The Case of the Lazy Lover Read online

  Allred crossed his pudgy legs. His nails, freshly manicured, made glistening reflections of the light from the window as he extracted a cigar from a leather case which he took from his pocket.

  “It’s about my wife, Mr. Mason.”

  “What about her?” Mason asked.

  “I hardly know how to account for her actions.”

  Mason said, “Let’s not misunderstand each other, Mr. Allred. You are coming here because I phoned and asked to talk with your wife?”

  “In a way, but only in a way.”

  “You must always realize,” Mason warned, “that when you talk with an attorney, you may present facts concerning which the lawyer is not free to act.”

  “You mean you might be representing my wife?”

  “I meant that I might not be free to act as your attorney, if that’s what you had in mind. Therefore, you should tell me exactly what you want, before divulging any information which you might wish to have considered confidential.”

  “That’s all right. That’s all right,” Allred said, scraping a match on the sole of a broad shoe, holding the flame to the end of the cigar, puffing nervously while he got the tobacco burning to his satisfaction.

  Allred shook the match out, dropped it in the ashtray, said to Mason, “You’re representing my wife?”

  “I’m not prepared to answer that question at the moment.”

  “Well, if you are, and it seems that you are, how did it happen that you expected to find her at my home?”

  “Isn’t that the logical place to look for a wife, in the husband’s home?”

  Allred peered through the blue haze of his cigar smoke to study the lawyer’s features. “Damned if you aren’t a deep one,” he admitted grudgingly, “unless—”

  “Unless what?” Mason asked as the other lapsed into silence.

  “Unless for some reason you don’t know—but if you’re representing Lola you must know.”

  Mason merely smiled.

  “Oh, what’s the use of sparring around like this, Mason? Let’s get down to brass tacks.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “My wife,” Allred said bitterly, “has run away with my best friend.”

  “That’s too bad,” Mason said noncommittally. “When did she leave?”

  “As though you didn’t know all about it!”

  “After all, Mr. Allred, you’re the one who sought this interview.”

  “Saturday night,” Allred said. “Damn it, you could have knocked me over with a feather.”

  “The man’s name?”

  “Robert Gregg Fleetwood. One of my business associates, an employee, accountant, assistant, handy man.”

  “Do you intend to apply for a divorce?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I take it the newspapers know nothing of this?”

  “Of course not. I’ve kept it out of the newspapers, so far. I can’t sit on the lid much longer. We’re too well known, socially and otherwise.”

  Mason’s contribution to the conversation was a mere nod.

  “What I can’t figure,” Allred said explosively, “is how a woman her age could do a thing like that!”

  “How old is she?”

  “Forty-two.”

  “I believe,” Mason said, “that psychologists agree that that is one of the most dangerous ages for a woman.”

  “You’re talking in generalities,” Allred said.

  “Why not?”

  “All right, if you want to—but look here, Mason. Lola had plenty of property; she could do anything she wished. She was a mature woman. If she got tired of me, why didn’t she simply go to Reno, discreetly announce that there had been a separation, get her divorce and marry Bob Fleetwood? But no, she had to do something spectacular, something that is almost adolescent, something that will give us a lot of unfavorable publicity.”

  “Can you tell me anything about Fleetwood?”

  “I can tell you everything about him.”

  “Well?”

  “Bob Fleetwood is fifteen years younger than my wife. I picked him up as a young man, and tried to make something of him. I pushed him ahead just as fast as he could go. I trusted him. He was at my home much of the time. Hang it, I had no idea he and Lola could see anything in each other. Bob Fleetwood was apparently paying court to Patricia”

  “And who’s Patricia?”

  “Patricia Faxon, Lola’s daughter by a prior marriage.”

  “I see.”

  “And then, all of a sudden, he runs off with my wife.” “What does Pat say about it?”

  “She’s crying her eyes out, but she pretends she isn’t. She comes to meals, eats just enough to keep her alive, puts on a bold front, pretends to be smiling and happy, and is eating her heart out.”

  “She loves him?”

  “I think she’s humiliated, more than anything. Puts a girl in a helluva position when her mother runs off with her sweetheart.”

  “And Fleetwood was Patricia’s sweetheart?”

  “Well, let’s look at it this way. He was … He … Well, he was around Patricia quite a lot, and during that time he certainly never seemed to take any interest in Lola. They must have been damn clever, or else it was something that just came up all at once.

  “Of course, Patricia’s a modern girl. She’s had swains by the dozen. Lots of them have been crazy about her. Lately the field narrowed down to two, Bob Fleetwood and a chap named John Bagley. I felt Bob had the inside track, but John Bagley was still in the running—make no mistake about that, Mason.”

  The lawyer nodded.

  “I suppose,” Allred went on, “that Pat got to playing one against the other, the way a woman will, and went too far. Perhaps she really picked Bagley and gave Bob the mitten. You can’t tell.”

  “Can’t you ask her?” Mason inquired.

  “Not Pat. She has a mind of her own. She thinks I tried to dominate her and resented it. All a misunderstanding, I can assure you, Mason, but that’s the way she feels. Well, anyway, if she did jilt Bob for John, she certainly put me in a spot.

  “I suppose Bob decided he wanted to show Pat she wasn’t the only girl in the world, and he wanted to humiliate her, so he ran off with her mother. Sure puts me in a hell of a spot! But I can’t imagine Lola doing anything like that.”

  Mason merely nodded.

  “Hang it all!” Allred went on irritably, “even if Lola didn’t give a damn about me, if she wanted to do everything she could to hurt me or to make me ridiculous, you still can’t imagine her pulling a trick like that.”

  “Did she do what she did solely to hurt you, or make you ridiculous?” Mason asked.

  “It looks that way, doesn’t it?”

  Mason remained silent.

  “I suppose the only explanation is that Lola had been secretly in love with him for some time. She probably felt that Pat didn’t really love him. I suppose she was afraid to tell me she wanted a divorce and wait for the thing to be handled in a decent way, because if she had, Bob would probably have wriggled off her hook. After all, no matter how young looking and attractive a woman is, when she ties up with a man who’s fifteen years younger than she is—well, it’s only a question of time, Mason. It’s only a question of time.”

  “Exactly what do you want me to do?” Mason asked. “Make comments on your domestic entanglements, or give you information.”

  “As a matter of fact, I wanted information, Mason.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “But only as a preliminary to something else.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “I wanted to find out if you were representing my wife. I want a definite answer on that.”

  “I can’t give it to you.”

  “If you are representing her, I want to establish communication with her.”

  “She’ll get in touch with you, if she wants to, I suppose,” Mason said.

  “Dammit, it isn’t what she wants. It’s what I want.”


  “Yes?”

  “Yes! I want to get Bob Fleetwood.”

  “And Fleetwood,” Mason said, “knowing something of the risks one naturally runs in encountering an irate husband, is equally anxious to keep out of your way.”

  “That’s just the point,” Allred said earnestly. “He doesn’t need to be afraid of me.”

  “Perhaps it’s not fear. Perhaps just prudence.”

  “Well, whatever it is, I want him to get in touch with me.”

  “A desire on your part which he may decide to ignore.”

  “Look here,” Allred said, “I’m going to put some more cards on the table.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “Do you know anything about my business, Mason?”

  “I know generally you’re in the mining business.”

  “The mining business,” Allred went on, “is the greatest gamble in the world. You buy a prospect. It looks good. You pour money into development work. You think it’s going to make you a million dollars. It turns out to be a lemon. You have sunk more money than you can afford. Naturally there’s a great temptation to try and unload that, and get at least part of your money out.”

  Mason nodded.

  “On the other hand, you get some little hole in the ground and start scratching around, deciding you’re not going to spend very much money on it, and the first thing you know, you’ve blundered into a lot of rich ore. Do you know George Jerome?”

  Mason shook his head.

  “He’s my partner in quite a few mining deals. Nice chap, has a lot of technical knowledge. A pretty hard man to fool, George Jerome.”

  “And how does George Jerome enter into the picture?”

  “We owned the White Horse Mine. We traded it to Dixon Keith for a mine he owned and a little cash. It was a pretty good trade. What I’d call an even swap.”

  Mason glanced at his wrist watch.

  “I’m only to take up a minute. Only a minute. It all ties in to this problem about my wife,” Allred said. “Keith traded properties with his eyes open. He thought he was handing us a lemon. I happened to know that he thought his property wasn’t worth a thin dime. That’s where we fooled him, thanks very largely to my partner’s technical knowledge.

  “Well, anyway, the mine we got from Dixon Keith proved to be valuable. The fact is, the vein was pinching out. Keith thought he’d better unload the property. George decided there had been a fault, and that Keith had missed the main vein. Well, anyway, George opened up the drift in a different direction, and within three weeks after we’d taken possession, we struck it rich—that is, pretty rich.

  “We tried to keep the thing a secret, but in some way it leaked out. Keith got wind of it, and naturally he was furious. The best thing he could do was to try and rescind the contract, put the swap back to where it had been at the start. So he claimed we’d misrepresented our property to him and said that he wanted a rescission of the contract. Naturally, we told him to go jump in the lake.”

  “And what did he do?” Mason asked.

  “Got a lawyer and started suit, claiming we were guilty of fraudulent misrepresentations and we hadn’t told him about this, that, and the other, that he had relied on our word and hadn’t ever made an investigation of the property in person. Now that’s a lie, Mason. Dixon Keith went out to that property. He looked it over. He made a thorough study of it and even if we had given him any information, which we didn’t, he wouldn’t have relied on it.

  “The law of fraud, as I understand it, is that if a man relies on false representations, that’s one thing; but if he makes an independent investigation and buys the property as the result of that independent investigation, his hands are tied.”

  “That, generally, is the law,” Mason said. “There are, of course, certain exceptions …”

  “I know, I know, but I’m not talking about the exceptions now. I’m talking about the law. Because this case is dead open and shut. It’s a plain case of a man trying to back out of a contract.”

  “Can you prove Keith went out to inspect your property?” Mason asked.

  “Now then, there’s the whole point of the matter,” Allred admitted. “There’s only one person who can prove that.”

  “Who?”

  “Robert Gregg Fleetwood,” Allred said bitterly. “The man who has run off with my wife.”

  “The situation,” Mason said, smiling faintly, “would seem to be complicated.”

  “It is complicated—it’s annoying—it’s embarrassing. I picked Fleetwood up and made something of him. He’s a lazy, no-good. He’s run off with my wife, and now he’s jeopardizing a lawsuit because no one knows where to get in touch with him. Dixon Keith evidently knows what’s up. He’s trying to rush the case on for immediate trial. He wants to take my deposition. He wants to take my partner, George Jerome’s, deposition. We’re in a fix, Mason. We don’t want to rely on the claim that he used his independent judgment and made a trip to inspect the White Horse claim, unless we can prove it. You try to depend on something in a lawsuit and then fall down on the proof—well, you’re a lawyer yourself. You know how that goes.”

  “And exactly what,” Mason asked, “do you want me to do? I’m not in a position to represent you in your mining litigation.”

  “I understand all that. We have a lawyer.”

  “Then what do you want me to do?”

  “Look here,” Allred said, “you’re my wife’s lawyer. You can hedge around all you want to. I know that you’re her lawyer. I want you to get in touch with her.”

  “What makes you think that I can get in touch with her?”

  “I feel confident you can. I want you to tell her that I wish she’d grow up and act her age. Tell her to go to Reno and get a divorce, and it will be all right as far as I’m concerned. And I want you to get in touch with Fleetwood through her and tell Bob Fleetwood to come back and be a man, live up to his responsibilities. If Lola wants him, he can have her. I’m going to play fair with him. I don’t think it was his fault entirely. I want to win that lawsuit! I want Bob Fleetwood here and I want him available as a witness. Is that clear?”

  “That seems to be quite clear.”

  Allred heaved himself up out of the chair. “That’s all I have to say then.”

  “And suppose I should not be your wife’s attorney?”

  “You are.”

  “But suppose I should not be?”

  “Well, I don’t know that it makes any difference, one way or another. I’ve told you what I have to say. I hope I can get in touch with my wife. You know how I feel and you know what to do about it.”

  “I’m afraid,” Mason said, “there’s not very much I can do about it”

  “You have this message to transmit to your client. It’s to her advantage to have that message transmitted. I feel sure that you’ll do it. Good morning, Mr. Mason.”

  Allred started back toward the door through which he had entered, then saw the exit door to the corridor, made an abrupt half turn, jerked the door open and barged out of the room without even looking back.

  Mason glanced at Della Street.

  “Well,” she said, “that explains it Mrs. Allred wants you to represent her. She evidently wrote you a letter telling you what she’d planned to do and what she wanted you to do, and then—” Della’s voice trailed off.

  “And then?” Mason demanded.

  “Maybe she decided to wait and telephone later on,” Della finished weakly.

  “You’ll have to do better than that, Della,” Mason grinned.

  Chapter 3

  Ten minutes after Allred had left, Gertie, Mason’s receptionist, tiptoed personally into Mason’s office to announce in an awed voice, “Gee, Mr. Mason, the bank president’s out there.”

  “Who?” Mason asked.

  “Mr. Mervin Canby, president of the Farmers, Merchants & Mechanics Bank. He wants to see you upon a matter he says is confidential.”

  “Well, send him in,” Mason said.

  �
��Right away?”

  “Right now!”

  “Yes, Mr. Mason. I—well, I thought I’d better tell you instead of telephoning you.”

  “That’s fine, Gertie. Send him in.”

  Mason and Della Street exchanged glances as Gertie vanished through the door to the outer office.

  Mervin Canby, a frosty, gray man with gray hair, gray eyebrows, gray mustache, and gray eyes, had a cordial smile for Della Street, another for Mason. But there was no great warmth about him, and his manner indicated quite plainly that he was calling upon a serious matter of business.

  “Sit down,” Mason invited.

  Canby settled himself in the chair, said, “I’ll come directly to the point, Mr. Mason. I’m a busy man and I know you’re a busy man.”

  Mason nodded.

  “You deposited two checks with us, Mr. Mason. One of them was on our bank, was in your favor in an amount of twenty-five hundred dollars and signed by Lola Faxon Allred.”

  Mason said nothing, waiting for the banker to go on.

  “The other check,” Canby said, “was drawn on the First National Bank of Las Olitas. That too was in your favor. That too was in an amount of twenty-five hundred dollars.

  “When you deposited those checks,” Canby said, “you asked the cashier to examine them with great care.”

  “Miss Street did that,” Mason said.

  “May I ask, Mr. Mason, if that was at your suggestion?”

  “It was.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted to make certain the checks were good.”

  “That is hardly a customary practice.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “Did you have some reason to believe those checks were not in order?”

  “That’s a difficult question to answer. Suppose you tell me first why you’re here.”

  Canby said, “The cashier kept thinking things over. After you had left he came to me and asked my advice. I examined the checks and then sent for our handwriting expert.”

  “Isn’t that rather unusual?” Mason asked.

  “I found something on one of the checks which puzzled me,” Canby said. “I wanted to have my judgment checked by a professional. Of course, his opinion at the present moment is more or less tentative—that is, on one check. On the other, the situation is different.”