Erle Gardner - Beware the Curves

“I can hunt up the records on the accident and take a look at the wrecked cars and get a photograph,” I said. “It’s a red-hot story.”

“No, it isn’t. The newspapers are co-operating, and you’re going to co-operate.”

I became petulant. “I put out some of my good hard-earned money getting up here to get some pictures.”

“Where’s your camera?”

“I’m going to rent one. I’m going to cover all of my cases with rented cameras until I know more about photography and about cameras. Then I can tell the kind of camera I want to buy. But I don’t want to tie a lot of money up in a camera at the beginning of my writing career.”

The Susanville sheriff suddenly said, “Let’s talk things over, boys.”

They got up and went through a door. “You stay here, Lam,” he said.

I waited for about five minutes.

They came back. The sheriff of Orange County said, “You work in Los Angeles?”

“That’s right.”

“Who do you know on the police there?”

“Frank Sellers of Homicide.”

“Stick around,” the resident deputy said. “We’re putting through a call.”

He placed the call, hung up.

The men looked at each other as they waited for the call. I could feel the accusation in their attitudes.

Suddenly the telephone shattered the silence with a shrill ringing.

The sheriff said, “That’ll be Frank Sellers,” picked up the telephone, said, “Hello,” and then from the sudden change in the expression on his face I knew something had happened.

“What’s the name?” he asked. “How do you spell it? How’s that? Give it to me again.”

He picked up a pencil and wrote on the top paper of a memo pad, then said, “Okay, what’s her first name?... Her own car?... Okay, what’s the license number? That’s in California?

“Can you stall her along?... Oh, ten minutes... Well, we’ll work as fast as we can... We’re waiting on a long distance call to Los Angeles now... Okay, do the best you can... Well, if you have to. Call back if you have to.”

He hung up the phone, glanced significantly at the others, picked the top sheet off the memo pad, folded it, put it in his pocket, looked at his watch, started to say something.

The telephone rang again.

He scooped up the receiver, said, “Hello,” and the expression on his face told me he had Sellers on the line.

He identified himself and said, “We’ve got a private detective up here, name of Donald Lam. Do you know anything about him?”

The receiver made squawking noises.

“He’s messing around in a case. He says his only interest is in getting material for an article he intends to write. It’s a case we don’t want anyone lousing up for a while. How do we handle him?”

Again the receiver made squawking noises.

“Give me some more dope,” the sheriff said.

Sellers must have talked for about three minutes.

“Okay,” the sheriff said.

He hung up the phone and turned to me. His voice was more kindly. “Sellers says you’re one hell of a smart operator, that you’ll protect a client all the way, and that we can’t believe a word you say.”

“That’s nice,” I told him.

“Sellers also said that if you give your word you’ll stay with it.”

“That’s if,” I said.

“That’s right, if.”

There was a short period of silence.

“How did you come here?”

“I rented a car from Reno.”

“All right, Lam. You’re free to start back.”

“I don’t want to start back.”

“Sellers gave me a message for you. As a personal favor to him, you’re to start back. Sellers said that if you’re representing a client you won’t go back. He says that if you stick around it will mean you’re working on this case for a client. He says that if you’re just free lancing for a story you’ll come back as a personal favor to him.”

I managed to move over to sit on the corner of the table by the telephone and make it seem I was trying to make up my mind. I put my right hand behind me and rested my weight on it, and when I made certain my body concealed my right hand from them, I eased it over to the container which held the sheets of memo paper by the telephone and pulled off the top sheet. This was the one that had been directly underneath the sheet on which the sheriff had done the writing.

I folded the sheet of paper into halves, palmed it, and as I straightened slipped my right hand into my trouser pocket.

They were watching my face and none of them attached the slightest significance to my motions.

“Well?” the sheriff asked.

“Let me think it over.”

“You’ve thought it over.”

“Sellers is a nice guy. I hate to disappoint him.”

“He says you’re too damned smart to be trusted.”

“That was nice of him.”

“I thought so.”

“That makes sense,” I said.

“Sellers said it would.”

“All right,” I told him, picking up the brief case. “I hate to waste the money but I’m starting back.”

The Orange County sheriff said, “I’m not entirely satisfied with this, fellows.”

“Neither am I,” the third man said.

I put eagerness in my voice. “Want me to stick around for a day or two?” I asked. “Perhaps by that time I can have a real story.”

“No,” the Orange County sheriff said, “on second thought we want you the hell out of here and we want you out now. You’ll have an hour to get started. We’ll show you the right road out of town in case you aren’t on your way by then.”

“There’s no trouble finding the road out of town.”

“There might be for you.”

“I hate to be run out like this”

“We know you do, but it’s a personal favor for Sergeant Sellers — unless of course you’re up here representing a client.”

I told them good-by, walked out, got in my car and slipped the piece of paper from my pocket. There were faint indentations on it. I took my knife, cut the point of a soft pencil to powdered graphite, rubbed the black powder over the paper with my finger and soon had a legible imprint of what the sheriff had written down: “Stella Karis, 6825 Morehead Street, Los Angeles. License No. JYH 328.”

I went to my motel. The manager said the sheriff had phoned to move the things out of my unit and give me my money back.

I opined that was real thoughtful of the sheriff.

I drove down to the second boulevard stop, parked my car and waited. It was dark now but street lights enabled me to read license numbers.

An hour passed.

I was ready to give up and was just starting my motor when my car came along, a Ford, license number JYH 328.

A young woman was driving it and when I fell in behind her I realized she was breaking all speed laws. I tagged along behind for a ways.

Suddenly the red brake lights blazed on in the car in front. The driver pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. The door on the driver’s side opened. I saw a beautiful pair of legs, a flash of skirt, and then she was standing in front of me on the highway.

I slid rubber getting to a stop.

She didn’t budge.

I opened the door and got out.

“Now just what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

“Me?” I said. “I’m going to Reno.”

“Yes, I know you’re going to Reno, but you’re afraid you might get lost so you want a pilot car to keep ahead of you and you’ve been tagging me for the last twenty miles. Now suppose you just get that car of yours going and keep it going until you get to Reno.

“However, if, as I suspect is the case, you’re a local minion of the law making certain that I’m leaving the county, you can go back to Susanville and tell them that I don’t want any part of the place.”