“The phone began to ring while the woman was paying for the gasoline. The attendant glanced at the man in the automobile, and the man all but imperceptibly shook his head. After the car had driven away the attendant went over, picked up the receiver and answered the phone. The operator said that they were ready with Donnybrook 6981, that Miss Archer was on the line, and the service station man explained that the party who had placed the call had been unable to wait for it. There was some argument, the long distance operator claiming that the entire time consumed in getting the call had been less than four minutes. But the attendant said it didn’t make any difference whether it had only been ten seconds, that the person who had placed the call was gone and what were they going to do about it.”
“That was Monday night?” Mason asked.
“Monday night, a little after seven o’clock.”
Mason said, “Okay, thanks! Don’t go to bed yet, Paul; you may have work to do.”
“Of course I’ll have work to do,” Drake said. “I’ll have work to do tonight too. Have a heart, Perry. Give a guy a rest.”
“You can rest in between cases,” Mason said. “Stick around your office, Paul. I think I’m going to get some action.”
Mason hung up the phone, then called police headquarters and asked for Lieutenant Tragg.
Tragg’s voice sounded harsh and weary from loss of sleep. He answered Mason’s call and said, “It isn’t everyone I’d talk to at this hour. When do you give me that break you promised?”
“Right away. I’m coming up now. Wait for me.”
“Hell, I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Okay. You won’t have to wait over fifteen minutes longer. I’ll bust Fleetwood’s amnesia wide open for you.”
“Not that way,” Tragg said. “You give me the ammunition and I’ll do the shooting.”
“This won’t work that way,” Mason said. “But I promised I’d crack him and I will. Only I have to be the one that does it. If you try it, it’ll be a bust.”
“Well, come on up,” Tragg said. “I’ll be in the office waiting.”
Mason said, “Okay, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Mason slipped on his coat and made time to police headquarters.
Tragg’s office was impressive, the walls being decorated with display cases in which were knives, guns and blackjacks; below each of the weapons was appended a history of the case in which it had been used.
The furniture in the office told its own story of drama. The massive oak tables were charred along the edges where burning cigarettes had been placed while someone answered the phone, only to spring into immediate action at word of some homicide or attempted homicide, leaving the cigarette unnoticed to burn a deep groove into the table. Here and there were scratches and nicks where someone had thrown a captured gun or knife onto the table, or where some prisoner in desperation had beaten his handcuffed wrists against the wood.
“Well,” Lieutenant Tragg said, “what’s the score?”
Mason said, “Fleetwood is holding out evidence.”
“You said that over the telephone.”
“I’ll prove it!”
“Go ahead.”
“Get Fleetwood in here.”
“He’s going to be a witness for the prosecution.”
“On what?”
“Well,” Tragg said, “he...”
“Exactly,” Mason said. “The man’s memory is blank. He can’t remember anything. Therefore he can’t be a witness.”
“He can be a witness to some preliminary matters.”
“Yeah,” Mason said sarcastically.
“Look here, Mason, if I get Fleetwood in here, and you start giving him the third-degree — well, suppose he gets on the witness stand later and you start throwing things up at him that he said at the time you were questioning him here, it’s going to look like hell.”
“For whom?”
“For me.”
“Why?”
“Because I let you question a witness.”
Mason said, “If your witness can’t answer questions when you’re here to see that I don’t bullyrag him or browbeat him, he isn’t going to make much of a witness when you put him on the stand and I have a chance to pour the questions at him when nobody can stop me.”
Tragg thought that over, said, “Okay, Mason. I’ll get him in here, but I want one thing definitely understood.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m controlling the course of the examination. Any time I don’t like your questions, I’ll tell him not to answer them. Any time I think you’re getting off the reservation, I’ll have Fleetwood taken out, and I’ll send you about your business.”
Mason yawned, lit a cigarette, said, “What are we waiting for?”
Tragg picked up a phone on his desk and said, “Send that chap Fleetwood in here. I want to talk with him again.”
A moment later a uniformed officer opened the door and pushed Fleetwood into the room.
“Hello, Fleetwood,” Mason said.
Fleetwood looked at him. “You again!”
“Sit down,” Tragg said. “We want to ask you a few questions.”
“Who does?”
“Both of us.”
“I want to sleep,” Fleetwood said.
“So do all of us,” Tragg announced gloomily. “But it doesn’t look as though we’re going to have much chance for a while.”
Mason said to Fleetwood, “Bob, you got along all right with Bertrand Allred, didn’t you?”
“Why sure.”
“The thing that brought on your attack of amnesia was a blow on the head.”
“That’s right.”
“How did it happen?”
“How do I know how it happened? I was walking along the hedge and all of a sudden, blooey, I was out like a light. The next thing I remember, I was riding in an automobile and you were talking about taking me to police headquarters. I have a confused recollection of things happening in between, but I don’t know what they were. I haven’t the faintest idea. That part of my existence is just a blank to me.”
“You keep on saying it and you’ll get so glib when you recite that formula that you’ll sound like a needle stuck on a wax record.”
Fleetwood looked at Tragg and said, “How does he get in on this? Does he have any right to sit here and pull that stuff?”
Tragg started to say something to Mason, but Mason said to Fleetwood, “You couldn’t remember anything at all from the time that blow crashed down on your head until you recovered your memory here at the police station?”
“No!”
“Not a thing?”
“No, I tell you! How many times do I have to say that?”
“During that time you didn’t know who you were?”
“No. Of course not. I was suffering from amnesia. I know what people have told me about what I did and what happened.”
“Maybe you didn’t talk with the right people,” Mason said suavely. “Now there’s a man by the name of Leighton, who is running a service station about five miles out of Springfield. He says that when Mrs. Allred stopped the car and got some gasoline and went to the rest room, you darted over to the telephone and called Donnybrook 6981. In case you don’t remember, or are having another attack of amnesia, Bob, that number is the telephone of Bernice Archer.”
“Well, what’s wrong with calling her up? She’s my girl friend.”
“I know,” Mason said. “But how did you know she was your girl friend during the period that you were suffering from amnesia and didn’t know who you were?”
Fleetwood started to say something, then changed his mind.
“And,” Mason went on, “how did you know what her number was, if you couldn’t remember anything about your past existence? How did you remember what her name was, and how did it happen that you knew that you must put through that call during the minute or two you had while Mrs. Allred was in the rest room?”