced a billfold which he showed briefly, then snapped shut and started to return to his pocket.
“Just a moment,” she said, “please.” She calmly reached out for the billfold, studied the card, said, “Oh, I see. This is your license as a private detective.”
“That’s right.”
“And the gentleman with you?” she asked.
Mason grinned. “I’m Mason.”
“A detective?”
“No.”
“May I ask what you are, then?”
“A lawyer.”
“Oh,” she said, and then after a moment, “you’re Perry Mason?”
“That’s right.”
“Then you’re Mrs. Allred’s lawyer.”
Mason, beginning to enjoy the situation thoroughly, said, “That’s right.”
“Won’t you gentlemen please be seated?”
She indicated chairs for them, and went over herself to sit on the edge of the bed. The bottom part of the robe slid away from a smoothly stockinged leg. She was wearing street shoes.
“It is pretty late, isn’t it?”
Mason laughed. “Our business is rather special.”
“I suppose so.”
“And,” Mason said, “we knew that you had already been disturbed.”
“How, may I ask?”
“Bob Fleetwood called you.”
“Oh, yes.”
“You received his call?” “Yes.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“Simply that he had recovered his memory. I’m glad to hear it.”
“You knew then that he had lost his memory?”
“No.”
“But he told you over the phone that he had been suffering from amnesia?”
“That’s right.”
Drake said, “How long have you known Bob Fleetwood, Miss Archer?”
“About six months.”
“You’re quite friendly?”
“I like him.”
“He likes you?”
“I think so.”
“You heard that he had run away with a married woman?”
“I understood he had disappeared.”
“You heard that Mrs. Allred had gone with him?”
“No.”
“You read the papers?” “Yes.”
“You read that police were interrogating Mrs. Allred?”
“I understood so.”
“You didn’t know that she was away with Bob Fleetwood?”
“I didn’t think so. No.”
“You knew that there was at least an intimation to that effect in the papers?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t believe he was with her?”
“No.”
“Do you believe it now?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to wait until I can talk with Bob.”
“When do you expect to see him?”
“As soon as I can see him. Whenever it will be permitted. I understand he’s being held as a material witness.”
“Did you k
now that Bertrand Allred had been murdered?”
“I heard it over the radio.”
“How much did Bob tell you when he telephoned you?”
“Merely that he was being detained, that he’d probably be detained for at least a day and that he’d had a spell of amnesia, that the police told him he had stayed with a man named Overbrook, but that he had recovered his memory and was feeling all right now.”
“You were glad to hear that?”
“Naturally.”
“It came as quite a surprise to you?”
“Not exactly. Bob has been subject to fits of amnesia before.”
“Oh, he has?”
“Yes.”
“You’d known about them?”
“He’d told me about them.”
“Some time before this fit came on?” “Yes.”
Drake glanced at Mason and made a little shrugging gesture with his shoulders.
“You have an automobile?” Mason asked her abruptly.
She turned to regard Mason with the cautious appraisal of the fighter sizing up an adversary.
“Yes,” she said, at length.
“Had it long?”
“Around six months.”
Mason glanced at Drake.
Bernice Archer said, calmly, “I had it very shortly before I met Bob Fleetwood, if you’re intending to put two and two together on the six months period of time, Mr. Mason.”
“Not at all,” Mason said. “I just noticed the fact that you had mentioned the interval of six months on two occasions.”
“That’s right.”
Mason said abruptly, “Yesterday night, Monday, you took your automobile out, didn’t you?”
She looked at him for some twenty seconds. “Is it any of your business?”
“It might be.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with it.”
“It depends on where you went.”
“I drove out to the apartment of a girl I know, picked her up and drove her out here. She spent the night with me.”
“Why did you do that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you think you might need an alibi?”
“Don’t be silly! I wanted someone to talk to. So I got my friend and drove her over here. We talked until the small hours and then we went to sleep.”
Mason said, “Bob Fleetwood is being a little foolish.”
“Is he?”
“Yes.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t think this amnesia business is really doing him any good.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean he could have thought up something better.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Mr. Mason.”
“Amnesia has come to be pretty much of a racket. It happens quite frequently that when a person wants to escape the responsibility for something, he says his mind was a blank.”
“Have you talked with Bob?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you believe he really had amnesia?”
“No.”
“Then why should he pretend that he did?”
“It gets him out of rather an embarrassing situation.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Telling what he knows about what happened to Bertrand Allred.”
“He doesn’t know anything about that.”
“How do you know he doesn’t?”
“I’m certain he doesn’t.”
“What course in telepathy did you take?” Mason asked.
She said, “I don’t have to study telepathy to know what happened. Obviously Mrs. Allred killed her husband.”
“And what makes you so certain?”
“I’m not exactly stupid, Mr. Mason. When you come out here and tell me what you think Bob should do, I know you’re Mrs. Allred’s lawyer. Therefore, what you want Bob to do is what you think would be for the best interests of Mrs. Allred, not for the best interests of Bob Fleetwood.”
“Not necessarily. I try to protect my client’s interests, but I still think Bob should throw this amnesia business overboard. He’ll have to, sooner or later.”
“And you came here hoping you could sell me on that idea, so I, in turn, would sell Bob on it. Is that right?”
“Only in part.”
“My, my, what splendid consideration you show for a man who is almost a stranger to you, Mr. Mason. Running around at three o’clock in the morning, a high priced lawyer, getting me out of bed to tell me what Bob should do. It’s touching!”
“Have it your way,” Mason said.
“I intend to. And now let me tell you something.”
“What?”
“Get rid of Mrs. Allred as a client. Let some other lawyer handle her case.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t stand a chance, not a chance in the world.”
“You think she murdered her husband?”
“I know she murdered her husband!”
“There’s a motorist who can give her a perfect alibi. She hitchhiked a ride with him.”
“Before or after her husband died?”
“Before.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
She laughed. “Because she told you so. That’s the only way you have of knowing. And that’s not good enough. Mr. Mason, I wish I could tell you what I know, but I don’t think I should. I don’t think the police would want me to, but I can tell you this much: Don’t represent that woman. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to go to bed and get some sleep.”
Mason looked at the bed, and said, “You’ve already been to bed.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you always put on stockings and shoes when you answer the telephone?” Mason demanded.
She looked at Mason steadily without answering.
“You had another caller?”
“A caller, Mr. Mason?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mason, but I’m not accustomed to receiving people in my apartment at this hour.”
“How about George Jerome?” Mason asked.
She looked at him with eyes that were suddenly hard and narrow. “Are you having my apartment shadowed?” she asked.
Mason said, “Before I answer that question, tell me whether you have been talking with George Jerome.”
By way of answer, she walked over to the telephone, picked up the receiver, dialed Operator and said, “Get me police headquarters, please. This is an emergency.”
A moment later she said, “I want to talk with someone who is in charge of the investigation of the murder of Bertrand C. Allred.”
“Ask for Lieutenant Tragg,” Mason interposed. “He’s the one you want to talk with.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mason,” she said, and then into the telephone, “I think the officer I want is Lieutenant Tragg.”
There was a moment of silence, then she said, “Hello, is this Lieutenant Tragg? I am Bernice Archer—that’s right, the girl that Bob Fleetwood telephoned to a little while ago. I think I am a witness in the case. I have some information which may be of importance. There’s a Mr. Mason, a lawyer, and a Mr. Drake, a detective—yes, that’s right, Perry Mason—yes, it’s Paul Drake—how’s that? Yes, they’re here in the apartment. Mr. Mason is very insistent that I should tell him what I know, and … thank you very much, Lieutenant, I just wanted to be sure. I thought that would be what you’d want me to do.”
She hung up the phone, turned to Mason with a smile and said, “Lieutenant Tragg says to say absolutely nothing to anyone until I’ve talked with him, that I’m to come to police headquarters at once, and if you try to stay on here or interfere that he’ll send an escort. And now, if you gentlemen will get out of here, I’ll dress.”
“Come on, Paul. Let’s go.”
“Mr. Mason, please do what I told you to. Please get rid of that woman as a client.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s guilty, and even you can’t get her off.”
Mason grinned. “You were sarcastic over my concern for Bob Fleetwood. You insisted on questioning my motives. Now I’ll turn the tables. Your concern over getting me to drop my client—for my own good, of course—is touching indeed. Do you suppose it could be that you’re trying to cut your boy friend a piece of cake?”
She walked across the apartment, to the door. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I won’t.”
She held the door open for them. “Good night,” she said sweetly.
They walked silently down the corridor. It wasn’t until they were in the elevator that Mason said, glumly, “There’s the brains of the outfit.”
“Are you telling me!” Drake said. “Gosh, Perry. Think of a woman with looks like that and brains thrown in.”
“Don’t make any mistake about her, she’s dynamite!” Mason admitted. “She knows that it has to be either her boy friend or Mrs. Allred, and she’s playing ball with her boy friend.
“Jerome called on her. Jerome is mixed in this thing in some way that isn’t apparent, as yet. All of these people are too damned anxious to get in touch with Fleetwood. Jerome undoubtedly posted her on everything the police know, to date.”
“Providing Jerome knows,” Drake said.
“I think he does,” Mason said. “Anyhow, Paul, here’s a job for you. Get hold of the telephone company, impress upon them how important it is. Get access to their records, look up and see if Bernice Archer’s number that you got was called sometime Monday from Springfield, or from some of the service stations along that mountain highway.”
“You think Fleetwood was in touch with her, Perry?”
“He must have been. Try the telephone company, inquire at the motel where they stayed. Cover the gasoline stations along that mountain highway. I’ll bet ten to one that the phone call Fleetwood put in from the jail wasn’t the first time he’d called her since he left. And if he’d called her before, I’ll bet she’s mixed up in this thing, right up to those delicately arched eyebrows of hers.”
The Case of the Lazy Lover Page 14
