A. Fair - Spill the Jackpot

“Philip is in love.”

“Donald, what about that letter he sent. What was in it?”

“Nothing much.”

She glared at me. The phone rang. She picked it up, listened a moment after she’d said, “Hello,” and then said, “Okay, we’ll be on our way.”

She hung up. “Philip has chartered a plane. That and the one you brought from Reno will take us all. We start at once. Donald, what was in that letter?”

I started for the door. “Let’s get going.”

Bertha went in the plane with me. The others followed in the plane Philip had chartered. At the last minute, Paul Endicott decided he’d go along, too, just for the ride.

The drone of the plane motor lulled me to sleep shortly after the take-off. Occasionally, Bertha would prod me into wakefulness with questions. I’d answer in muttered monosyllables and return to the warm comfort of sleep.

“You mustn’t fight with Arthur Whitewell, Donald.”

“Uh huh.”

“You little devil, Bertha knew you weren’t falling for a woman. You fall in love with them all right, and I mean really in love, but you’re more in love with your profession than with any woman. Answer me, Donald. Isn’t that right?”

“I guess so.”

“Tell me, did Helen Framley kill that man she was living with?”

“She wasn’t living with him.”

“Oh, splash!”

“It was a business partnership.”

Bertha snorted. “Pickle me for a beet.”

I didn’t say anything. After a few minutes, Bertha said, “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“What?”

“Whether she murdered him.”

“I hope she didn’t.”

I didn’t have to look up to realize that her glittering little eyes were searching every line of my face, trying to surprise some telltale expression. “Helen Framley knows a lot about who committed that murder.”

“Perhaps.”

“Something she hasn’t told the police.”

“Possibly.”

“I’ll bet she’s told you what it is. You wormed it out of her, you little devil. My God, Donald, how do you do it? Do you hypnotize them? I guess you must. You can’t give them the cave-man stuff. You make them come to you. I guess it’s your readiness to fight at the drop of the hat, even when you know you’re going to get licked. I guess that’s it. Women love a fighter.”

I felt my head jerk forward as I all but slipped into unconsciousness. Bertha pulled me back with her patter.

“Listen, lover, has it ever occurred to you what’s going to happen next?”

“What?”

“Whitewell has money, influence, and brains. He isn’t going to be pushed around.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I’ll bet that Framley girl would do just about anything you asked her.”

That didn’t seem to call for any reply.

Bertha said, “I’ll bet the person who did the job is sweating blood right now. Suppose this Framley girl really does know who killed him?”

I said, “I think she does.”

“Then she’s told you.”

“No.”

“But she’ll tell the police — if they ask her.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Donald.”

“What?”

“Do you suppose the murderer knows that?”

“Knows what?”

“That she won’t talk.”

I said, “That depends on who the murderer is.”

Bertha said suddenly, “Donald, you know who the murderer is, don’t you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“Whether or not I know.”

Bertha said, “That’s a hell of an answer.”

“Isn’t it,” I agreed and went sound asleep in the few seconds of glaring silence which followed. When I woke up, we were droning in for a landing at the Reno airport. It had been the change in the tempo of the motor that had wakened me.

Bertha Cool was sitting very erect and dignified, endeavoring to show her displeasure by a cutting silence.

We came circling in to a landing, and the other plane was right on our tail, following us in within just a few minutes.

Paul Endicott said, “I notice there’s a plane leaving here for San Francisco within the next fifteen minutes. I see no reason for driving uptown with you and then rushing back. I’ve enjoyed the ride, and guess we’re all straightened out now.” He looked searchingly into Whitewell’s eyes and said, “Here’s luck, old man.”

They shook hands.

Philip said, “I’m the one who is going to need the luck. Do you suppose she’ll know me, Dad?”

Whitewell said dryly, “I have an idea she will.”

Endicott gave Philip a handshake. “Keep the old chin up and take it in your stride. We’re pulling for you, all of us.”

Philip tried to say something, but his quivering lips mumbled the words. Endicott covered his embarrassment by keeping right on with a line of patter, never stopping, so Philip would not have to say anything.

We stood there in a little compact group waiting for the taxicab for which we had telephoned. I told them I had to telephone and excused myself. I wanted to check on Helen and Louie, but the Acme Filling Station out on the Susanville highway wasn’t listed in the phone book. I came back and stood around stamping my feet against the cold, waiting for the cab. At length, it drew up and we piled in. Arthur Whitewell stopped for a last word with Endicott, then they shook hands and Whitewell crawled into the jump seat.

“What’s the name of the hospital?” Bertha asked.

“The Haven of Mercy,” I told the driver, and glanced at Arthur Whitewell’s face. It was, set in expressionless immobility. He might have been posing for an old-fashioned time exposure, and concentrating on not even batting an eyelash. Philip was the exact opposite. He kept biting his lip, tugging at his ear, fidgeting uneasily in his seat, looking out of the window of the cab, trying to avoid our eyes, doubtless wishing that he could escape our thoughts.

We pulled up in front of the hospital. I said pointedly to Bertha, “This will be strictly a family affair.”

Arthur Whitewell looked across at his son. “I think, Philip, you’d better go up alone,” he said. “If the shock of seeing you doesn’t clear things up, don’t let it discourage you too much. We’ll have Dr. Hinderkeld come up, and he’ll get results.”

“And if seeing me does clear things up for her?” Philip asked.

His father dropped a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be waiting.”

Bertha Cool looked at me.

I said, “It gives me the creeps to wait around a hospital. I’ll be back in an hour. That will be early enough in case I can do anything to help, and if I can’t, it will give you time enough to get adjusted.”

Bertha asked, “Where are you going?”

“Oh, there are some things I want to do,” I said. “I’ll keep the cab.”

Whitewell said to Bertha, “It looks as though you and I were going to be left to pace the floor in the expectant fathers department.”

“Not me,” Bertha said. “I’ll ride uptown with Donald. We’ll be back here in an hour. And then breakfast?”

“Excellent,” he said.

Bertha nodded to me.

Whitewell said to Bertha, loud enough so Philip could hear, “I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate— Oh, well, we’ll talk about that later. I’m certain you understand.” He placed his hand affectionately on Bertha’s shoulder. “Your understanding and sympathy have meant more to me than you’ll ever realize. And I’ll expect you to control — the entire situation. You—” His voice choked. He gave her shoulder a quick pat and turned away.

Philip, who had been making inquiries at the desk, entered an elevator with a nurse. Arthur Whitewell was settling himself in a chair as Bertha and I went out into the cold chill of the mountain air.