A. Fair - Spill the Jackpot

Endicott said, “Let’s not rush the thing too much. After all, she’s perfectly safe. They probably won’t let us see her before morning anyway, and I for one think it’s more important to have the right kind of a doctor on the job than anything else. Don’t you suppose, Arthur, you could get Dr. Hinderkeld to take a plane and meet you in Reno? In cases of this sort, a sudden shock may revive the patient’s memory. On the other hand, it might be disastrous. A great deal would depend on the condition of the patient.”

Whitewell said, “You’re right. Paul, you telephone Dr. Hinderkeld. Wait until you’ve found out what you can do here about a plane. If we have to get a ship from Los Angeles, Hinderkeld can come in on it, and we’ll all go to Reno together.”

Philip was standing at the door, his hand on the knob. “Come on, Paul,” he said, and to his father, “You can do what you want about a doctor. I’m going to her now.”

Endicott flashed Arthur Whitewell one searching glance, then he and Philip were out in the corridor.

Whitewell turned to me. “I suppose I have you to thank for this.”

“For what?”

“As though you didn’t know.”

“You wanted me to find her, didn’t you? I’ve found her.”

He said, “You told Mrs. Cool that you thought I might have dictated that letter, that I might have given her money. Evidently, young man, you don’t have a very high opinion of me.”

I said, “I’m employed to do a job. The letter she wrote Helen Framley was written on your stationery. The top had been cut off with a knife. Women don’t carry knives. A woman cutting off the top of a letterhead would have folded the paper, and cut it with a paper cutter, or she would have used a pair of scissors, or she might have even tried to tear it off. She wouldn’t have cut it with a sharp knife.”

“Well, what of it?”

“The letter was written at night. It was picked up shortly before midnight. It was written on your office stationery. To my mind, that means it was written in your office.”

“Well?”

“A man was present. She hadn’t intended to write the letter before she went to the office. Otherwise, she’d have had the letter written — or else she’d have waited until she got back to her apartment to write it. She went to your office. She met some man. They had a conversation. As a result of that conversation, she decided to write a letter. For some reason, it was considered imperative that she write the letter then and there. She did so. The man cut off the letterhead. Someone furnished a stamped envelope. Corla Burke left very mysteriously the next day. The circumstances surrounding her departure were such that it was impossible to believe she hadn’t left of her own volition. She’d left a purse on her desk with all of her money in it. Evidently, it was all the money she had. She couldn’t have gone far without money. Therefore, it’s obvious she was getting money from someone.

“There was enough in that letter to Helen Framley to show that she was leaving under her own power and because of some circumstance or development which she thought put her in a questionable light, particularly with the man she was to marry. You evidently knew of that letter. You evidently had a pretty good idea what was in it. You were willing to hire a firm of private detectives to start working on the case. You were very careful to see that the detectives met you in Las Vegas and started working from there. You were so afraid they might miss Helen Framley that you had her all ticketed, earmarked, and ready for delivery like a box of quick-frozen strawberries. And you carry stamped envelopes.

“Now you put all that together and see what you’d think if you were a detective.”

Bertha said, “Damn you, Donald. He’s a client — and a friend.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I’m reporting. I haven’t said anything to anyone else yet, have I?”

“That word ‘yet’ sounds like a threat,” Whitewell said.

I didn’t say anything.

“How much of all this about the amnesia attack is true?” Whitewell asked.

I said, “I somehow had an idea her disappearance might have had to do with a prior marriage.”

“What gave you that idea?”

“She left under her own power. She tried to save her face, and she tried to save Philip’s face. She wasn’t the sort of girl who would have let you buy her off. Looking at it from any angle, the most plausible explanation was that a prior marriage was mixed up in it.”

“So you went to Reno?”

“That’s right. Persons who are suffering from unfortunate marriages and suddenly disappear are quite apt to go to Reno.”

“And you made inquiries at the hospitals, I suppose,” Whitewell said sarcastically.

“Exactly. There were two practical solutions, and only two. One of them was a prior marriage, and the other was an attack of amnesia.”

“And if it had been a prior marriage, she’d have gone to Reno?”

“That’s right.”

“But why should she have gone to Reno if she had been suffering from amnesia?”

“It was a complication of both, causes,” I said, and grinned at him.

“And so you found her in this hospital! How nice!”

“Yes. When I made the evening round, I learned that a woman who answered Miss Burke’s description had been picked up suffering from amnesia. I checked. It was Corla Burke, all right. That put me in a spot. The hospital authorities were trying to find someone who knew her. Naturally, they wanted to pump me. I kept my mouth shut.”

Whitewell raised his left hand to the shining expanse of his high forehead, stroked what hair he had left with the palm of his hand. “If you’d uncovered Helen Framley,” he said, “found that letter, turned it in, and then quit, your services would have been worth a great deal more to me.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me that was what you wanted me to do? You told me you wanted me to find Corla Burke.”

He abruptly pushed his hands down in his trousers pockets. “I see by the paper,” he said, “that the man who was living with Helen Framley was Sidney Jannix.”

“He wasn’t living with her. It was a business partnership.”

Bertha Cool snorted.

Arthur Whitewell’s eyes were narrowed. “Now that you have blurted out that you’ve found Corla, Philip, of course, will have to go to see her. Jannix is dead — murdered, very fortunately for her. She has no recollection of what happened. The poor girl was suffering from a nervous strain. Wouldn’t it be just fine if the sight of Philip should restore her memory? She’d then have no recollection of what had happened from the time she walked out of the office and would be all ready to go on with the wedding.”

I met his eyes. “I think that would make your son very happy.”

He folded his arms. “Perhaps,” he said, “I am more concerned with my son’s happiness one year or ten years from now than in helping him gratify a brief infatuation.”

“Quite possibly that’s true.”

“I don’t suppose you’d have any ideas about that?”

“You hired me to find Corla Burke. I’ve found her.” Bertha Cool said, “He’s right on that, Arthur. You should have taken us into your confidence. I told you Donald was very competent and a fast worker. He—”

“Shut up,” Whitewell said without taking his eyes from me.

Bertha Cool came up out of that chair as though she’d been a rubber ball dropped from a twenty-story window. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” she demanded. “Don’t you tell me to shut up. You — such a polished gentleman that butter won’t melt in your mouth, filled with all your goddamn flatteries — and telling a lady to shut up! You hired us to do a job, and we’ve done it. Now get out your checkbook and settle up.”