“Let’s go.”
Within fifteen seconds from the time the lawyer had hung up the telephone they were scrambling out of the apartment, Gertie still rubbing the last of the hand lotion on her hands.
Mason had taken the precaution to have his car filled with gas, and the machine, capable of road speeds in excess of ninety miles an hour, responded like a race horse as the lawyer struck the through-boulevard, crowding the speed limit, but keeping just under a rate which might result in a jail sentence.
Leaving the outskirts of the city, Mason stepped on the gas, and by nine-fifty had left Springfield behind and was climbing through the mountains.
Twenty minutes later, Della Street, who’d been watching the odometer, said, “You’re getting close, Chief.”
Mason slowed the car, while Della Street watched for the turn-off.
Within a few minutes they had made the turn-off, gone over the dirt road past the post office, found the left-hand turn and were climbing over a narrow, rocky road that twisted and turned up a steep grade, then debouched onto a mountain plateau.
There was a barbed wire fence on one side of the road. The headlights illuminated the rich green of the pasture land. A hundred yards farther on the headlights were reflected from the aluminum paint on a mailbox. The name P. E. OVERBROOK had been stenciled on the metal and Mason turned in on a short driveway.
The house was dark, and behind it a barn silhouetted itself against the stars. A dog started frenzied barking and the beam from the headlights reflected back in blazing points from the animal’s eyes.
Mason shut off the motor.
There was no noise, save the barking of the dog, and after a moment, little crackling noises which came from under the hood as the cold night air of the mountains pressed against the heated automobile engine.
The dog ran up to the car, barking, circling, smelling the tires, but not growling.
Mason said, “I think he’s friendly,” and opened the car door.
The dog came running up to walk stiff-legged behind the lawyer, smelling at his calves.
Mason called out, “Hello, anyone home?”
There was the flicker of a match, then after a moment, the reddish glow of an oil lamp.
“Hello! What is it?” a man’s voice asked.
“A very important message for you,” Mason said. “Open the door, will you?”
“All right. Wait a minute.”
They could see a bulky shadow moving around the room. Then, after a moment, the brilliant glare of a gasoline lantern gave additional illumination. They heard steps in the house and the door opened.
Overbrook, a big sleepy giant of a man with a nightshirt tucked into the waistband of jeans, was standing in the doorway, holding a gasoline lantern.
“Okay, Gertie,” Mason said in an undertone, “do your stuff.”
Gertie pushed forward into the circle of illumination from the gasoline lantern.
“You’re Mr. Overbrook?” she asked breathlessly.
“That’s right, ma’am.”
“Oh,” Gertie said breathlessly, “I’m so glad! Tell me, do you have William here? Is he all right?”
“William?” Overbrook asked vacantly.
“Her husband,” Mason interposed sympathetically.
The big rancher shook his head slowly.
“The man who lost his memory,” Mason explained.
“Oh,” Overbrook said. “Why, sure. You related to him?”
“He’s my husband.”
“How did you know where he was?”
“We’ve been tracing him, bit by bit,” Gertie said. “Tell me, is he all right?”
Overbrook said, “This place don’t look like much. It’s just a bachelor’s hangout, but you folks might as well come in. It’s a bit chilly out there.”
They filed into the little room in the front of the house.
“Where’s William?” Gertie asked.
“He’s out back here.”
Overbrook opened a door. “Hey, buddy.”
“Huh?” a man’s voice said sleepily.
“Somebody here to see you. Come on out.”
“I don’t want to see anyone. I’m sleeping.”
“You’ll want to see these people,” Overbrook said. “Come on. Excuse me just a minute, folks. I’ll get him up. I guess he’s sleeping pretty sound. He’s had a hard day, I reckon.”
They heard voices in the little room which adjoined the living room on the back.
Della Street said, in a low voice, “Is he apt to take a powder out of the back door, Chief?”
Mason said, “If he does, it’ll be an admission of guilt. If I’m right, and he’s faking, he’ll play out this amnesia business.”
The voices in the bedroom back of the living room abruptly ceased. They heard the sound of bare feet on the floor, then Overbrook was back in the room. “I don’t know how you handle such things,” he said. “Do you want to break it to him gently?”
“You didn’t tell him his wife was here?”
“No. Just told him some folks to see him.”
“I think the way to do it,” Mason said, “is to intensify the shock as much as possible. You see, amnesia is usually the result of mental unbalance. It’s an attempt on the part of the mind to escape from something that the mind either can’t cope with or doesn’t want to cope with. It’s a refuge. It’s the means a man uses to close the door of his mind on something that may lead to insanity.
“Now then, since that’s the case, the best treatment is a swift mental shock. We take this man by surprise. Don’t tell him who’s here, or anything about it. Just tell him some people want to see him. How did he come here? Did someone bring him?”
Overbrook said, “He came staggering up to the door last night. The dog started barking, and I thought at first it was a skunk or something. Then the way the dog kept up, I knew it was a man. I looked out to see if there were any automobile lights, but there weren’t, and — well, I’m sort of isolated up here so I loaded up the old shotgun and lit the gasoline lantern.
“This man came up to the door and knocked. I asked him who he was, and he told me he didn’t know.
“Well, we talked back and forth for a few minutes, then I had the dog watch him while I frisked him to see if he had any weapons at all, but he didn’t. He didn’t have a thing in his pockets. Not a thing. Not even a handkerchief. There just wasn’t a thing on him anywhere that would tell him who he was or anything about him.”
“Too bad,” Mason said.
“There was just one thing he did have,” Overbrook went on, “and that was money. He’s got a roll of bills that would choke a horse. Well, of course, I was a little suspicious, and then he told me his story. He said that he had certain little hazy memories, but he couldn’t remember who he was, that he was just too tired to think, he just wanted to rest. He didn’t want to answer any questions, he didn’t want anyone to know he was here. He said he’d be glad to help with cooking around the place, he’d pay me money, he’d do anything, but he just wanted to rest.”
Mason nodded sympathetically. “The poor chap gets these fits every once in a while. The only thing is, they’re of shorter duration each time. This is the third one he’s had in the last eighteen months.”
“Shell shock?” Overbrook asked.
“Shell shock.”
The door from the bedroom opened. A man in his late twenties, staring vacantly, his face slack-mouthed in lassitude, looked around the room with complete disinterest. His eyes held no recognition.
He was a man of medium height, weight not over a hundred and thirty pounds, with good features, dark eyes and a wealth of wavy, dark hair.
“William!” Gertie screamed, and ran toward him.
Fleetwood drew back a step.
“Oh, William, you poor, dear boy,” Gertie sobbed, and flung her arms around him, holding him close to her.
Mason breathed a very audible sigh. “Thank heavens, it’s William!” he said.