Erle Gardner: Turn on the Heat

“Suppose you did put it across? When would I get the cheque?”

“Almost immediately.”

“I need the money,” she said.

I kept quiet.

She said, “The information I was after was very confidential.”

“Are you,” I asked, “a private detective?”

“No.”

“What is your occupation?”

She said, “I work in a night spot.”

“Where?”

“The Blue Cave.”

“A singer?” I asked.

“I do a turn.”

“Tell me one thing. The husband and wife were not living together?”

“No.”

“How long had they been separated?”

“Quite a while.”

“Can you give me the name of some witness who knows the facts?”

“What’s all this got to do with my trunk?”

“I suppose you completed your business in Oakview, and turned the information over to the husband?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, if you want your claim settled fast, give me his name and address, let me call on him, and get his verification. I could include it in my report, and that would satisfy the company.”

“Well, I can’t do it.”

“That, of course, leaves us right where we started.”

“Look here,” she said. “This was my own trunk, my own wearing apparel. It’s my own claim. No one needs to know anything about it. That is, the person who sent me mustn’t know anything about it.”

“Why?”

“Because it would be taken out of my sal — compensation.”

“I see,” I said, snapped my notebook shut, put it in my pocket, and closed my fountain pen. “I’ll see what I can do,” I said dubiously. “I’m afraid the boss will want more information. This is full of holes.”

She said, “There’s a bottle of Scotch in it for you if you get me a cheque.”

“No, thanks. I couldn’t do that.”

I got up and ground out my cigarette in her ash-tray. She moved her feet over and said, “Sit down here on the bed. You look like a nice boy.”

“I am,” I said.

She grinned. “What’s your name?”

“Lam.”

“What’s your first name?”

“Donald.”

“Okay, Donald. Let’s be friends. I don’t want to fight with your damned company, but I need the dough. How about putting it across for me?”

“I’ll do the best I can.”

She said, “That’s a dear. How breakfast? Had anything to eat?”

“Long ago,” I said. ‘

“I can fix up a cup of coffee and a little toast if you’re hungry.”

“No, thanks. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“Listen, Donald, try and put it across for me, will you? Who gave you the shiner?”

“A guy socked me.”

“Can’t you make out a report that’ll satisfy that old grouch-face?”

“You mean the claim manager?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Ever met him?” I asked.

“No.”

“He’s about thirty-five with dark eyes and long, wavy black hair. Women go nuts over him.”

Her eyes showed interest. “I’ll doll up and go talk with him ,” she said. “I bet he’d put through a cheque.”

“It might be a good idea,” I said, “but don’t do it until I’ve made my report. Perhaps that’ll be all you need. If he makes a kick about it, I’ll let you know where the beef is and then you can go do your stuff.”

“Okay, Donald. Thanks.”

We shook hands, and I went out.

There was a grocery store on the corner. I used the telephone to call Bertha Cool’s office. Elsie Brand switched the call through to Bertha Cool’s private telephone without comment. “Donald talking,” I said.

“Where have you been?” Bertha Cool asked.

“Working. I think I’ve uncovered a lead.”

“What is it?”

“This Harris girl is an entertainer in a night spot. Lintig sent her to find out about his wife.”

She said, “Donald, what the hell do you mean by having telegrams sent collect?”

“I didn’t know there were any.”

“Well, there was one, with fifty cents’ charges on it.”

“Who’s it from?”

“How should I know? I sent it back. It wasn’t addressed to the agency. It was addressed to you personally. Get it out of your head that I’m Santa Claus.”

“What company?” I asked.

“Western Union.”

“How long ago?”

“Twenty minutes. It’s back at the main office.”

I said, “All right,” and hung up. I drove down to the main office, and had to wait five minutes while they located the telegram. I paid fifty cents. It was from Oakview and read:

Party you inquired about registered here in hotel under own name. Do I get anything out of it?

I took an envelope from my pocket, wrote across the face of the telegram: Bertha: This is it. I’ll be at the Palace Hotel in Oakview. Better notify our client.

I always carried envelopes stamped with special delivery, addressed to the agency, for use in making reports. I put the telegram in one of the envelopes, sealed it, dropped it into a mailbox, and started north, wishing that Bertha Cool would either get a new car or have cases closer to home — and wondering why the devil, with everyone in the country looking for her and after an absence of more than twenty years, Mrs. James C. Lintig should decide to return to Oakview and register at the Palace Hotel under her own name. I wondered if there was any possibility my advertisement in the paper had been responsible. If so, Mrs. Lintig hadn’t been so very far from Oakview. Which opened a lot of interesting possibilities.

I got a few hours sleep in an auto camp, reached Oakview early Tuesday morning, and had breakfast at the hotel dining-room. It was a rotten breakfast. I finished the last of my cold coffee and went out to the lobby.

The clerk said, “Why hello, Mr. Lam. Your bag’s here at the desk. We didn’t know whether you intended to check out. You left suddenly. We were — er — concerned about you.”

“You needn’t have been. I’ll pay my bill now.”

He looked at my eye as I handed him some money. “Accident?” he asked.

“No. I was walking through a roundhouse in my sleep. A locomotive hit me.”

He said, “Oh,” and gave me a receipt and my change.

“Mrs. Lintig up yet?” I asked.

“I don’t think so. She hasn’t come down yet.”

I thanked him and went down the street to the Blade office. Marian Dunton came out from behind the partition, and said, “Why, hello — what about it? Good Lord, what happened to your eye?”

I said, “I stubbed my toe. I tried to get you twenty-five bucks. I couldn’t make it stick. What’s she doing here?”

“Apparently just visiting friends. Remember, I warned you.”

“Visiting friends after all this time, and in a hotel?”

“That’s right.”

“How does she look?”

“I understand she shows her age. Mrs. Purdy, the mother of one of her old friends, has seen her, and says she looks terrible. Her hair’s turned white, and she’s put on a lot of weight. Mrs. Purdy says she told her she hasn’t had a happy moment since Dr. Lintig ran away.”

“It’s been twenty-one years,” I said.

“Yes, it’s a long time — for a person to be unhappy.”

I said, “Isn’t it — and why did you call my attention to the warning at this particular time?”

“Because,” she said, “I don’t like being pushed out in the cold.”

“Who’s pushing you out in the cold?”

“You are.”

“I don’t get you.”

She said, with some feeling. “Don’t stall, Donald. Mrs. Lintig is mixed up in something that’s important. A lot of people have become interested in her. If you won’t take me into your confidence — well, I warned you, that’s all.”