Erle Gardner - Turn on the Heat

The LEDGER happens to know that the businessmen who are backing the candidacy of Dr. Alftmont and demanding a clean-up are not going to stand an unlimited amount of mud-slinging with no retort save that of turning the other cheek. Last night’s slur is a libellous defamation of character.

It is, of course, an easy expedient to avoid embarrassing questions asked by a candidate, by starting a whispering campaign against that candidate. It does not, however, refute the charges of political corruption which every thinking, citizen knows to be well founded. With election less than ten days hence, our adversaries have gone in for mud-slinging.

The waitress brought me a second cup of coffee, and I smoked two thoughtful cigarettes over it. When I paid the check, I asked her, “Where’s the city hall?”

“Straight down the street four blocks, and turn to the right a block. You’ll see it. It’s a new one.”

I drove down. It was a new one all right. It looked as though the graft had been figured on a percentage basis, and the boys who were in on it wanted to get plenty — on the principle of the more dollars the greater the graft percentage. It was one of those buildings which had been built for posterity, and the city administration of Santa Carlotta rattled around in it like a Mexican jumping bean in a dishpan.

I found the office marked Chief of Police and walked in. A stenographer was clattering away in the reception-room. A couple of men were sitting waiting.

I crossed over to the secretary and said, “Who could give me some information about the personnel of the department?”

“What is it you want?”

“I want to make a complaint about an officer,” I said. “I didn’t take his number, but I can describe him.”

She said acidly, “Chief White can’t be bothered with complaints of that nature.”

“I understand that,” I said. “That’s why I’m asking his secretary.”

She thought that over for a moment and said, “Captain Wilbur is on duty. He can tell you what to do and where to go. His is the next office down the hall.”

I thanked her and had started to turn away when my eye caught a framed picture hanging on the wall near the door. It was a long panorama strip photograph, showing the police officers lined up in front of the new city hall. I gave it a passing glance and went out.

Captain Wilbur had the same photograph hanging in his office. I asked an officer who was waiting, “Do you know who took this picture?”

“A photographer here in town, name of Clover,” he said.

“Nice work.”

“Uh huh.”

I went up and scrutinized it, then put my finger on the fifth man from the end. “Well, well,” I said. “I see Bill Crane is on the force.”

“Huh?”

“Bill Crane. I used to know him in Denver.”

He came over and looked. “That’s not Bill Crane,” he said. “That’s John Harbet. He’s on Vice.”

I said, “Oh, He looks just like a chap I used to know.”

When the officer went in to see Captain Wilbur, I drifted out of the door, climbed in the agency car, and drove out of town.

Bertha Cool was just going out for lunch. Her face lit up when she saw me. “Why, hel -lo, Donald,” she said. “You’re just in time to go to lunch with me.”

“No, thanks. I had breakfast a couple of hours ago.”

“But, lover, this is on the house.”

“Sorry. I can’t do justice to it.”

“Oh, come along anyway. We have to talk, and I want you to try and find Smith. I tried to get in touch with him after I had his letter and found he isn’t at the address he gave me. He gets mail there, but that’s all, and they don’t know anything about him or won’t tell me if they do.”

“That’s nice,” I said.

Her eyes grew hard. “Nice, hell!” she said. “That man was on a spot. He was a frightened man if I ever saw one. He was Santa Claus. And now, damn it, he’s stuck in the chimney, and our stockings are empty.”

I said, “Oh, well, I’ll come to lunch if you feel that way about it.”

“That’s better. We’ll go down to the Gilded Swan. We can talk there.”

Bertha Cool and I walked out together. I said, “Hi, Elsie,” as I held the door open for Bertha Cool, Elsie Brand gave me a nod without looking up. Her fingers never missed the tempo of perfect rhythm on the keyboard.

Over in the Gilded Swan, Bertha Cool wanted to know if I felt like a cocktail. I told her I did, that I was going home and spend the afternoon sleeping anyhow, that I’d driven virtually all night, and that I intended to go around to the Blue Cave in the evening.

She said, “No, you don’t, Donald. You stay away from that night spot. You’ll spend money there, and Bertha has no money to squander. Unless Smith changes his instructions, we let the matter drop like a hot potato. Not that Bertha is doing so badly at that. She got a retainer in advance, but you hooked me for too damned many expenses, Donald.”

I waited until we had a couple of Martinis, then lit a cigarette and said, “Well, it’s okay. Smith says for us to go ahead.”

Bertha Cool blinked her frosty eyes. “Says which?”

“For us to go ahead.”

“Donald, you little bastard, have you found Smith?”

I nodded.

“How did you find him?”

I said, “Smith is Dr. Alftmont, and Dr. Alftmont is Dr. Lintig.”

Bertha Cool put down her cocktail glass and said, “Well, can me for a sardine. Now, ain’t that something?”

I couldn’t seem to work up a great deal of enthusiasm over spilling information to Bertha. I’d done too much night driving, and sitting up all night doesn’t agree with me. I said, “Dr. Alftmont’s running for mayor in Santa Carlotta.”

“Politics?” Bertha Cool asked, her eyes turning greedy.

“Politics,” I said. “Lots of politics. The man who beat me up and ran me out of Oakview was a man named John Harbet of the Santa Carlotta police force, evidently the head of the vice squad.”

Bertha said, “Oh-oh!”

“One of the newspapers has been throwing mud at Dr. Alftmont. The other newspaper intimates that Dr. Alftmont is going to sue for libel. Ordinarily that would be a nice hint, but the way I size it up, the mud-slingers are pretty certain of their ground. They’re going to keep on dishing out the dirt and then dare Alftmont to sue them for libel. If he doesn’t sue, he’s backing down. If he does sue, he has to show damage to his character. When that time comes, what the Santa Carlotta Courier will do to his character will be plenty. Alftmont realizes that. He doesn’t dare to sue. He wants to find out whether his wife ever remarried or got a divorce.”

The expression in Bertha Cool’s eyes was like that of a cat wiping canary feathers off its chin. “Pickle me for a peach,” she said, half under her breath, “What a perfect set-up! Hell, lover, we’re going to town!”

“I’ve already been to town,” I said, and settled back against the cushioned bench in the booth, too weary to talk.

“Go on,” Bertha said. “Use that brain of yours, Donald. Think things out for Bertha.”

I shook my head and said, “I’m tired. I don’t want to think, and I don’t want to talk.”

“Food will make you feel better,” Bertha said.

The waiter came, and Bertha ordered a double cream of tomato soup, a kidney potpie, a salad, and coffee with a pitcher of whipping cream on the side, hot rolls and butter, and then said, with a jerk of her head towards me, “Bring him the same. The food’ll do him good.”

I gathered up enough energy to protest to the waiter. “A pot of black coffee,” I said, “and a baked ham sandwich, and that’s all .”

“Oh, no, lover,” Bertha said solicitously. “You need some food. You need something to make energy.”