Erle Gardner - Turn on the Heat

I went back to the bed, propped myself up with pillows, and read the rest of the news in the paper. Bertha Cool sat in the chair, to all outward appearances calmly serene.

When I threw the paper down and went to stand at the window again, she said, “For Pete’s sake, quit fidgeting. It doesn’t get you anywhere. You’re too nervous, too intense. Sit down and relax. Rest while you can. You’ve been working on this case day and night. You’re nervous. There’s no percentage in getting nervous.”

I went back to the bed, punched the pillows into shape, stretched myself out, and said, “I’m going to try and get forty winks. I don’t think I can, but there’s a lot of work ahead of us. Lord knows when I’ll have a chance to sleep again.”

Bertha Cool said, “It’s a good idea. Hand me the financial section, lover — not that it means a damn thing. Those financial writers diagnose history with a condescending attitude that makes you think they knew what was going to happen all along, but try and pin them down to anything definite in their predictions. Listen to this. ‘In the event the European situation remains static, it is the consensus of opinion that the market has a healthy tone and securities are due for a steady, persistent advance. The domestic political situation, while still far from reassuring, shows evidences of a trend towards the better, at least the swing of the pendulum to the left has been checked. However, it is to be remembered that business generally is far from optimistic, and the attempts of various parties to gain political power or perpetuate the powers already enjoyed will doubtless exert a retarding influence upon any recovery which might be expected.’ ”

She said, “Bah,” and dashed the paper to the floor.

I made myself comfortable as I could on the bed, but knew I couldn’t sleep. My brain was racing as though I’d had an overdose of coffee. My mind picked up a dozen different possibilities of the situation, carried them through to disastrous conclusions, and then dropped them to pick up some other possible development. I tried lying on my left side for a while, then rolled over to my right side. Bertha Cool said, “For Pete’s sake, stay in one position. You can’t sleep rolling around that way.”

I tried staying in one position. I looked at my watch. It was almost eleven.

Bertha Cool said, “Perhaps we’d better ring the Key West again.”

I said, “I don’t think so. We don’t want to make the clerk suspicious. Remember, he’s in love with Frieda Tarbing, and inclined to be jealous. Probably they don’t allow her to make personal calls while she’s on duty.”

Bertha said, “For Pete’s sake, shut up and go to sleep.”

I lay there thinking. I’d turned the heat on Harbet, and Harbet had turned the heat on me. Taken by and large, there was a lot of fire, and someone was due to get his fingers burned. I thought of Dr. Alftmont sitting up in Santa Carlotta on the eve of election with a sword hanging over his head. I thought of the woman who was posing as Mrs. Alftmont, the wife of an eye, ear, nose, and throat specialist who had built up a good practice, who had achieved some social recognition in the inner circle of a snobbish city, wondered what she was thinking as she waited — waiting without knowing what was going on.

It occurred to me that those people could rest more easily because they had confidence in me. Even Bertha Cool was able to shift part of her responsibilities to my shoulders. I had no one to whom I could pass even a part of the load.

I thought of Marian Dunton and wondered if she was getting along all right. I didn’t dare to call her — not with Bertha Cool in the room, and I knew Bertha Cool well enough to know I couldn’t make a sneak and put in a surreptitious telephone call. I thought of what a loyal friend Marian was, of how she’d realized I was playing a game and using her as a pawn, but, like the good scout she was, she’d drifted along — laughing brown eyes — the shape of her lips — the smile that seemed to come so easily — her white teeth—

The ringing of the telephone brought me up out of a sound sleep. I rolled off the bed and staggered as I tried to stand up. My eyes, drugged with slumber, refused to focus. A telephone was ringing — that telephone bell was the most important thing in my life— Why? — Who was calling? — Where was the telephone? — What time was it? — Where was I?—

I heard Bertha Cool’s calmly competent voice saying, “Yes. This is Mrs. Cool,” and then, after a moment, “All bets are off? We’ll be right over.”

She hung up the telephone and stood looking at me with her forehead puckered into a frown. “Frieda Tarbing,” she said. “She goes off duty in an hour. She wanted to remind me. She said that it looked as though all bets were off.”

Having something definite to work on steadied me. I went over to the wash stand and splashed cold water on my face and into my eyes. I said, “Ring Elsie Brand at the office and see if one of those operatives has made a report. There must have been a slip-up some place. She’s gone out.”

Bertha rang the agency office, said, “Hello, Elsie. Spill me the dope,” listened for a while, and then said, “You didn’t hear from those operatives?... All right. Thanks. I’ll call you back after a while.”

She hung up and said, “More cops looking for you, lover. Some looking for me. Nothing, from the operatives.”

I smoothed my hair back with my pocket comb, looked at my soiled and wilted shirt collar, and said, “My God, Bertha, I can’t be wrong! We exploded that bombshell under her. She must have communicated with Harbet. She had to—”

“She didn’t,” Bertha said.

I said, “Well, there’s only one thing to do. Go over and make another crack at it. We’re in so deep now we’ve got to start moving. We can’t do anything else. Here, I m going to put through a telephone call.”

I grabbed up the telephone and called the number of my rooming-house. A maid answered the phone and I said, “Let me speak to Mrs. Eldridge, please.”

After a while I heard Mrs. Eldridge’s voice, that peculiar, cynical voice which I’d know anywhere. I said, “This is Donald. I wonder if you’d mind asking my cousin to come to the telephone. I wouldn’t bother you, only it’s important.”

Mrs. Eldridge said acidly, “Your cousin, Donald turned out to be Marian Dunton, a witness who was wanted by the police in connection with a murder case. They took her away three hours ago. I think they’re looking for you now. If you’re going to use my rooming-house as—”

I slammed the receiver back into its cradle.

Bertha Cool looked at me and said, sweetly — too damn sweetly — “Your cousin, Donny boy?”

I said, “Just a friend. I passed her off as my cousin.”

“That number you called was the number of your rooming-house.”

“I know,” I said.

Bertha Cool stood staring at me. Her eyes narrowed until they were mere glittering slits. “Humph,” she said at length, and then, after a moment, added, “ I’ll say they fall for you. Come on, lover. We’re going places. It may not be the wisest thing to do, but at least it’s something to do. We may be here all day without getting a call. There’s one thing you didn’t figure.”

“What?” I asked.

She said, “I’ve been thinking it out while I was sitting here. Suppose Harbet has a date to call at the Key West Apartments, this afternoon, pick up Flo Danzer, and take her up to Santa Carlotta?”

“Then the operatives would have reported that she’d gone out. I figured that possibility.”

“Yes,” Bertha said, “but she knew Harbet was coming, she’d wait for him instead of telephoning.”