A. Fair - Spill the Jackpot

“But I don’t understand.”

“You disappeared,” I said, “under such circumstances that you might have had a sudden attack of amnesia.”

“Yes. That was the way he wanted it to appear.”

“He, of course, suggested you write Helen Framley, so Sidney wouldn’t write Philip?”

“Yes.”

“And gave you a sheet of paper and furnished you with a stamped envelope?”

“Yes.”

“And while you may have thought you were collaborating, the essential scheme of this disappearance of yours was thought up by him?”

“Well — yes, I guess so. He told me I had to save the family’s honor, and that it would be better and more beautiful to have Philip keep on loving me and always cherish the memory of our love, than to be brutally disillusioned and perhaps hate me.”

“All right. You did just what you seemed to do.”

“What?”

“Suffered a loss of memory.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Go right through with it. You suffered a complete loss of memory. You were in the office. You reached for a pencil and — bingo. Your mind went blank. You found yourself out on the street without any idea of who you were or what your name was or how you happened to be there.”

“What good would that do? How would that help?”

“Don’t you see? You’re picked up, suffering from amnesia. You’re taken to a hospital, and the Bertha Cool Detective Agency finds you. You can’t remember who you are. Your mind is a blank, but the good old Cool Detective Agency has tracked you down, and Philip comes to identify you. The minute you look on Philip’s face, the shock of seeing the man you love brings back your reason and—”

“Stop it!” she screamed. “Stop it! I can’t stand it.”

“Why not?”

“You’re tearing my heart to ribbons!”

“You’re goofy,” I told her. “I’m talking sense. Cut out the damn sentimentalism and get down to bedrock.”

“Oh, it’s absolutely impossible! It’s out of the question. I couldn’t deceive Philip that way.”

“Why not?”

“Because it would be — it would be unfair.”

“No, it wouldn’t. You’ve already done the unfair part. This would be just straightening it out. You should see the way Philip looks, the lines of suffering about his mouth, the shadows under his eyes, the hollow cheeks, the—”

“Will you please stop?”

“Not until you promise me to do what I’ve outlined.”

“But I can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, there’s Sidney Jannix. Philip and I couldn’t be married because—”

“Because what?”

“Because I’m a married woman.”

I said, “No, you’re not. You’re a widow.”

“I’m — what?”

“A widow.”

“Then it wasn’t true, that letter from the Framley girl? Sidney isn’t living? He—”

“He was at the time the letter was written. He isn’t now.”

She studied me for a few seconds. “Look here,” she said, “if this is some kind of a racket—”

“It isn’t. I’ve come prepared to prove what I’m saying.”

I took from my pocket the piece I’d cut from the Las Vegas newspaper and handed it to her. “Helen Framley’s boy friend,” I said, “was Sidney Jannix. You’re not married to anyone. You’re a widow.”

She read it through carefully. I watched her eyes moving back and forth as she shifted them from one line to the other. After a while, they quit moving, but she kept them focused on the paper, pretending still to be reading, gaining time to think before she had to look up and face the situation.

Abruptly she looked up at me. “He was murdered then?”

“Yes.”

“Who— Who did it?”

“They don’t know.”

“But you know, don’t you?”

“I have an idea.”

Her eyes shifted again. She pulled her lower lip in under her teeth, moved it slowly while she made biting motions. “Have you been employed to solve the murder?” she asked abruptly.

“No.”

“Would you — well, if you knew who did it, would you necessarily have to—”

“No.”

Abruptly she gave me her hand. “Mr. Lam,” she said, “I think you’re wonderful.”

“And you’ll do what I ask you to?”

“Yes.”

“All right, remember you’ve had this apartment as Mrs. Sidney Jannix. You don’t want to have any connection with this apartment. They must never be able to trace you to it. That would be fatal. Clean out of here. Ship your baggage or buy a ticket to San Francisco, check your baggage, and have the baggage checks in your purse. I suppose Whitewell gave you money enough to see you through, didn’t he?”

“Yes. He insisted that I accept that so that I could leave all of my own money behind when I left. That was a part of the stage setting.”

“If Philip had used his brain,” I said, “that would have been the one clue which would have convinced him your disappearance had been planned in advance and financed. All right now, clear out of here. I want it so that no one can ever connect you with this apartment. Go out on the streets and start wandering around. Find a policeman. Ask him what town this is. Keep doing goofy things until someone picks you up, but whatever you do, don’t take a drink of anything.”

“Why?”

“Because if you have liquor on your breath, they’ll throw you in as a drunk. If you’re cold sober, and still act goofy, they’ll call in a doctor. The doctor may try to trap you. He may smell a rat. You’ve got to carry it through. Think you can do it?”

“I can try. I’d do anything.”

“Luck to you,” I said, and shook hands with her again.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to wait until you land in the hospital, and then I’m going to discover you. After that, I’m going to Las Vegas and report to Whitewell.”

She said, “You’re giving me a swell break, aren’t you?” I said, “I see no reason for throwing you overboard if I can bring the ship into port.”

Her eyes were searching mine, and she was smiling somewhat wistfully. “You’re trying to be tough and hard-boiled — and you’re just a romanticist at heart. You remind me of Philip.”

I started for the door. “Okay, try and be in the hospital by dark.”

“I’ll do my best.”

I walked down the stairs and out to the street. The high elevation gave the shadows a slightly purplish hue. All about me the life of Reno flowed by in a steady stream. Reno claims to be the biggest little city in the world, and it might also claim to be the most distinctive. There’s an individuality about Reno which hits you right between the eyes: cowpunchers clumping along the sidewalks in high-heeled riding-boots, disillusioned, bitter women waiting for their period of residence to expire, voluptuous cuties who are playing tag with life, and have dropped in on Reno during a period of transition, boldly looking for some temporary masculine contacts and not being overly particular. Gamblers rub elbows with tourists. Cowpunchers pass the time of day with the owners of dude ranches. Sunburned vacationists, enjoying the healthful climate, mingle with pale-faced tourists who are gawking about at the sights of the divorce capital.

I wanted a few moments in which to think things out before I went back to the cabin. I drifted with the crowd through the doors of one of the more popular casinos, stood in a corner absently watching the expressions of the faces grouped around the wheel of fortune. Behind me, I could hear the steady whir of a slot machine. Intermittent. ly, there’d be the tinkle of coins spilling into the cup.

I turned around to look.

Helen Framley, her back turned toward me, was busily engaged in milking one of the two-bit machines.