A. Fair - Spill the Jackpot

She didn’t ask any more questions, simply got in the car and started the motor. Halfway to the airport, she said, “Please understand one thing, Donald. You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

I placed my hand on her forearm, squeezed it gently.

“The fact that you want to do anything is enough for me. It’s all I want to know,” she went on. “All I ask is that you tell me what I can do to help.”

We didn’t say anything after that until she pulled up at the airport.

The stars seemed like friendly, watching eyes suspended overhead, looking down at the world below. There was a chill in the air, but the dry atmosphere was invigorating. Once more she stood with me looking up at the stars. This time she didn’t say anything.

I kissed her good night.

“Want me to wait until you get started?”

“I’d rather you didn’t. It’s cold.”

“Would you mind awfully if I did?”

“No.”

“I’d like to see you off.”

“Okay, come on then.”

We found a plane that was ready for charter. By good luck, it happened that the owner-pilot was on the field, chatting with one of the transport pilots who was waiting to board a ship for San Francisco.

When the fast cabin plane had been wheeled out, fueled, and tested, and the motor was warming up, Helen slipped her hand through my arm, stood watching the plane, outlined by the vivid lights against the black night.

The pilot nodded to me. Helen said to the plane, “Take good care of him, airplane,” and then looked up at me. “Happy landings,” she said and turned abruptly away.

I watched her as she walked off the field without once looking back. The pilot said, “All aboard.” I climbed in and adjusted the safety belt. We taxied down the field, turned around, and came roaring back. I could feel the steady push of acceleration shoving me against the back of the seat. Then the ground abruptly fell away and tilted as we made a long, banking turn.

I looked down through the window of the plane.

Helen Framley was standing by the automobile, looking up at the lights of the plane. I could just make out the oval of her face, had a last flashing glimpse of the automobile, and then the turning plane swung her out of my vision. A few moments later, we leveled off, and the lights drifted astern. Down below was only the dark stretch of sage-covered plateau. Overhead were the steady stars. Behind us the lights of Reno drew together into a little twinkling cluster. A few minutes later, they had vanished altogether.

Bertha Cool was evidently giving a party.

I stood in front of the door of her hotel room and listened to the sound of laughter. A babble of voices indicated that the room was well filled with people, and all of them were trying to talk at once.

I rapped on the door.

Bertha Cool called, “Who is it?”

I heard a man say, “Probably the boy with the ice.”

The transom was open an inch or two, far enough to enable me to hear Bertha Cool’s voice say, “Open the door for him.”

A latch clicked on the inside of the door. I turned the knob and walked in.

It was quite a gathering. All three of the Dearbornes were there, also Paul Endicott, Arthur and Philip Whitewell. Bertha Cool was half reclining on a chaise longue, propped up with pillows. She was wearing a low-cut backless evening gown.

A table in the center of the room was littered with bottles. Glasses were scattered around the room. A silver pail of ice cubes held only an inch or two of water. Ash trays were well filled with cigarette stubs and cigar butts. The atmosphere of the room was pretty thick. The men were in dinner jackets.

Bertha Cool’s eyes grew big as she stared at me.

The conversation came to an abrupt stop as though someone had turned off a radio when a mob scene had been playing.

Bertha said, “Well, fry me for an oyster!”

I stood in the doorway. People put glasses down as though I’d been a prohibition officer making a raid.

“Well,” Bertha demanded truculently, “where the hell have you been?”

“I’ve been to Reno. I’ve found Corla Burke.”

The room became absolutely silent. You couldn’t even hear the rustle of motion or the sound of breathing. Then Anita Dearborne gave a quick, sharp intake of breath. At the same time, Eloise sighed.

Philip Whitewell was coming toward me, hands outstretched.

“How is she?” he asked. “Is she all right? Is she—”

“She’s in a hospital.”

“Oh,” he said, and then after a moment, “Oh, my God!”

“Mental,” I explained.

He was staring at me as if I’d driven a knife into his chest.

“Amnesia. Doesn’t know who she is, who her friends are, or where she came from, or what has happened. Otherwise, she’s in good health.”

“At Reno?”

“Yes.”

Philip Whitewell looked at his dad. “We must go at once,” he said.

Arthur Whitewell ran his hand up over his bald forehead, smoothed the hair on the top of his head, and repeated the gesture twice. He glanced surreptitiously at Ogden Dearborne, then back to me. “How did you do it, Lam?” he asked.

I said, “Helen Framley knew more than she admitted.”

“How did you get it out of her?”

Bertha Cool came in with the answer. “Made love to her, of course. They go absolutely mad over Donald. What did she tell you, lover?”

“I’ll make my report later on,” I said, “in confidence, in writing, and to you.”

I turned to look at Arthur Whitewell.

Philip said, “Come on, Dad let’s get started. We’ll have to arrange for a plane.”

Whitewell said, “Yes. Naturally, we must leave at once. Is she — is there any chance of recovery, Lam?”

“As I understand it, her physical condition is all right. It’s purely a mental reaction.”

“From what?”

“The doctors say it could have been caused by shock, by overwork, by nervousness.”

“Did you tell the doctors—”

“Not a thing.”

Whitewell turned to Mrs. Dearborne, managed to make his remarks include Eloise and Ogden. “Naturally, this is quite a blow — that is, a surprise. I take it you’ll understand.”

Mrs. Dearhorne got to her feet at once. “Certainly, Arthur. We only wish there was something we could do. We know there isn’t. It’s a matter that you must handle.” Her eyes swiveled abruptly to me. She wrapped me in a cold stare until I felt like a barren tree limb the morning after an ice storm. “So you found her,” she said.

I nodded.

She smiled frostily. “I might have known you would,” she said. “Come, Eloise.”

Ogden helped them on with their wraps. Bertha saw them to the door. Mrs. Dearborne paused to make the usual formal acknowledgment of a pleasant evening. Bertha Cool didn’t take time wasting any words. She barely waited until they were out in the corridor, then turned, heeled the door shut, and said, “I thought there was something fishy about you running away with that woman. You were following a lead. How much money have you spent?”

“Quite a bit.”

She snorted.

Philip said, “Please, let’s not lose a minute.”

Arthur Whitewell looked at his watch. “It’s going to be difficult to charter a good plane from here I’m afraid, but we can try. If necessary, we can telephone Los Angeles and arrange to have one leave at once. Philip, suppose you go down to the airport and see what you can do. Paul can go with you and give you a hand. We’ll leave it entirely to you. Use your discretion.”

“I have a plane which brought me from Reno,” I said. “Irwin hold three passengers in addition to the pilot.” Bertha said, “That’s fine. I’ll stay right here. Mr. Endicott can wait with me. Arthur, you and Philip can leave right away, and go with Donald.”