A. Fair - Bats Fly at Dusk

“How did you cash the cheque?” Bertha asked.

“The settlement was made in the form of cash, because it was on Saturday afternoon. The banks were closed, and Mr. Milbran thought I should come right out here where it was quiet. He said that he was making a generous settlement with me because of the circumstances. Do you know what he told me — after the agreement had been signed, of course?”

“No,” Bertha said. “What?”

She laughed. “Said that his client was so drunk that he actually didn’t know he had hit anyone. He admitted that he’d been drinking heavily and was driving the car home; but he doesn’t even remember having been in that particular section of the city where he hit me, and certainly doesn’t remember the accident. It came as a shock to him when—”

“Wait a minute,” Bertha Cool interrupted. “How did you get in touch with the insurance company then?”

“That was through Mrs. Cranning.”

“I know, but how did she get in touch with it? What—?”

“Well, I remembered this man’s licence number.”

“Did you write it down?” Bertha asked.

“No, I didn’t write it down. I just remembered it, and I told Mrs. Cranning what it was. Of course, I wrote it down after I got home. When I say I didn’t write it down, I mean I didn’t stand right there in front of the automobile and write it down. I didn’t want to be disagreeable about the thing, but I just looked at his licence number so as to— Why, what’s the matter?”

Bertha Cool said, “You’ve done the damnedest thing.”

“I have?”

“Yes.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“You got the licence number wrong,” Bertha Cool said, “and just as a pure coincidence your wrong licence number happened to be that of a man who was also driving a car at that time and was also drunk.”

“You mean that the man — that the Club—”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Bertha said. “You got hold of a man who happened to have been too drunk at the time to know what he was doing but who realized he might have hit someone. When Mrs. Cranning got in touch with him and told him about the accident, he rang up his insurance carrier and reported to them, and the insurance carrier came dashing out to make the best settlement he could.”

“And you mean this man didn’t hit me at all?”

“Not the one you made the claim against.”

“But that’s impossible!”

“I know it’s impossible,” Bertha observed doggedly, “but it’s exactly what happened.”

“And where does that leave me?”

Bertha said, “It leaves you sitting on top of the world.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Bertha Cool opened her purse, pulled out one of her agency cards, and put on her best smile. “Here,” she said, “is one of my cards. Cool and Lam, Confidential Investigators. I’m Bertha Cool.”

“You mean — that you’re a detective?”

“Yes.”

“How exciting!”

“Not very.”

“But don’t you— Oh, you must have unusual experiences. You must work at odd hours, have sleepless nights—”

“Yes,” Bertha interrupted, “we have unusual experiences and sleepless nights. I had an unusual experience yesterday and a particularly sleepless night. And now I’ve found you.”

“But why were you looking for me?”

Bertha Cool said, “I am going to collect some money for you. Will you give me fifty per cent of it if I collect it?”

“Money for what?”

“Money from the insurance company for being hit by a drunken driver.”

“But I’ve already collected that, Mrs. Cool. I’ve already made a settlement.”

“No, you haven’t, not from the man who was driving the car. How much were they going to pay in all?”

“You mean this insurance company?”

“Yes, the one you made the settlement with, this Auto Club outfit?”

“Why, they were going to pay me my salary for two months. That would be two hundred and fifty dollars for the two months. Then they were going to pay all the expenses here. I don’t know what they amount to, but I think it’s ten dollars a day. That would be six hundred dollars for two months, and give me five hundred dollars when I left here. Good heavens, Mrs. Cool, do you realize how much that is? That’s thirteen hundred dollars.”

“All right,” Bertha said, “you signed a release, releasing the client of that insurance company, and that insurance company from any claim. You didn’t sign any release, releasing the Intermutual Indemnity Company. Now, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. You’re going to put your claim in my hands, and I’m going to collect you a bunch of money from the Intermutual. You’re going to pay me one-half of what I collect, and I’m going to guarantee with you that your share will be at least two thousand dollars.”

“You mean two thousand dollars in cash?”

“Yes,” Bertha said. “That’ll be your share, and don’t let’s have any misunderstandings, dear. I’ll be making two thousand dollars myself. Understand, that’s a minimum. I feel certain I can get you more, perhaps three or four thousand dollars as your share.”

“But, Mrs. Cool, that would be dishonest.”

“Why would it be dishonest?”

“Because I’ve already given a release to the insurance company.”

“But it was the wrong insurance company, the wrong driver.”

“I know, but, nevertheless, I’ve accepted that money.”

“They’ve paid it to you,” Bertha said. “It’s their hard luck.”

“No, I couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t be ethical. It wouldn’t be honest.”

“Listen,” Bertha said, “the insurance companies have lots of money. They’re rolling in wealth. This man was driving a car. He was so drunk he didn’t know what he was doing. When Mrs. Cranning rang him up and told him that he’d hit you, knocked you down, and then made passes at you going home, he really thought he’d done so. He told her he’d have his insurance company get on the job right away. He called up his insurance company and said, ‘I’m in an awful jam. I was driving a car last night. I was so drunk I don’t know what happened, and I hit this girl. She’s had a concussion of the brain and is lying on a couch out there at the house of the man who employed her. For God’s sake get on the job quick and clean the thing up.’ ”

“Well?” Josephine Dell asked. “Suppose he did?”

“Don’t you see what happened? He didn’t hit you at all, and because you gave them a release, it doesn’t mean a thing. In other words, if I should be ninny enough to offer you a thousand dollars for a complete release of any and all claims you might have against me, because I hit you with an automobile, it wouldn’t prevent you from collecting from someone who did hit you with an automobile.”

A frown puckered the smooth skin of Josephine Dell’s forehead. Her blonde hair glinted in the sunlight as she turned her head to look out of the window while she studied the proposition. Then, at length, she gave Bertha Cool her answer, a firm, determined shake of the head.

“No, Mrs. Cool, I couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“Then,” Bertha said, “if you want to be absolutely fair, ring up this automobile club representative and tell him that it was all a mistake, that you got the licence number wrong.”

Instant suspicion appeared in Josephine Dell’s eyes. “I don’t think I got the licence number wrong,” she said.

“I tell you, you did.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know the insurance company that’s actually handling the case.”

“All right,” Josephine Dell said, “if you know so much about it, go ahead and tell me what was wrong with the licence number. What was the licence number of the man who did hit me?”