Mason glanced at his wrist watch, stretched, yawned and strolled over to glance at the indicator of the automatic elevator. It was still on the eighth floor.
The lawyer pressed the button which brought the elevator back down to the ground floor. He opened the door just far enough to break the electrical contact and kept the door from closing by inserting a pencil between the door and the door jamb. He then took a seat in the lobby, near the elevator.
Another ten minutes, and Mason heard a faint buzzing from the interior of the elevator, indicating that someone was trying to put it in service.
He walked over, removed the pencil from the door, opened the door, got in the elevator and let the spring on the door pull the door shut. As soon as the door snapped into position, the mechanism of the elevator gave a sharp, metallic click, and the cage started rumbling upward.
Mason stood over in the corner where he would be out of sight to anyone opening the door.
The cage lumbered up to the eighth floor, came to a stop.
The doors were opened. Inman pushed Mrs. Allred and Patricia into the elevator, followed them in. Tragg entered the elevator and closed the door. Inman said, “And if your lawyer is waiting in the lobby, don’t try to talk with him. You get me?”
They turned to face the door, and Mrs. Allred gasped as she saw Mason.
Inman jerked his head at the sound of the gasp. His hand started streaking for his gun. Then he stopped the motion midway to his holster.
“Ground floor?” Mason asked, and promptly pressed the button.
The cage started rumbling down to the ground floor.
Tragg said drily to Inman, “I told you he was smart.”
“What have you told them?” Mason asked Mrs. Allred.
“Shut up,” Inman said.
“Nothing at all,” Mrs. Allred said. “I followed instructions.”
“Keep on following them,” Mason said. “They’ll try everything in their power to make you talk. Simply tell them that your silence is a protest against their highhanded methods and that you want to have an interview with your attorney before you say anything. Remember that you were making a full and frank statement of everything that had happened until they became arbitrary and started pushing me around.”
Inman said, “It’s a big temptation to really start pushing you around!”
“Don’t lose your temper,” Mason told him. “It runs up your blood pressure and makes your face look like hell.”
Tragg said wearily, “Don’t be a damn fool, Inman! He’s trying to get you to start something. It’ll sound like hell in front of a jury.”
Inman lapsed into sullen silence.
The cage lurched to a stop at the ground floor.
Mason opened the door, said, “Ground floor, ladies and gentlemen. Department of frame-ups just ahead of you — separate cells, phony confessions, telling the daughter her mother’s confessed, telling the mother the daughter’s confessed, throwing in the stool pigeons and detectives as cell mates, and all the usual police traps, right this way!”
Inman pushed the women out into the lobby, turned back toward Mason, suddenly cocked his fist.
Lieutenant Tragg grabbed his arm.
The officers marched the women across the lobby to the police car, and drove away.
Mason sighed wearily, walked across the street to where he had left his own car parked, climbed in and started the motor.
11
Mason unlocked the door of his private office, entered, nodded to Della, scaled his hat toward the shelf of the hat closet, walked over to his desk and sat down.
“Didn’t you sleep at all?” Della Street asked.
Mason shook his head. “Anything from Drake?”
“Yes. He’s had a man up at the wreck and has some photographs. This man knew the highway police who were in charge, and he picked up about all the information there was.”
“How did they happen to find the car?”
“At the point where the car was driven off the road, there was a guard rail.”
“A hell of a place to pick to send a car off the road,” Mason said.
“Car pretty badly smashed?”
“Smashed to kindling,” Della said.
Mason said, “Get Paul Drake in here.”
Della Street said, “Dixon Keith is waiting out there. He’s been waiting for a while. He was there in the corridor when we opened the office,”
“Dixon Keith?” Mason asked.
“The one who has the fraud suit against Allred.”
“Okay,” Mason said, “get Drake first. Then go out and soothe Dixon Keith so he’ll wait. Tell him I’ve phoned and expect to be in in just a few minutes. I don’t want him to leave.”
Mason settled back in the chair, stroked his forehead with his fingertips. Della Street put through a call to Paul Drake, said, “He’ll be right in, Chief. Did you have breakfast?”
“Breakfast and a shave,” Mason said. “A hot bath and clean clothes. Did the police find a gun on Allred’s body by any chance?”
“I don’t know,” Della Street said. “I... here’s Paul Drake!”
Drake’s code knock sounded on the door of the office.
Mason nodded to Della Street. She opened the door, and Drake, gaunt and haggard, with stubble rough on his jaw, entered the room and surveyed Mason bleakly.
Mason grinned. “You look as though you’ve been busy.”
“I have.”
“I thought you told me that you kept an electric razor in your office so you could shave in between phone calls.”
“I do,” Drake said. “I have. But, what the hell? I haven’t had any time between phone calls. I’ve been busy!”
“Give.”
Drake said, “The place where the car went off the road was within five miles of the Snug-Rest Auto Court. It’s the worst place anywhere along the road, and the road is bad enough, at that. There’s a guard rail. The car had plowed right through the guard rail. No wonder! It had been locked in low gear and the hand throttle pulled all the way out. The police were able to determine that much from what was left of the car.”
“The body was first identified as that of Fleetwood?”
“That’s right.”
“Allred had Fleetwood’s billfold?”
“He had Fleetwood’s billfold, cigarette case, fountain pen. Quite a bit of stuff.”
“Any explanation?”
“No explanation.”
“And there was a key to the Snug-Rest Auto Court?”
“That’s right. A key to Fleetwood’s cabin.”
“How did Allred get that?”
“No explanation so far, Perry. The key was loose in the car.”
“There was blood on the carpet of the luggage compartment?”
“That’s right.”
“Did Allred have a gun?”
“No.”
Mason said, “Paul, I want you to find Fleetwood!”
Drake’s laugh was sarcastic. “Who doesn’t?”
“I want to find him just a little worse than anyone else wants to find him.”
“When you find him, he’ll be dead.”
Mason said, “We have an inside track on one thing, Paul.”
“What?”
“Fleetwood is either suffering from amnesia or was pretending to suffer from amnesia. If it’s a genuine case of amnesia, he’ll still be wandering around in a daze. If it’s a gag, I think Fleetwood will try keeping it up.”
“Unless he’s dead,” Drake said.
“Someone,” Mason said, “drove that car off the grade. What time did it happen, Paul?”
“The clock on the dashboard says eleven-ten. Allred’s wrist watch says eleven-ten.”
“That, of course, could have been fixed. The watches could have been set ahead.”
“Or behind,” Drake said.
Mason nodded.
“What does Fleetwood’s amnesia have to do with it?”