Erle Gardner - Turn on the Heat

I said, “How about some information?”

She said, “That depends. Donald, what did happen to your eye?”

“I met Charlie,” I said.

“Charlie?”

“Yes, you know. Your boy friend. He resented me taking you out to dinner.”

“Oh,” she said, lowering her eyes. A smile twitched at the corners of her lips. “Was he jealous?”

“Very.”

“Did you hit him first?”

I said, “He struck the first blow.”

“Who got in the last blow?” she asked.

“The first was it,” I said. “That old proverb to the effect that ‘that which is first shall be last’ is intended to apply to fist fights.”

“I’ll have to speak to Charlie,” she said. “He didn’t hurt his hand, did he?”

“He might have shortened the arm a couple of inches by driving his knuckles back to the wrist bone, but aside from that he’s all right. How about my information?”

“What is it you want?”

“The local constabulary,” I said. “Do you own a cop about six feet tall, forty years old, around two hundred and twenty, with black hair, grey eyes, a cleft chin, and a mole on his right cheek? He has the disposition of a camel and the execution of a mule. His name wouldn’t by any chance be Charlie, would it?”

“We don’t own one,” she said. “Our cops average about sixty to sixty-five. They’re appointed through political pull. They chew tobacco, are suspicious, and their chief duty is to drag in enough fines from out-of-town motorists to offset their salaries. Was it a cop who gave you the black eye, Donald?”

“I wouldn’t know. How about killing that ad in your paper?”

“It’s too late now. Here’s your mail.”

She took out a sack of letters tied with a heavy cord.

I said, “Good Lord, I suppose everyone in town wrote me.”

“There are only thirty-seven letters here,” she said. “That’s nothing at all. Blade ads get results, you know.”

I said, “I need a secretary — someone around twenty-two or twenty-three with brown eyes and brown hair, someone who smiles easily, not just a lip smile, but who throws her whole face into it.”

She said, “She’d have to be loyal to her employer, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes.”

She said, “I don’t know anyone who fits the description who would care for the job. However, I’ll keep it in mind. How long are you going to be here, Donald?”

“It depends on Charlie,” I said. “How about giving me a job for two hours?”

“Doing what?”

“Representing the Blade .”

She said, “We could use a man around twenty-six or twenty-seven, about five feet five, with nice, wavy, dark hair, dark, sensitive eyes — and a black eye. But he’d have to be working for the paper and not for himself.”

I said, “You’re related to the man who runs the paper, aren’t you?”

“Yes. He’s my uncle.”

“Tell him you’ve hired a reporter,” I said, and started for the door.

“Don’t you get us into any libel suits, Donald.”

“I won’t.”

“You’re going to see Mrs. Lintig?”

“Yes.”

“And you want to approach her as a Blade reporter?”

“That’s what I have in mind.”

She said, “That might make complications, Donald. And I don’t think Uncle would like it.”

“That’s going to be too bad. I’ll have to add your uncle as well as Charlie to my list of local enemies.”

“Don’t you want your mail?” she asked.

“Not now,” I said. “I’ll see you after a while. The person I asked about couldn’t have been a sheriff’s deputy, could he?”

“No. They wear big sombreros — and are a pretty decent bunch.”

“This man has metropolitan manners,” I said, and walked to the door.

She called after me, “If you’ll cut me in, I’ll work with you.”

I said, “I can’t cut you in. I told you so. I tried it. It didn’t work.”

I thought there was a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes, almost a look of relief. “Okay,” she said, “you can’t say I didn’t make the offer.” I nodded and let the door click shut.

I went back to the hotel. Mrs. Lintig hadn’t been seen in the lobby. The clerk suggested I might phone her.

The house was proud of its telephone system. It had been recently installed to “thoroughly modernize” the house. There was a sign reading House Telephones in letters a foot high. Below that sign, on a bench-like desk, was one telephone. I crossed over to it, and the clerk connected me with Mrs. Lintig’s room.

Her voice sounded hard and cautious over the line as she said, “Hello.”

“Mr. Lam, of the Blade . I’d like an interview.”

“What about?” she asked.

“How Oakview looks to you after a prolonged absence,” I said.

“Nothing about — about my private affairs?”

“Not a word — I’ll be right up, if you don’t mind.”

She started to hedge, but I dropped the receiver into place and went on up. She was standing in the door of her room, waiting for me.

She was rather heavy. Her hair was silvered. Her eyes were dark and hard. There hadn’t been much sagging to her face, and her eyes glowed with an alert awareness. She gave the impression of having been on her own, where she’d had to look out for herself against all comers.

“You’re the man who telephoned me?” she asked. “Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Lam.”

“And you work on one of the newspapers?”

“Yes. There’s only one.”

“What did you say it was?”

“The Blade .”

“Oh, yes. Well, I don’t want to be interviewed.”

“I think I understand, Mrs. Lintig. Naturally, you resent the idea of having a newspaper pry into your affairs. But you could give us just a few of your impressions on returning to the city — it’s been some time since you were here.”

“Twenty-one years.”

“How does the city look to you now?”

She said, “It looks like the damnedest hick burg — to think I spent a part of my life here! If I could only get back the time I wasted here, if I only could—” She paused, peered at me and said, “I suppose that’s the wrong thing to say.”

“It is.”

“I was afraid it was. What should I say?”

“About how the town still retains its distinct individuality. Other cities may have grown faster, but seem to have lost their individuality in the process. Oakview has the distinctive charm which always characterized it.”

She peered at me through narrowed eyes.

“I guess you know the answers,” she said. “Move over here into the light where I can see you.”

I moved over.

She said, “You look young to be a reporter.”

“I am.”

“I can’t see clearly. This hotel wins the prize for being the worst, the poorest excuse for — a bellboy broke my spectacles within fifteen minutes of the time I hit town. He plunked a suitcase right down on top of them, smashed them all to pieces.”

I said, “That’s too bad. The only pair you had?”

“Yes. I’ve had to send for more. They should be here today.”

“Where,” I asked, “are they coming from?”

Her eyes sparkled and glittered at me. “My oculist,” she said.

“San Francisco?”

“My oculist,” she said firmly, “is sending them by mail.”

I said, “So you notice what’s happened to the town?”

“Do I?”

“Naturally, it isn’t the sort of place you remembered. It must seem a lot smaller.”

She said, “It seems — like looking at a city through the wrong end of a telescope. What keeps people here?”

“The climate,” I said. “It used to be unhealthy for me, and I moved away for a while. Then I came back and I’ve never felt better.”