A Fair: Cut Thin to Win

Sellers pulled the leather folder out of his hip pocket, opened it and flashed his star at her.

“You’re damned right, we have a date!” he said. “Only it may not be the sort of date you are anticipating with Donald.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I said, “are you going to ride herd on my love life, too, Sellers?”

I dropped the brief case, opened my arms and had time to give Phyllis a quick wink.

She melted into my arms and said, “Lover boy!” then raised her lips.

We had a long clinging kiss, and regardless of what her father may have said about her, or thought about her, that girl had a technique that was simply out of this world.

Sellers stood watching us.

I said, “I’ll talk with you tomorrow, Frank, but tonight I’m busy. Very busy.”

Sellers twisted the unlighted cigar in his mouth.

On the outskirts of the crowd, a tall, rather distinguished-looking individual started walking rapidly away.

“Hey, you,” Sellers said.

The man kept walking.

“You in the gray suit,” Sellers said, “come back here!”

The man paused, looked back over his shoulder, his face showing surprise.

“Come here,” Sellers said.

The man came back, his face angry, “What do you mean ordering me around like that?”

Again, Sellers showed him the buzzer. “I wasn’t born yesterday,” he said.

“I don’t give a damn when you were born,” the man said, “don’t try to interfere with me. What do you think you’re pulling?”

Sellers said, “I think somebody’s trying to pull a fast one on me. A red-hot babe like this doesn’t go to meet her boy friend at the airport and take a chaperone along. You were with this girl while she was waiting. Now, what’s the pitch?”

“Why, we were simply talking. I know Miss Eldon. She’s a friend of mine.”

“Yeah? And you just met her at the gate here, casually?”

“That’s right.”

“All right,” Sellers said, “what were you doing out here at the gate?”

“I came to meet a friend.”

“And what happened to the friend?”

“He didn’t come.”

Sellers grinned and said, “Don’t be silly, they’re still getting off the plane. You were trying to make a getaway. Let’s take a look at your driving license. Who are you, anyway?”

The man said, “My name is Colton C. Essex, and for your information, I’m an attorney at law.”

“Well, well, well,” Sellers said, “I guess maybe we’re beginning to hit pay dirt. And how did you come out to the airport, Mr. Essex?”

“I don’t know as that’s any of your business.”

“I’m making it my business,” Sellers said.

He turned to Phyllis. “And how did you come out to the airport?”

“I drove out in my car.”

“That’s fine,” Sellers said, “we’ll go take a look at your car.”

“A look at my car!” she said. “What do you mean? It’s my car. Are you by any chance, intimating that I’ve stolen a car?”

People were beginning to form a ring around us now, and I knew there was no use trying to carry it any farther.

“Okay, Sergeant,” I said, “if that’s the way you feel about it, we’ll go take a look at her car.”

“And we’ll be damned sure it’s her car,” Sellers said.

“You want my claim check?” she asked, handing it to him.

“You’re damned right, I want it,” Sellers said. “Come on, let’s go!... You, too, Essex. Come along!”

We walked out to the airport to the parking lot, and a crowd of curiosity seekers followed us part way; then began to melt away as we left the building and walked across to the parking lot. A couple of them, however who were more persistent, tagged along behind, talking in low voices and looking — doubtless wondering what super criminals had been flushed by the police.

Sellers was feeling very, very well pleased with himself.

“The next time you start out on a secret mission, Pint Size,” he said, “don’t use the air travel card of Cool and Lam to buy your ticket.”

Phyllis said, “I wish you’d either light that cigar or throw it away.”

“If he lights it,” I told her, “it stinks.”

“Then throw it away,” she said.

Sellers was feeling so good he took the soggy cigar stump out of his mouth and tossed it away. “Anything to oblige a lady,” he smirked.

It didn’t take Sellers long to locate Phyllis’ car, nor to check the registration and look at the dent on the right front fender.

“How d’you do this?” he asked.

“Heavens, I don’t know,” she said. “It was done somewhere in a parking lot.”

Sellers took a magnifying glass from his pocket and looked the fender over.

“What in the world are you trying to do?” she said.

Sellers said, “Where were you two headed for your smooching?”

“Does it make any difference?”

“It may make quite a bit of difference,” Sellers said. “So far, I’m giving you a break. If you were going to your apartment, I’ll go there with you and we’ll do the questioning there. But if you want to get technical about it, we can do the questioning someplace else.”

“We’ll go to my apartment,” she said.

“All right, Essex,” Sellers said with a grin, “you wanted to meet a friend and we don’t need to detain you any longer.”

“It’s too late now,” Essex said, “my friend has left. I’ll ride along uptown with you.”

“I didn’t invite you,” Sellers said.

“Well, I did,” Phyllis said, “and if you’re going to question me in any way, I’m going to have my attorney along.”

“This your attorney?” Sellers asked.

“He is now,” she said.

Seller grinned. “All right,” he said, “let’s go.”

The ride up to the Parkridge Apartments was made in silence. Phyllis drove the car competently and was very, very careful to keep within all the speed limits and traffic regulations.

Frank Sellers was doing a lot of thinking.

Phyllis parked the car and we took the elevator up to her apartment.

Sellers said, “You have a driving license as Phyllis Dawson. Your name here is Phyllis Eldon. What’s the idea?”

“Dawson,” she said, “is my official name, but Eldon is my professional name.”

“What profession?”

“I’m studying art.”

“Any pictures around?”

She opened the closet door and took out a couple of canvases that looked very much as though she had painted them at random with a squirt gun.

“What are those supposed to represent?” Sellers asked.

“Interpretive paintings,” she said. “I paint the emotions.”

“What emotion does this one portray?”

“Frustration.”

“By God, you said it,” Sellers said, “That’s the only one of those smears I’ve ever seen that had an appropriate title.”

“Don’t you call my painting a smear!” she blazed at him. “In fact, I’m taking altogether too much from you as it is.

“Tell me, Colton, do I have to put up with this?”

“You certainly do not,” the attorney said. “An officer is supposed to be a gentleman. He’s supposed to investigate cases in his official capacity with some due regard to the rights of the witnesses with whom he is talking.”

“All right, all right,” Sellers said, “my mistake. I let my tongue slip a little bit. It’s a very nice painting, Miss Eldon. Now, if everybody will sit down and be comfortable, I’m going to tell you a few things about my own particular brand of frustration.”

“That’s all right,” Phyllis said, “make yourself right at home, Sergeant.”

We sat down.

Sellers said, “Up in the northern part of the city, about a week ago, a Mrs. Harvey W. Chester, a middle-aged woman, was knocked down by a car that sped away and left her lying in the crosswalk.