A Fair: Cut Thin to Win

“It is,” he said, “a matter which will involve the utmost delicacy of approach.”

“We’ve never had one that didn’t,” Bertha told him.

“It’s a family matter.”

I handed Bertha the embossed card.

Bertha rubbed a speculative thumbnail over the embossing, said abruptly to Dawson, “You’re assistant to the president?”

“That’s right.”

“Your name’s Dawson?”

“Yes. Clayton Dawson.”

“But the name is the Dawson Re-Debenture Discount Security Company. How come you have the same name?”

He said, “It was founded by my father.”

“Your father’s no longer alive?”

“He’s retired. He’s chairman of the board.”

“Then how come you’re not the president?”

“I see no reason to discuss my personal family affairs, Mrs. Cool,” Dawson said with dignity, “but it happens that my older brother is president.”

“I see,” Bertha said. “All right, what’s the pitch?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What’s this all about? What do you want us to do?”

Dawson looked from Bertha to me, then looked back to Bertha.

“I have a daughter,” he said.

Bertha sat silent.

“She is twenty-three. She is undisciplined, ungrateful, and I am afraid, if judged by strictly old-fashioned standards, immoral.”

“People don’t judge women by strictly old-fashioned standards these days,” Bertha said. “They’ve gone out of style. What’s the specific problem?”

“When it became apparent that she was not going to be amenable to discipline and seemed intent on disgracing the family name, I terminated all financial contributions. In other words, I made it plain to her that if she was going to ignore my wishes and no longer consider me as her mentor, I would no longer be financially responsible in any way.”

“And what did she do?”

“She walked out.”

“This scene took place in Denver, Colorado?” I asked.

His eyes shifted to me, looked down at his feet for a moment, then raised back to mine.

“Yes.”

“Go on,” I told him.

“My daughter,” he said, “left home. She came to Los Angeles. She got all tangled up with a man. I do not approve of the alliance. I do not approve of the man.”

“You’ve met him?”

“Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Sidney Eldon.”

“What’s your daughter’s name?”

“Phyllis. P-h-y-l-l-i-s.”

“You seem to have kept up with your daughter.”

“She has written me occasionally.”

“How long since she left?”

“About two months.”

“Why do you come to us?”

He fidgeted around slightly, shifting his position two or three times in the chair.

“Quit stalling,” I told him. “Something is bringing all this to a head. What’s your problem?”

He said, “I don’t know whether you people can help me.”

“Neither do I,” I told him.

He glanced at me sharply.

Bertha said, “What Donald means is that hiring a firm of private investigators makes rather an expensive way to solve a romantic problem.”

“Money,” Dawson said, snapping his fingers, “is nothing.”

Bertha’s face softened. “I see,” she cooed. “It’s a matter of principle with you.”

“Exactly,” he said. “That and the family name.”

“What about the family name?” I asked.

He said, “Anything that I tell you is confidential?”

“Yes.”

“As private detectives, are you licensed?”

“Yes.”

“If you should cover up evidence of a crime, you would lose that license?”

“That’s right.”

“Therefore, you can’t take employment which would cause you to lose your license.”

“You’re doing the talking,” I said, as Bertha hesitated.

“Therefore,” he said, “if I should be entirely frank with you, you couldn’t accept the employment and you couldn’t protect me, and on the other hand, if you are going to protect me in the way I want, I can’t be entirely frank with you.”

“Deals of that sort,” I warned, “are apt to run into a hell of a lot of money.”

Bertha beamed at me.

Dawson bent down, opened his brief case and took out an envelope. From the envelope he extracted a small, torn fragment of cloth. He handed the torn fragment of cloth to Bertha.

Bertha’s diamonds glittered as she turned the cloth over in her fingers. “What’s this?” she asked.

“I have to express this very carefully so that I will not put you in a precarious position and so I will not put myself in a dangerous position,” Dawson said. “It is possible someone might claim that piece of cloth could have been found adhering to an automobile which my daughter was falsely accused of driving on the fifth of this month, at a time when she was more or less under the influence of liquor.”

Bertha said, “You mean that—”

“Shut up. Bertha,” I said.

Bertha glowered at me.

I said, “Dawson has expressed himself in unmistakable language. This situation requires very careful consideration and we mustn’t say anything which would put our client in a precarious position.”

Dawson nodded emphatically.

The idea began to soak into Bertha’s mind. She let her eyes shift from one to the other of us.

“We can’t cut corners, Donald,” she warned.

“Certainly not,” I told her. “So far, no one has shown us any corners which could be cut. I take it, Mr. Dawson, that you’re not prepared to tell us who discovered this piece of cloth or what significance it has?”

Dawson said piously, “I don’t know that it has any significance. That is why I am coming to you. I would like to have you find out what significance, if any, that cloth does have.”

“And if it should have some significance, what do you want to do?”

“Take it from there in the best way possible,” he said.

“You have regard for your family’s good name but no particular affection for your daughter, is that right?” Bertha asked.

“That is not right. I love my daughter very much but I have worn out my patience. I am now afraid she has placed me in such a position that I cannot show my love... at least, openly. Anything that is done would have to be done under cover and behind the scenes, so to speak, very much under cover.”

“Your daughter’s living here?”

“Yes.”

“As Phyllis Dawson?”

“No, as Phyllis Eldon. She is living with this man, Sidney Eldon.”

“Where?”

“The Parkridge Apartments.”

“What does Sidney Eldon do? How does he get by?”

“I am afraid he is, at least at present, getting by on my daughter’s money.”

“She has some money?”

“She took some money with her, when she left — and I don’t want you trying to check on that in any way because, if you did, it would attract attention, and right at the moment I don’t want to attract attention.”

“Just what do you want?” I asked.

“I want matters handled swiftly, efficiently and quietly. If that fragment of cloth has any significance, I want the situation handled so there are no embarrassing repercussions.”

“Put the cloth back in your brief case,” I told him.

“But I wanted you to see it.”

“We’ve seen it.”

“But you may need it so you can be sure—”

“We don’t want to be sure,” I told him. “If we’re going to help you, or help your daughter, we can’t afford to be sure of anything. You should understand the implications.”

Slowly, he put the cloth back in the envelope, the envelope back in the brief case.

“Now then,” I said, “if you want us to represent you, we don’t want to know anything more. We’ll get the facts from our own investigation. You want to find out what you daughter’s been doing, is that right?”