Dr. James Wallace was still on duty at the Good Samaritan Hospital when Mason and Drake arrived. He listened to Mason’s introduction with courteous attention.
“Indeed, yes,” he said, shaking hands, “I remember the patient perfectly. He was received at twelve-ten this afternoon. For the most part, his injuries were cranial and superficial, but there was a most interesting condition which is sometimes encountered in cases of this sort. The man was suffering from traumatic amnesia.”
“Translated into English,” Drake said, “what is traumatic amnesia?”
The doctor favored Drake with a condescending smile and said, “Pardon. I didn’t intend to use technical terminology. Amnesia is a loss of memory. Victims of amnesia know nothing of their past, cannot tell their names; of anything about themselves. And traumatic, of course, implies that the cause of the amnesia was superinduced by injury, that is, an external violence.”
“Let’s see if I understand you, Doctor,” Mason said. “When Packard regained consciousness he had an impaired memory — is that right?”
“That’s right,” Dr. Wallace said in his well modulated, suavely courteous voice. “There were no broken bones. In fact, from what I hear of the accident, I would say he had escaped remarkably well. There were a few ecchymoses, one or two superficial cuts about the face, the possibility of a strained ligament, and, of course, the effect of shock. My treatment of his physical injuries took only a very few minutes.
“According to the statement of the man who brought him here, the collision had been rather severe. The patient had been unconscious when lifted into the truck. He regained consciousness as he was being carried on the stretcher to the surgery, but he had a complete lapse of memory. He couldn’t tell us his name, his occupation, where he came from, whether he was married or single, or anything about himself. We searched his pockets and founds cards which showed that he was Carl Packard, of Altaville, California. I was very careful not to call his attention to these cards, or do anything which might refresh his recollection until after the effect of the shock had worn off somewhat, and I had satisfied myself there were no serious injuries. Then I gave him a brandy, talked with him for a few moments, and then quite casually asked him how things were in Altaville.”
There was a moment of dramatic silence, while Dr. Wallace stood smiling at them, waiting for the effect of his strategy to sink in.
“Had I attached undue importance to the question,” Dr. Wallace went on to explain, “the man would have sensed that I was placing too much emphasis on it, and unconsciously would have known why. Thereupon the temporary paralysis of the memory function would have been aggravated by a process of self-consciousness, just as we sometimes encounter in bad cases of stage-fright. We—”
“Never mind that,” Mason interrupted. “ Did. he recover his memory?”
“Yes,” Dr. Wallace said, the tone of his monosyllabic answer a rebuke to the lawyer’s abruptness.
“Did he remember his name?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have to tell him his name or did he remember it of his own accord?”
“He remembered it of his own accord,” Dr. Wallace said with dignity. “If you will permit me to give you a complete report, I think you will get the picture a little more accurately.”
“Go ahead,” Mason said, pulling his cigarette case from his pocket. Drake looked around the room, sighed, dropped into a chair, propped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.
“When I asked him how things were in Altaville,” Dr. Wallace said, “I took particular pains to make my question casual. His answer was equally casual. I asked him if he knew the President of the First National Bank in Altaville, and he said he did, said he knew him quite well. We chatted along for a moment, and I asked him just where he lived in Altaville. He gave me an address which coincided with that on his driving license. I asked him his name. He told me. By degrees I brought him up to the accident, and then he remembered it perfectly.”
“What did he say about it?”
“Said that he was the one who was at fault. The truck man, Mr. Trader, was very business-like. He said he was insured; that if he were to blame, the insurance company would pay, but he wasn’t at fault. Packard seemed rather sheepish about it. He said he’d seen something in the window of one of the houses on his right, that he’d craned his neck to get a better look and then sensed something closing in on his left. The crash came almost at once, and that’s all he remembers.”
“Did he say what he saw in the window?”
“No, but he seemed a bit — well, embarrassed. I think ‘sheepish’ describes it.”
“Was it a woman?” Drake asked, opening his eyes.
“He didn’t say,” Dr. Wallace remarked with dignity.
“Did Packard say what he planned to do in connection with moving the car?” Mason inquired.
“He said he was going out to take a look at it and see what could be salvaged.”
“Is Packard insured?”
“I gathered that he was not.”
“How long was he here?”
“Perhaps twenty minutes.”
“When he left, he was all right, was he?”
“Oh, quite all right — that is, except for these superficial cuts and bruises.”
“Did you,” Mason asked, “get Packard’s address?”
“Oh, yes. Just a moment and I’ll get it.”
Dr. Wallace consulted his file of card records, selected one, and read off an address, “1836 Robinson Avenue, Altaville, California.”
“That’s evidently his permanent address,” Mason said. “Did you find where he was staying here in the city?”
“No, I didn’t. I gathered that he was just passing through.”
“Did you gather that impression from a direct statement made by him, or simply because of what you—”
“Certainly not,” Dr. Wallace said, with dignity. “In my profession one does not rely upon inference except when it is absolutely necessary. I asked him when he had arrived here, and he said he had reached here this morning. That he had expected to be in San Diego by night.”
“You didn’t ask him where he’d stayed last night?”
“No, I didn’t. I failed to see that that would assist me in any way in reaching a diagnosis, or prescribing a treatment. You must remember, gentlemen, that my interest in the matter is purely from a medical standpoint. Incidentally, I may say that it was a matter which called for rather delicate handling. To have impressed upon Packard that he was a victim of amnesia would have caused a sudden fright which would have been a cumulative shock, superimposed, as it would have been, upon the shock incident to the accident. You see, gentlemen, in a motor accident, there is not only the shock resulting from the injuries, but there is that momentary realization of impending disaster which comes a fraction of a second before the actual impact.”
Mason nodded and said, “I understand. You haven’t any more information which might be of value to me, have you?”
“None whatever,” Dr. Wallace said, “other than that I may repeat, the man’s injuries were not serious. Doubtless you are representing an insurance company which—”
“No,” Mason said, “I’m not representing the insurance company. I’m interested, that’s all. You have Harry Trader’s address?”
“Yes. The Trader’s Transfer Company, 1819 Center Street.”
Mason said, “Thank you, Doctor. Come on, Paul, let’s go.”
Dr. Wallace followed them into the corridor, his manner suave, dignified and professional. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said.
As they left the hospital and crossed to the automobile, Drake said, in his slow drawl, “Where does that leave you, Perry?”
Mason said, “I don’t know. I can’t tell very much about it until after I find out what’s happened at the Prescott residence. Right now I’m working pretty much in the dark.”
Drake said, “Well, I’ll call the office and get another earful.”
“I’ll wait here in the car,” Mason said. “Tell your girl to run in to my office and tell Della to wait for me.”
For some five minutes Mason reclined against the cushions of Drake’s car, smoking thoughtfully, then he raised expectant eyes as Drake came running down the white stone steps of the big building. “Anything new?” he asked, as Drake opened the door of the car.
“I’ll say! Plenty of news. The homicide squad was playing around the Prescott house because Walter Prescott was found dead in an upstairs bedroom. He was fully clothed for the street, and somebody had plugged him right through the brisket with a .38 caliber revolver. Three shots were fired. All of them took effect. One of them went through the heart. The shots must have been fired at close range, because there were powder bums on the clothing and skin. The cops searched the drawer in the desk where Mrs. Anderson had seen the Swaine girl planting the gun. They didn’t find any gun in the drawer, but back of the drawer, where it had been shoved down into a little recess in the desk, they found a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver, with three empty cartridges in the cylinder, and three loaded shells. The smell of the gun shows it had been recently fired.”
“How about the Swaine girl?” Mason asked. “What are they doing about her?”
“They’re looking for her. She left the house around two-thirty, carrying a suitcase and a caged canary. Police figure she intended to skip the country and didn’t want to leave the canary in the house to starve.”
“In that event,” Mason pointed out, “she must have felt certain her sister, Rosalind Prescott, wasn’t going to return.”
“The police are looking for the sister, too.”
“Any luck?”
“None so far.”
“They’ve identified the man who was at the house?”
“Yes. A chap by the name of Driscoll. They’re looking for him.”
“Find him?”
“I don’t think so. Not yet.”
“Put a couple of men on the job digging out all the information you can about Driscoll,” Mason ordered.
Drake’s carp-like mouth twisted into a slow grin. “I saved a nickel on that one,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I started a couple of operatives on him as soon as I had the name over the telephone, so I won’t have to call back.”
Mason nodded and said, “Get in, Paul. We’re going to hunt up Harry Trader. We’ll try his place of business first. He may be there.”
Harry Trader, a barrel-chested individual, with the odor of stale perspiration and tobacco clinging to him, was still in his office, making out some reports. He surveyed his two visitors with cold, gray eyes.
“Just where do you two guys fit into this picture?” he asked.
“We’re making an investigation,” Mason told him.
Trader slipped a plug of tobacco from the pocket of his stained overalls, cut off a slice and inserted it in his mouth. With calm deliberation, he replaced the tobacco, shut the knife, and shoved it down deep in his pocket. “Yeah,” he said. “When a guy starts asking questions, he’s making an investigation. That don’t mean anything. Are you representing Packard?”
“No, I’m not,” Mason said. “I’m investigating another angle of the case.”
“Which angle?”
Mason said, “An angle which is quite incidental.”
Trader rolled the piece of tobacco about in his mouth through tightly clenched lips, and said, “Uh huh. Thanks for tellin’ me.”
“Did you take Packard to the hospital?” Mason asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you take him out of the hospital?”
“No. I had a delivery to make. I turned him over to the doctor.”
“You don’t know when he left?”
“No.”
“You don’t know how seriously he was hurt?”
“Sure. He was just banged up a bit. I stuck around until I was sure there was nothing wrong with him.”
“Was he suffering from amnesia — loss of memory?”
“He was punch-groggy, if that’s what you mean.”
“How did the accident happen?” Mason asked.
Trader adjusted the piece of tobacco between his molars, chewed with a barely perceptible motion, his facial muscles bunching into little knots as his jaws clamped shut. His eyes were cold and uncordial. On the wall, a clock clacked off the seconds.
“You’re not going to answer that question?” Mason asked.
“You said it, buddy. I’ve made my report to my insurance company. Go talk with them if you want to.”
“Just who is your insurance company?” Mason asked.
“That’s something else again,” Trader told him,
“Look here,” Mason said, “for reasons which are none of your damned business, I’m trying to get this thing cleaned up in a way which will be satisfactory to all concerned. You haven’t anything to lose by co-operating with me.”
“You go see my insurance company,” Trader said.
“But we don’t know who your insurance company is,” Drake pointed out.
“That’s right, buddy,” Trader said, “you don’t.”
“You were making a delivery out near the scene of the accident?” Mason inquired.
“Yes.”
“To Prescott’s house?”
“I don’t see as it makes any difference,” Trader said.
“It makes a difference as to whether you were really making a turn down Fourteenth Street,” Mason pointed out.
“Yes,” Trader said, “it was to Prescott’s place. I had some stuff to put in his garage.”
“And as soon as the accident occurred, you and some other man lifted Packard from the car and put him in your truck. You took him directly to the hospital, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Who was this other man?”
“I don’t know. Some guy that came out of the house.”
“What house?”
“Prescott’s house.”
“Do you know Prescott?”
“Yes.”
“Know him well?”
“I’ve done some business for him.”
“Know who this man was?”
“I’ve never seen him before.”
“Would you know him if you saw him again?”
“Of course I would.”
“And, when you found out Packard wasn’t seriously injured, you left the hospital, returned to the scene of the accident and made your delivery to Prescott’s house — is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Was anyone home in Prescott’s house?”
“I don’t know. My instructions were to put the stuff in the garage, and I put it in the garage.”
“Who gave you those instructions?”
“Prescott. He gave me a key to the garage.”
“When?”
“Ask Prescott.”
“What were the articles?”
“Ask Prescott.”
“When you made the delivery, the wrecked coupe was still in front of the house?”
“Yes.”
“Did Packard make any statement to you about where he was staying in town, what his business was, or what his plans were?”
Trader clamped his lips together again, and after a moment puckered up the corners enough to send out a thin stream of yellow liquid into the cuspidor which stood by his table.
“Not answering that question?” Mason asked.
Trader shook his head. “He admitted it was his fault,” he said at length. “That’s all I’m telling you guys about the talk I had with him.”
Mason said, “Look here, Trader, you’re not helping us very much. I’m not trying to drum up a damage suit. I’m trying to get information, and it isn’t going to hurt you any to give us that information.”
“I’ve done all the talking I’m going to,” Trader said.
Mason motioned to Paul Drake. “Come on, Paul,” he said, “let’s go.”
“Where to now?” the detective asked, as they crossed the curb to his car.
“Take me out to my car,” Mason said. “I’ll drive it back to the office. In the meantime, you start men finding this chap, Carl Packard.”
“How bad do you want him?” the detective asked.
“So bad it hurts, Paul. On all the other stuff we’re tagging along behind. On this one thing, we’re ahead of the police, or will be, if we can find Packard. What he saw in that window may save the life of an innocent man or woman.”
“Or,” Drake said dryly, switching on the headlights and starting the motor, “may hang a murder around the neck of your client. Have you thought of that, Perry?”
“No,” the lawyer said, his face grim, “and what’s more, I won’t let myself think of it.”