“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.”
Drake groaned. “I knew you’d leave me with one of those rush jobs that are such a headache.”
Mason grinned. “I try not to disappoint people. This will give you a preliminary warm up. A little later I expect to have a real job for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Uh huh. I want you to reconstruct Bernice Archer’s time from Saturday noon on. I want to know where she was every minute, what she was doing, and with whom she did it. Have you found out anything about Overbrook?”
“Just neighborhood reputation. He’s a good egg, slow spoken, honest and poor. He mortgaged his property a year or so ago when he made an unfortunate investment, but he’s a steady, hard worker and is getting the mortgage paid off. In the meantime, he won’t spend a nickel for anything except his dog. He will buy food for the dog. He’s tight as a shrunken collar. They say he hardly ever leaves the ranch and pinches every penny, even to the extent of buying stale bread.”
“Any chance he knew Fleetwood?”
“Not a chance in ten million, Perry.”
“Okay, Paul, keep plugging.”
“On Overbrook?”
“No. The picture on him seems complete. Start working on that phone call to Bernice Archer. I’m betting ten to one such a call was made.”
Drake opened his mouth in a great yawn. “I knew that sleep I had was just coincidental,” he said.
15
It was shortly before six o’clock when the telephone in Mason’s apartment rang a strident summons.
The lawyer, who had been dozing in the big easy chair, with the telephone on the table beside him, picked up the receiver, said hurriedly, “What have you found out?”
Paul Drake’s voice came over the line.
“Well, we got another break, Perry.”
“What?”
“We’ve traced a telephone to Donnybrook 6981, Bernice Archer’s number. It was called on Monday night at about seven o’clock. The call was placed from a service station about five miles from Springfield. My men went out and interviewed the man who runs the station, a fellow by the name of Leighton, and he remembers the incident perfectly.”
“Go on,” Mason said excitedly. “What happened?”
“A car drove up and stopped at the gas pumps. A woman who answers the description of Mrs. Allred said she wanted the tank filled right up to the brim. There was a man in the car who answers Fleetwood’s description. He seemed sunk in a sort of a lethargy. The way Leighton describes him, he was a lazy bump on a log who sat still and let the woman bustle around. He thought the guy was drunk at first and then came to the conclusion that he was just plain lazy.
“Then the woman went into the rest room, and the minute she got out of sight, Fleetwood came to life. He rushed out of the car, dashed into the service station, grabbed the public telephone, dropped a dime, yelled for long distance, and called this number.
“The service station man remembers it particularly, because he got such a kick out of it. He thought that Mrs. Allred was the guy’s wife, and that this fellow was trying to make a surreptitious date with his girl friend, or else explain why he had to break a date. The service station man didn’t say anything, but kept on with the chores of filling the tank, checking the oil and water, washing off the windshield, scrubbing the windshield wings and all of that. It had been raining a little earlier in the afternoon and had settled down to a drizzle along in the evening.
“The man stood there waiting for his call to come through and watching the door of the women’s rest room. Before the call was completed, the woman came out and the man dropped the receiver like it was a hot potato, ambled back to the car and settled down in the cushions with a look of utter vacancy on his face.