A. Fair: Spill the Jackpot

“No, of course not,” Bertha said sarcastically. “She wouldn’t think of looking over their mail.”

Whitewell smiled briefly, said, “She claims that the name, Framley, in the upper left-hand corner was so much like her own maiden name that she thought for a moment it had been written by some of her family. Then she saw that it was an ‘m’ instead of an ‘n’ in the name.”

“And she noticed it was from Las Vegas?”

“Yes.”

“What address in Las Vegas?”

“She doesn’t remember.”

“Remember the first name, whether it was a man or a woman?”

“No, only that it was from Framley, Las Vegas. That, of course, is a very slender clue, but it’s the only clue we have. There’s nothing in the facts surrounding her disappearance to help us.”

“How about her notebook?” I asked. “The shorthand notebook with the notes on the important and confidential—”

“Lying right there on her desk,” he said. “If that had been missing, I could have got some action from the F.B.I., but there’s absolutely nothing to indicate that her position had anything whatever to do with her disappearance. Apparently it’s purely a private matter.”

“And you think there’s a person named Framley in Las Vegas who knows something about her disappearance?” Bertha asked.

Whitewell said, “Yes, Mrs. Cool. There’s a Helen Framley who lives here in Las Vegas. That is, she’s been here for the last few weeks.”

“You’ve been to her?” I asked.

“What makes you think I’ve been to her?” he inquired cautiously.

I said, “Once you’d located her, you’d hardly pay money to a detective agency unless you’d already tried getting the information yourself — and failed.”

He didn’t answer immediately. He took the cigar out of his mouth, studied it for several seconds, then shifted his position in the chair, and said, “Frankly, I did. It happens that I have some friends here, the Dearbornes. Ever heard of them?”

“I don’t know anyone in Las Vegas,” I said.

He said, “Mrs. Dearborne is a very close friend. Her daughter, Eloise, is quite attractive — for a long time I had hoped that Philip would realize just how attractive.”

“He hasn’t?”

“Well, they’re friends. I had hoped that friendship would ripen into something deeper. I think it would have if it hadn’t been for Miss Burke.”

“Anyone else in the Dearborne family?”

“Ogden Dearborne, a young man who’s employed in the powerhouse at the Boulder Dam. Amateur aviator. Owns a quarter interest in a plane.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes, just the three.”

“And you got one of them to look up Helen Framley?”

“Yes. Ogden made an investigation. I called him on the telephone, asked him to try and find out about a person named Framley. If he could locate such a person, to try and find out what this person knew about Coda. He learned there was a Helen Framley in the city.”

“Did he locate her?” Bertha asked.

“Yes. He found Helen Framley — and that’s all the good it did him.”

“What happened?” Bertha asked.

“Miss Framley told him she hadn’t written any letter, that she had no idea who Corla was or where she was, and didn’t want to be questioned about anything pertaining to her, that she’d never even heard of Corla Burke.”

“Was she telling the truth?” Bertha asked.

Whitewell said, “I don’t know. Ogden seemed to think she was. There’s something very evasive and mysterious about the young woman. That’s why I wanted a professional detective on the job.”

“How about the police?” Bertha asked. “You said they weren’t interested?”

He moved his shoulders. “Just another missing person so far as they’re concerned. They’re going through the motions of trying to locate her, but that’s all. They insist that a certain percentage of young women who disappear that way are either going to have a baby or are running away with some man. They seemed to think Corla was really in love with someone else, had decided to marry Philip because he looked like a good catch, and then had changed her mind.”

“Would he be a good catch?” Bertha asked.

“Some mothers have so considered him,” Whitewell said dryly.

“And you want Donald to break through on this Framley girl?”

“I want him to find out what happened to Corla, why she disappeared, where she is now.”

“Just what do you want him to find?” Bertha asked.

“I want to establish that her disappearance was voluntary. I’m hoping the reason back of it will not only set my son’s mind at rest, but make him realize the advantages of strengthening his friendship with Eloise Dearborne. After what’s happened, I feel Corla wouldn’t be exactly the sort I’d want as a daughter-in-law — too much notoriety — this disappearance business— Bah! She’s a nice girl, but the Whitewells can’t stand for anything like that.”

Bertha said, “Donald will turn Helen Framley inside out. Girls fall for Donald, and fall hard.”

Whitewell looked approvingly at Bertha. “I’m very well satisfied indeed,” he said, “that your organization is exactly what I want — although I’d hardly expected to find a woman at the head of a detective agency, nor such an attractive woman.”

I asked, “Have you a picture of Corla Burke?”

He nodded.

“I’ll want it, also a description, also an introduction to Ogden Dearborne. You can telephone him and tell him I’ll be out. Ask him to tell me anything I want to know.”

Whitewell thought for a moment, then said, “Yes, I guess that will be the best way.”

“And the address of Helen Framley if you have it.”

“I’ll write that out for you.”

“Got that picture handy?”

He took two photographs from his inner pocket, and passed them over. One of them was a small-sized studio photograph of a girl with light hair, a slightly turned-up nose, and wistful eyes. The other was a snapshot. The shadows were pretty dark. The camera had been slightly out of focus, but it showed a girl on the beach in a bathing-suit. The camera had caught her just as she was reaching to throw a beach ball. She was laughing, and her mouth showed even rows of regular teeth. Her eyes were too shaded and blurred to give expression, but there was something in the poise of the figure the camera had caught, a dashing verve, a zest for life. Such a girl would never be quiescent, would never settle down. She was thoroughly volatile. She’d make mistakes as she went through life, but she’d keep moving.

I put the pictures in my pocket. “Don’t forget to call the Dearbornes and tell them that I’ll be out to see Ogden.”

“I could run you down there and—”

“No. I’d prefer to go by myself.”

“All right.”

“Donald,” Bertha said, “works very fast.”

Whitewell said, “I think I am to be congratulated.” He was looking steadily at Bertha as he spoke.

Bertha lowered her eyes. I’d never seen an expression on her face like that in all the time I’d been with her. She looked coy.

“What’s all this going to cost me?” Whitewell asked.

Bertha’s face changed as though someone had jerked off a mask. “Twenty-five dollars a day and expenses.”

“Isn’t that high?”

“Not for the service we give.”

“I understood a private detective—”

“You’re not hiring a detective, but an agency. Donald will be out on the firing line. I’ll be in the office, but very much on the job.”

“At that figure,” Whitewell said, “it seems to me you should guarantee results.”

Bertha’s eyes glittered into his. “What the hell do you take me for?” she asked.