A. Fair - Shills Can't Cash Chips

“The car behind him braked to a stop just in time to keep from hitting him. The third car was a light sports car with the top down. It was driven by a quite good-looking girl. The car behind her was going pretty fast. The driver had evidently swung out to the left to try and get around the string of traffic because—”

“How do you know that?”

“When I saw him he was swerving back to the right again and going pretty fast.”

“What happened?”

“That’s about it. The man in the back car, which was a big Buick, ran into the girl in the sports car. He hit her a pretty good jolt. Her car was stopped at the time of the impact. In fact, she’d been stopped for a couple of seconds.”

“Did she act injured in any way?”

“She didn’t act injured except her neck seemed to be hurting her. She kept holding one of her hands against the back of her neck.”

“The hell she did.”

I said, “She got quite a jolt when the car hit because the blow was unexpected. I saw her head snap back.”

“Did she stop?”

“She was stopped before he ever hit her.”

“All right. What happened?”

“Well, they both got out and talked for a minute. Then the girl drove on. The man went to the front of his car, took a look at it, shrugged his shoulders, got in and drove off. The radiator had been punctured, I think, because he was leaving a stream of water on the highway.

“That’s all I saw. I guess I missed one or perhaps two traffic signals standing there looking at them.”

“Did you take down the license numbers?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Would you know either of these people if you saw them again?”

“Sure. I had a good look at them.”

“Describe the man.”

“Well, he was a big tall fellow — looked something like a Texan. He was wearing a brown suit and a sport shirt.”

“How old?”

“Oh, forty — forty-two or three.”

“Tall?”

“All of six foot two. Sort of a good-natured chap. I saw him smiling, despite the fact the front of his car was caved in. He had a close-cropped mustache.”

“What time was this?”

“Right around three-thirty, give or take a few minutes either way.”

“And the date?”

“The thirteenth of August.”

Jewett said, “I’m going to show you a picture. It may or may not mean anything. Of course I know it’s a job to recognize a man from a photograph but I want you to try it.”

He pulled a billfold from his pocket, took out a photograph of Carter Holgate. It was a fairly good snapshot showing Holgate and Jewett standing side by side at the entrance to the subdivision with the sign: HOLGATE & MAXTON — BREEZEMORE TERRACE ESTATES.

“You recognize either of those people?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. “That’s you on the right.”

“And the one on the left?”

“That,” I said with firm conviction, “is the man who was driving the car that ran into the girl’s car.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Jewett slowly and reluctantly put the billfold back in his pocket. “Where can I reach you?” he asked.

“Through Elsie here. I always keep in touch with her.”

“You going to be living here?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “She’s putting me up for a couple of days. I’m on my way.”

“Where to?”

“I’m not sure.”

Jewett hesitated for a moment, then extracted two one-hundred-dollar bills and a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet and handed them to me.

“What am I supposed to do now in return for this money?” I asked.

“Not a damned thing,” he said. “Just not a single damned thing.”

“Should I know the name of the man who’s standing next to you in the photograph?”

“Why?”

“So I can tell him I saw the accident.”

“Whose fault was it?”

“It was his fault.”

“Do you think he’d like to have a witness who could go on the stand and swear it was his fault?”

I fingered the two hundred and fifty dollars and said, “Well, somebody seems anxious to have a witness.”

“You’ve answered the ad,” he said. “You’ve got the two hundred and fifty. Now, forget it.”

“What do you mean, forget it?”

“Just like I told you,” he said. “Forget it.”

He got up out of the chair with the ease of a trained athlete, walked to the door, turned, looked Elsie Brand over from head to foot and said, “Thanks. I’m sorry I bothered you and I’m sorry I was rude. I really am sorry.”

He walked out and pulled the door shut behind him.

Elsie looked at me. I could see that her knees were rubbery.

“Donald, who was he?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “The only thing I’m willing to bet is that I can tell you who he wasn’t.”

“Well, who wasn’t he?”

“He wasn’t Harry Jewett,” I said.

“What makes you think that?”

“The initial on his cuff links was M. He had an M embroidered on his necktie. The photograph showed the two of them standing under a sign of Holgate and Maxton. The big man with him was Holgate. I have an idea this may have been Christopher Maxton.”

“Oh,” she said.

I handed her the two hundred and fifty dollars.

“Go buy yourself some socks, Elsie.”

“Why, Donald— What do you—”

“This is money on the side,” I said. “Get yourself some socks.”

“But Donald, you’ll have to turn that in.”

“Turn it in on what?”

“As a credit.”

“A credit for what?”

“For the money that was paid to you — you know, against whatever expenses you’re charging.”

I shook my head. “This is side pickings, Elsie. Get yourself some nice sheer nylon stockings. Wear them around the office and be as generous as possible.”

Her face got red again. “Donald!” she said.

I kept holding out the bills and after a moment she took them.

It was nine-forty-five when I got back to Colinda and found a parking place for my car about a block from the hotel. I walked down the street and turned in at the hotel. I nodded to the night clerk.

“Are you Mr. Lam?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“There have been a couple of messages for you. I put them in your key box. Do you want them?”

“Sure.”

He handed me two messages. One of them had been received at eight o’clock and said: Mr. Lam, please call me as soon as you come in. Carter J. Holgate.

The other one had been clocked at nine-thirty and said: No matter what time you come in it is absolutely necessary for you to see me. I’ll be waiting at the office. This is a matter of the greatest importance. The number is Colinda 6-3292. Be sure to call. Holgate.

The clerk said, “He seemed most anxious, Mr. Lam. I told him I’d be sure that you received the messages. That last call was only a few minutes ago.”

“How did you know who I was?” I asked.

“The day clerk described you to me. He said you were anxious to receive any messages that came, as soon as they were received at the desk.”

“Okay, thanks,” I told him.

I went up to my room and called the number given by Holgate. It didn’t answer.

I called Doris Ashley’s number.

It didn’t answer.

I went down to the lobby, told the clerk, “Guess I’ll go out for a cup of coffee. If any more messages come in, tell them I’ll be back in — oh, half an hour or so.”

I walked out to my car and drove out to the Breezemore Terrace Estates. It took me about eight minutes.

The right wing of the building containing Chris Maxton’s offices were dark. There were lights on in the reception part of the building and lights on in the left wing which contained Holgate’s offices.