“Don’t you call my painting a smear!” she blazed at him. “In fact, I’m taking altogether too much from you as it is.
“Tell me, Colton, do I have to put up with this?”
“You certainly do not,” the attorney said. “An officer is supposed to be a gentleman. He’s supposed to investigate cases in his official capacity with some due regard to the rights of the witnesses with whom he is talking.”
“All right, all right,” Sellers said, “my mistake. I let my tongue slip a little bit. It’s a very nice painting, Miss Eldon. Now, if everybody will sit down and be comfortable, I’m going to tell you a few things about my own particular brand of frustration.”
“That’s all right,” Phyllis said, “make yourself right at home, Sergeant.”
We sat down.
Sellers said, “Up in the northern part of the city, about a week ago, a Mrs. Harvey W. Chester, a middle-aged woman, was knocked down by a car that sped away and left her lying in the crosswalk.
“She was pretty badly bruised and battered but apparently no bones were broken. A report was made to the traffic department and there was more or less of a routine investigation.
“We went to the scene of the accident. Some cloth had been torn from her dress.
“We felt bad about it, because we don’t like to have hit-and-run drivers get away. It isn’t the most serious hit-and-run case we’ve ever had, by a long ways, but it’s the principle of the thing.”
Sellers stopped, looked around, fished a cigar from his pocket, put it to his mouth, and Phyllis Dawson said sharply, “Not in here!”
“What do you mean, not in here?”
“No cigar smoking in this apartment,” she said.
Sellers hesitated awhile, took a deep breath, removed the cigar from his mouth, put it back in his pocket.
“Sometimes on these hit-and-run things,” he went on, “the party responsible tries to square things behind the back of the police and then if we find out who’s responsible we don’t have a complaining witness.
“We don’t like to have that happen.
“Donald Lam here is a private detective, and he’s a smart operator, I’ll say that for him.
“We just happened to find by accident that Donald appeared on the scene, and about the time he appeared on the scene, Mrs. Harvey W. Chester disappeared from the scene and she disappeared with a whole sheaf of hundred-dollar bills. She was happy as a lark.
“The evidence certainly indicates that she not only got a settlement for any physical damages she might have received, and a settlement of her lawsuit, which would have been a civil matter; but that there was also an attempt made to square any criminal charge which might have been found — and that’s compounding a felony.
“I have pretty good evidence that Donald Lam paid over the money. I think he has a receipt somewhere. I’ve given him a deadline within which to tell the name of his client or have charges made against him which will result in a revocation of his license.
“Now then, what have you folks got to say?”
Phyllis started to say something, but Colton Essex beat her to it.
“Nothing,” he snapped.
“What do you mean?” Sellers said.
“I mean nothing,” Essex said.
“All right, then I’ll go at it the hard way,” Sellers said.
He walked over to the telephone, picked up the instrument, dialed headquarters, said, “I’m at the Parkridge Apartments, in six o nine. There’s a car down here, a this year’s model Cadillac with a dent in the fender. It’s in the building parking lot. The license number is ODT 067. I think it’s the car that was involved in that hit-and-run case with Mrs. Harvey W. Chester a while ago.
“Get a tow car out here; pick up that car; take it down to the police laboratory, go over it with a magnifying glass, and in particular see if you can’t find some threads which match the dress the Chester woman was wearing at the time she was hit.
“I want that done right away.”
Sellers listened for a moment, said, “That’s right.”
He hung up the telephone, turned to Phyllis and said, “We’re impounding your car as evidence. You may have it back when we’ve had an opportunity to examine it thoroughly. Right now, there are suspicious circumstances and we’re holding it.”
“Can he do that?” Phyllis asked Colton Essex.
“He’s done it,” the lawyer said.
“Now then,” Sellers went on, “since the party is evidently going to get rough, I’m going to tell all of you a few things. There are several crimes involved here. One is a hit-and-run, in addition to reckless driving and perhaps driving while intoxicated. Another one is compounding a felony, and that’s a serious crime in itself.”
Seller turned to me. “And in your case,” he said, “there’s a refusal to co-operate with the police by withholding evidence in a criminal matter.”
“What do you mean, withholding evidence?” Colton Essex asked.
“You heard me,” Sellers said.
“I heard you state that you had given Donald Lam a time limit within which to divulge the name of his client.”
Sellers looked at him, “You heard right,” he said.
“Has the time limit expired?” Essex asked.
“Not yet,” Sellers admitted, after a moment of awkward silence. “However, when it runs out, I’m going to throw the book at this pint-sized smart aleck.”
“But if he tells you within the time limit you’re going to let him off the hook?”
Sellers debated with himself. “Well, I guess that’s implied...”
Essex looked at me. “Self preservation is the first law of nature,” he said. “Go ahead and tell him, Lam.”
I glanced at Phyllis.
She nodded.
“My client,” I said, “was a man who told me his name was Clayton Dawson and he gave me an address in Denver. It turns out that the address in Denver was just a mail drop and apparently a blind. I’ve been unable to find Clayton Dawson. All I know about him is that he told me he was assistant to the president of the Dawson Re-Debenture Discount Security Company of Denver, Colorado. There is no such company.
“He told me that his daughter was Phyllis Dawson; that she was going under the name of Phyllis Eldon.
“Now then, you know as much as I do.”
“What did you do with Mrs. Chester?” Sellers asked.
“That,” I said, “is an entirely different matter. I kept my nose clean on that.”
“Did you pay her any money?”
“Yes.”
“With the understanding that she wouldn’t press any charges?”
“Good heavens, no,” I said. “I paid her money because my client wanted to buy up her claim for damages so that he could underwrite any recovery she might make.”
“And your client was Phyllis Dawson here?”
“My client,” I said, “was Clayton Dawson.”
Sellers creased his forehead in a frown.
Essex said. “Now, Lam has told you the name of his client. That is with the consent of Phyllis Dawson, the client’s daughter. That purges Lam of any wrongdoing. You haven’t a thing in the world against him.”
“The hell I haven’t,” Sellers said. “Don’t think that this pint-sized little bastard—”
“Watch your language,” Essex snapped.
Sellers glowered at him, said, after a moment, “I’m also putting you on my list.”
“You be mighty careful I don’t put you on mine,” Essex said.
Sellers took a deep breath, fished a cigar from his pocket.
“Uh, uh,” Phyllis said.
Sellers put the cigar back, said, “I could question you folks at headquarters in a more friendly atmosphere. That is, friendly to me.”
“It would be a mistake,” Essex told him.