Erle Gardner - Beware the Curves

“All right, I’m going to tell you,” she said.

“The factory is a novelty company. It wants to make citrus candies out of some sort of gumdrop material, oranges that look like the real thing only on a miniature scale, shipped in little packing boxes. Lemons, the same way. It wants to make a lot of Southern California souvenirs, catering to the gift trade and stuff that can be sent back East. Souvenirs from California. It wants the Citrus Grove address on its stationery and printed on the boxes. The management feels that the words ‘Citrus Grove, California’ will be a good trademark.”

“They’re going at it on a big scale?”

“On a big scale. They’re going to sell direct by mail. They’re going to place their products all around at various places where people buy gifts. At the airports, in railroad stations, at scenic points.”

“How much land do they want?”

“Ten acres.”

“Ten acres!”

“That’s right.”

“What in the world do they want with ten acres?”

“Because this plot of ten acres has facilities for a railroad siding, and—”

“A railroad siding!”

She nodded.

I thought things over. “Are you dealing direct with the company, or with a real estate broker of some sort?”

“I’m dealing direct with the company. The president of the company is a man by the name of Seward, Jed C. Seward.”

I gave the matter a lot of thought. “Look,” I said. “All of this ten acres isn’t zoned.”

“Part of it is zoned as residential property. Part of it is in a limited business district.”

“How come there are ten acres without buildings that—”

“Oh, there are buildings on it,” she said. “The buildings are little, cheap cracker-box affairs.”

“How come you own them all then? How does it happen that the ownership isn’t scattered around?”

“Because my aunt was shrewd. She said this piece of property would be exceedingly valuable as the town grew, and she worked very quietly over a period of years buying up pieces of property as they came on the market. Then finally she went in with a whirlwind finish and paid some very, very fancy prices for some of the holdouts.”

“And now you have it all?”

She nodded. “I was the only relative. I’ve got property I don’t know what to do with. I don’t like managing property. I’m an artist. I like to draw and paint. Now I’m stinking rich.”

She looked at me speculatively. “I need a manager, some shrewd man who can understand me—”

“Want some advice?” I interrupted.

“From you, yes.”

“Go to your bank,” I said. “Turn everything over to their trust department. Tell them you want income and let them turn your holdings into blue chip securities and pay you the income.”

“I wouldn’t like that. Banks are too impersonal. It would be like declaring myself incompetent and having the bank as a guardian.”

“You’ll need a guardian if you start looking around for congenial property managers.”

“I can trust my instincts.”

“That’s proof you need a guardian.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“All right. Skip it. When’s Nickerson going to get in touch with you?”

“Sometime this afternoon.”

“Tell him to go to hell,” I said.

“Donald, it’s a nice deal. The— Well, if I could get that ordinance through, I could—”

I shook my head.

“Why not?”

“You won’t get it through.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a babe in the woods,” I told her. “A novelty company doesn’t want ten acres with railroad siding facilities.”

“But they do! They’ve put up a big cash deposit.”

“And,” I went on, “Nickerson is playing things smart. The fifteen grand was just the entering wedge.”

“But I’ve got so much invested now that I—”

“That’s the way Nickerson figures,” I said. “And after you’ve put in twenty-five, you’ll have that much more invested. Then you’ll have to put in another twenty. And after you’ve got that much in, you can’t afford to back out. You’ll take him into partnership.”

“But, Donald, it... it means so much and it seems so foolish to—”

“Look,” I said, “you’re dealing with a crooked city government. You’re dealing with a crooked guy. He has now become the main witness in a murder case. He’s going to get ripped apart when he gets on the witness stand. Get out from under. Tell him to go to hell. You asked my advice, and you’ve got it. It may or may not be worth much, but it’s at least worth two fried eggs and a cup of coffee.”

Her face colored. “I wasn’t trying to— Well, it’s not that way. I wanted to make you an offer. I like you. I need someone to—”

“Forget it!” I told her. “Go to your bank. Do what I said.”

She got mad. “You think my instincts aren’t to be trusted, don’t you? You think I’d pick someone who was dishonest. Are you dishonest? I give you a chance to rook me and do you take it? Not you! You tell me to go to a bank, and then you say I can’t pick men who—”

The phone rang and kept on ringing. She gave an exclamation of disgust, picked up the receiver, said, “Hello,” and then frowned.

“It’s for you, Donald,” she said.

I took the telephone.

Elsie Brand’s voice said, “The case has blown wide open, Donald. Barney Quinn has made some sort of an announcement from Santa Ana. We’re in the case up to our necks, and Bertha Cool is having hysterics. A couple of newspaper reporters are in the office.”

“Hold them there. I’ll be right over,” I said.

“What do you mean, right over?” she asked skeptically.”

“I mean right over.”

I grabbed my hat, said, “Thanks for the breakfast, sweetheart,” and made a bolt for the door.

Bertha Cool’s eyes lit up as I entered the office. The newspapermen had been giving her a bad time.

There were two reporters and a photographer. I shook hands all around.

“What do you want to know, boys?” I asked.

They were topflight men and they didn’t beat around the bush. “You’re working for the defendants in this Endicott case?”

“Are there two?” I asked.

“There may be.”

“We’re working for Barney Quinn,” I said.

“How did they happen to pick Barney Quinn as their lawyer?”

“Isn’t he a good lawyer?”

“I don’t know. I’m wondering how they happened to pick him.”

“You’d better ask Ansel about that.”

“Look, Lam. You’ve been working on this thing for several days. You went down to Citrus Grove, started prowling around in the newspaper files. You asked questions about Endicott.”

“That’s right,” I said.

Bertha gave a little gasp. “I denied it, Donald,” she said.

I sat on the edge of the desk and grinned. “Don’t lie to the newspapers, Bertha. It’s bad business. Tell them the truth or keep quiet.”

“Then it’s the truth? You were down working on this Endicott case?”

“That isn’t what I said.”

“What did you say?”

“I was down in Citrus Grove working. I consulted the back files of the Citrus Grove Clarion. I asked about Endicott.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Why?”

“Because I was looking up something that wasn’t connected with the murder. I didn’t know Endicott had been murdered until after I got in conversation with the people at the newspaper office.”

“Phooey!”

“That’s right, boys. I’m giving it to you on the square.”

“What did you go down there on?”