A Fair: Cut Thin to Win

The only difference was Helen Loomis hadn’t gone to the junk pile. She’d scraped together enough money to get a couple of rooms in an office building; had lined up enough clients to keep her going as a public stenographer; opened a telephone answering service and a mail drop for half a dozen promoters who couldn’t afford office space, and probably some fly-by-nights who wanted to do business by mail.

“Miss Loomis?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“I understand you have an answering service and furnish office space.”

“That’s right.”

“I’d like to find out a little more about it. I’m thinking of organizing a company here in Denver. What are your rates?”

“That depends entirely upon the type of company, the amount of work, and the number of telephone calls.”

I said, “This would probably be limited to not more than one telephone call a day, and not more than thirty letters a month, but I might want to use the private office at times.”

She said, “We have this room available for private conferences, and— What was your name?” she asked.

“Lam,” I told her. “Donald Lam.”

“And what is the nature of your business, Mr. Lam.”

“I am an investment counselor,” I said. “I would like to begin in a small way.”

“Oh, yes, rates would be forty-five dollars a month for putting your name on the door, having an answering service, taking messages and the reasonable use of the private office... Of course, you understand I have other clients and, at times, there might be a conflict.”

“Thank you,” I told her. “I’ll think it over and let you know within the next day or two.”

“Very well,” she said. And then asked, “How did you hear about my service? How did you happen to come to me?”

“One of your clients,” I said, “a Clayton Dawson.”

Her eyes suddenly hardened. “I thought I recognized your voice. Weren’t you the person who called on the telephone and asked for Mr. Dawson?”

“That’s right,” I said. “I’m an old friend of his and thought I’d let him perform the introductions, if he was in.”

“My clients very rarely put in time at the office,” she said. “It’s used mostly for an answering service.”

“You haven’t any idea where I could get hold of Clay now?” I asked.

“Clay?” she inquired.

I laughed apologetically. “Clayton Dawson.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Dawson was in earlier today, picked up a special delivery letter and went out. I’m sorry, I don’t have a home address for him.”

“Well,” I said, “if he comes in, tell him to be sure to get in touch with his old friend, Donald Lam.”

“And where will you be, Mr. Lam?”

I laughed and said, “Clay knows where he can reach me, all right. Clay’s the one who is the rolling stone. He’s always into something, usually something new. He’s the promoter type.”

“I see,” she said, in a manner which intimated the interview was being terminated.

“I’ll get in touch with you if I go ahead with this deal,” I said, and walked out.

The Merchants’ Credit Association had two Clayton Dawsons, and neither one of them could by any possibility of the imagination be the one I wanted. No one had ever heard of a Dawson Re-Debenture Discount Security Company.

The registrar of voters had several Dawsons but, here again, no one who could be my man, judging from ages.

I went to the car rental agencies and inquired if a Clayton Dawson had rented a car from them within the last two weeks or ten days, and drew blank.

The Clayton Dawson who had called on me was a shadow who had given Denver as a phony background. He had carefully laid his plans so he couldn’t be traced.

And Sergeant Frank Sellers was going to take my license unless I came up with the name of my client in forty-eight hours.

If I tried giving Sergeant Sellers the story of what actually happened, he would throw the book at me for being a poor liar and not being able to make up a better story than that.

I took a cab to the airport and found that I had to wait two hours for a plane back to Los Angeles.

I picked an isolated booth at the Denver airport and called Phyllis Eldon in her apartment. Somewhat to my surprise I heard her voice answering the phone.

“This,” I said, “is Donald Lam talking.”

“Yes, Mr. Lam.” Her voice was warm and friendly.

“I’m in a jam.”

“I guess everyone gets in a jam sooner or later.”

“I’m in a jam on account of you and your father.”

“Indeed?”

“I’m in Denver now. I tried to see you father. I can’t locate him. I’ve got to get in touch with him. Do you know where I can find him?”

“No, what’s the trouble?”

I said, “I don’t want to discuss details over the telephone, but there has been a leak somewhere and certain persons are trying to trace the source of a certain payment. I think if you could meet me at the airport tonight, it might be well for us to have a conference. Your father was considerably less than frank with me, and if I’m going to take a rap for you people, I want to have the cards on the table.”

“What plane are you coming in on?” she asked.

I gave her the flight number, the airline and the time of arrival.

She said, “I’m not answering for my father, but I’ll tell you one thing, I try to be a squareshooter. If a man sticks his neck out for me, I remember it and appreciate it. I’ll be there.”

“That,” I told her, “makes me feel a whole lot better.”

“Can you tell me who’s causing the trouble?” she asked.

“I’m afraid it’s getting to be a uniform procedure,” I said.

“I don’t get you,” she said. “A uniform procedure, a— Oh, yes, I get it! All right, Donald, I’ll be there. ‘Bye now.”

Her voice was warm, friendly and seductive.

I killed time until my flight was called, then settled back in cushioned comfort on the plane and relaxed.

What I had found out about Clayton Dawson made me think I had been taken for a ride, but his daughter who was supposed to be wayward, obstinate and independent, impudent, ungrateful, undisciplined and perhaps immoral was turning out to be a regular trouper.

That, I reflected, was the way with the world. Then the stewardess brought me an old-fashioned and ten minutes later I didn’t have a care in the world. Everything was going to work out all right.

We arrived in Los Angeles right on schedule and I managed to be in the vanguard of passengers leaving the plane. I was carrying a brief-case and nothing else, travelling light.

I spotted Phyllis standing at the gates. She waved at me with warm spontaneity.

I was just about to wave back when my eyes caught a glimpse of the face of Sergeant Frank Sellers, standing slightly back from the crowd. He was wearing civilian clothes and trying to keep in the background as much as possible.

I gave Phyllis a stony stare, hoping she’d get the idea.

She lowered her arm, her eyes puzzled.

I marched forward, my eyes straight ahead.

Phyllis pushed her way toward me.

I shook my head imperceptibly.

She didn’t get it.

“Donald!” she said, grabbing my arm. “Donald, don’t you remember me?”

I turned then.

There was no chance as passing it off as a mistake or patching it up in any way. She’d called my name and the fact that ‘I had quite evidently been trying to avoid her didn’t help any. It gave Sellers all the leeway he wanted.

He came swooping down on us like a hawk on a covey of quail.

“Hello, Pint Size!” he said. “Who’s your friend?”

Phyllis turned to look at him and said, “Go peddle your papers, big boy, we have a date.”