A Fair - Cut Thin to Win

The sign on the frosted glass of the door read:

I opened the door, walked in, nodded to the receptionist and crossed over to the door marked: DONALD LAM, Private.

Elsie Brand, my secretary, said, “Did you notice the man who’s waiting in the outer office?”

“Not particularly. Why?”

“He wants to see you.”

“What about?”

“Something that is so highly confidential he won’t discuss it with anyone except you.”

“What’s his name?”

She handed me a card. The ink embossing had been piled on so thick a blind man could have read it with the tips of his fingers.

The card read, DAWSON RE-DEBENTURE DISCOUNT SECURITY COMPANY. Down in the left hand corner were the words, Clayton Dawson, Assistant to the President.

The address of the company was Denver, Colorado.

“All right,” I said to Elsie, “let’s see him.”

Elsie buzzed the receptionist and said, “Mr. Lam is in now. Have Mr. Dawson come in.”

A few moments later the receptionist opened the door for Dawson.

He was medium height, around fifty, wearing clothes that were quiet and subdued in pattern but of a quality which made them stand out. There was a rich luster about the cloth.

He looked around the office and let his eyes focus on me the second time around.

“Mr. Lam?”

There was just a touch of incredulity in his voice.

“Yes,” I said.

He didn’t sit down. He looked at Elsie Brand, then he looked at me, then he shook his head and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but it’s better to do it now than later. I’m afraid you just won’t do.”

“Get someone who will do then.”

“I had expected a much bigger man.”

“You want an investigator?”

“Yes.”

“What did you want him to do, play pro football or investigate?”

“I... well, I understand that in your profession you have to face certain odds, odds which sometimes require a degree of physical proficiency.

“I have no doubt that you’re very skillful and highly competent but, for the type of job I have in mind— What about your partner?

“Is Mr. Cool more... more beefy?”

I said, “For your information, B. Cool is a bit more beefy.”

His face lit up.

“The ‘B’,” I said, “stands for ‘Bertha.’ B. Cool is a woman.”

Dawson sat down suddenly, as though his knees had given away. “Oh, my God!” he said.

I said, “You’ve probably been reading novels where the private investigator is trapped in a washroom with two torpedoes bearing down on him with knives. He grabs the wrist of the first torpedo, twists the knife out of his hand with such a jerk that it flies to the ceiling and sticks there. At the same time, he kicks the other assailant in the stomach.

“Then crashing his knuckles into the face of the first man, he can feel the crunching of bone as a nose flattens under the blow, and has the satisfaction of seeing blood spatter like drops from the nozzle of a garden hose.

“The man staggers backward for two steps, then crashes through a swinging door and comes to a sitting position.

“That gives our hero an idea. He lifts the other unconscious man from the floor and seats him in another stall.

“The door swings shut. The detective washes his hands under the warm water faucet and is drying them under an air dryer when the door of the rest room bursts open and two police come in and stare about them as our hero pauses in front of the mirror to adjust his tie.

“ ‘Any trouble in here?’ one of the cops asks.

“Our hero raises his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Trouble?’ he asks. ‘Not for me—’ ”

“You don’t need to go on,” Dawson said.

“I can,” I told him. “Indefinitely.”

“You’ve evidently been reading that stuff yourself.”

“Why not? If you can put yourself in the position of the hero, it’s fun to live in that sort of a world.”

“But you couldn’t do it in reality,” he said.

“Neither could you,” I told him. “Bertha Cool is the only one I know who might.”

He looked me over thoughtfully. “The deuce of it is your firm has one hell of a reputation. I personally know of two very difficult jobs you’ve handled.”

“Muscle jobs?” I asked.

He hesitated, then said, “Brain jobs, I guess. What sort of a woman is this Mrs. Cool?”

“You’d better look her over,” I said.

“There’s a woman involved in this case,” he told me.

“There usually is.”

“It might be... it just might be that, in a matter of this kind, your Bertha Cool could do a job.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“The girl is young, wayward, obstinate, independent, impudent and ungrateful.”

“In other words,” I said, “she’s a thoroughly normal, modern young woman. Is she, by any chance, your sweetheart, or rather, was she before the serpent entered the Garden of Eden?”

He said with dignity, “She is my daughter.”

“I see,” I told him. “Perhaps you’d like to talk with Mrs. Cool?”

“I think it would be advantageous to have her in on the conversation.”

I nodded to Elsie Brand.

Elsie put through a call on Bertha Cool’s line and, moment later, I heard the rasping sound of Bertha Cool’s voice.

Elsie explained the situation briefly.

She hung up the phone and said, “Mrs. Cool will be right in.”

A few moments later the door opened, and Bertha Cool entered the room.

Bertha was built like an old-fashioned freight locomotive. She had short legs, a big torso, diamond-hard glittering eyes, and as she came barging into the office it was quite evident that she wasn’t in her most amiable mood. She always liked to rely on the prerogative of her sixty-odd years and be the senior partner. She would have preferred to have Dawson brought in to her office with a proper fanfare.

“Mrs. Cool,” I said with my best company manners, “may I present Mr. Dawson, assistant to the president of the Dawson Re-Debenture Discount Security Company.”

Dawson jumped to his feet.

Bertha’s glittering eyes looked him over. “How do you do, Mister Dawson,” she said.

Dawson bowed. “It is a distinct pleasure, an honor,” he declared.

Bertha Cool turned to me. “Business or social?”

“Business,” I told her. “Mr. Dawson wants to talk with us about a case. He feels there may be some trouble connected with it which I can’t handle.”

“What sort of trouble?” Bertha asked.

“Violence,” I said.

“No, just a minute, just a minute,” Dawson interposed. “I didn’t exactly say it in that way.”

“You intimated it,” I countered.

He started explaining to Bertha. “I merely suggested,” he said, “that is was my understanding that private investigators had to be a little broader, a little heavier and a little older than your partner; that, at times, they encountered violence.”

“We get by,” Bertha said.

“I daresay you do.”

“There’s a woman in the deal,” I said to Bertha, “and Mr. Dawson thought that might complicate the situation somewhat.”

“It always complicates any situation,” Bertha said.

She heaved herself into a chair. Diamonds scintillated as she moved her hands. She saw to it that they did. Her eyes glittered as she surveyed Dawson.

“Want to tell us about it?” she asked.