“What did she do?”
“Did just what I hoped she’d do,” Bertha said. “She gave me the little notebook and told me to write it down. The name directly above mine was Rufus Stanberry, 3271 Fulrose Avenue. I fumbled around with her pencil getting a good look at the names and addresses so I’d remember them, and then I wrote down a name for her.”
“Your own?” I asked.
Bertha glared at me. “Don’t be a fool. I thought up the damnedest Russian spelling I could think of and gave the first address that popped into my head out in Glendale, smiled sweetly at the pop-eyed little wench, and handed it back to her. Then I started signaling for the traffic behind me to get out of my way and tried backing up.”
“And then what?”
“And then,” she said, “I had to argue with some damn bird behind me who couldn’t back up because there was somebody behind him who wouldn’t back up. There was a lot of tooting horns, and I lost my temper. I tried to slam the car back and locked bumpers with some dumb egg who had come up too close behind me, and this traffic cop came along and poured acid all over everybody, and the damn horse-toothed cluck that had caused the whole business gave a sweet smile to the traffic cop, caught a taxi that was turning left into a hotel parking stand over on Mantica and went away and left her heap right in the street.”
“What did you do?”
Bertha said, “I finally stood on my damned bumper while the other man lifted on his, and got the cars loose. By that time...”
“Did the woman get Mrs. Crail’s name?”
“Sure. It was a couple of names above Stanberry’s. I saw it was there. I didn’t bother with the address because we have it. I was trying to find who the man was.”
“Did Stanberry see Mrs. Crail’s name?”
“No. I’m the only one who wrote down my own name in the book. She’d done the writing on the others, also their license numbers. You can bet I didn’t write my license number for her.”
“So what did you do when you got free of the other car — come directly back here?”
“No. I figured she’d probably be taking Stanberry home, so I beat it out to 3271 Fulrose Avenue. I cased the joint and found it had a private switchboard, hung around there for a while, and then when they didn’t show up, I decided to hell with it and came back to the office. What did you do?”
I said, “I got kicked out of the Rimley Rendezvous.”
“Flirting with women?”
“No. The manager invited me in, bought me a drink and told me to get out and stay out.”
“He’s got a crust.”
“He’s right,” I said. “He’s running a joint where married women drop in for an afternoon pickup, where a few tired businessmen hang around after the merchant’s lunch to do a little casual dancing. A private detective is as welcome there as a case of smallpox on an ocean liner.”
“How did he know you were a private detective?”
“That,” I said, “is what gets me. He knew it. He knew my name, knew everything about me, knew all about you.”
“Did he know what case you were working on?” Bertha asked.
I said, “I’m wondering whether he put two and two together; that call for Mrs. Crail, and then no one being on the telephone; the fact that Mrs. Crail and Stanberry must have left at just about the time I was being entertained in the office, and then all of a sudden Rimley wanting to terminate the interview. That could have been after he’d received a signal that Mrs. Crail had made her getaway. I don’t think it occurred to anybody that you’d be waiting outside to pick them up, and...”
The telephone rang.
Bertha Cool scooped up the receiver. I heard Elsie Brand’s voice coming through, then a click and another voice. Bertha was all suave smiles. “Yes, Miss Rushe,” she said, “we’re making progress. Mrs. Crail was at the Rimley Rendezvous this afternoon with Mr. Stanberry.”
There was silence for a while, then Bertha said, “I’ll let you talk with Donald. He’s here.”
She passed the phone over to me and said, “Miss Rushe wants a report.”
I picked up the telephone. Georgia Rushe said, “Do you have anything to add to Mrs. Cool’s information, Mr. Lam?”
“I think so,” I said.
“What?”
I said, “You say the present Mrs. Crail was formerly Irma Begley, and she got acquainted with Ellery Crail through an automobile accident?”
“That’s right.”
“Crail struck her car?”
“Yes.”
“She sustain personal injuries?”
“Yes. A spinal injury.”
“Think she really has it?”
“It seems to have been definitely authenticated by X-rays.”
I said, “Well, she probably got it a year or so earlier in another automobile accident. If we could prove that, would that mean anything to you?”
“Would it!” she said ecstatically.
“Well, don’t get excited about it, and don’t try any amateur detective work. Let us handle it.”
“You’re sure about this other automobile accident?” she asked.
“No, of course not. It’s simply a lead.”
“How long will it take you to find out?”
I said, “It depends upon when I can locate the other party to the accident, a man named Philip E. Cullingdon, and find out what he says.”
“How long will it take you to do that?”
“I don’t know. I’m starting on it right away.”
She said, “I’ll be waiting to hear from you, Mr. Lam. You folks have my telephone number up there. Call me at once in case you find anything. At once, please.”
“Okay, I’ll let you know,” I said, and hung up.
All of a sudden Bertha began chuckling.
“Why the amusement?” I asked.
Bertha said, “I’m thinking of the way that little strumpet bawled me out when she went past, and then came back with that sickly sweet smile when she wanted me to be a witness for her. And I’m also thinking of the sweet time she’ll have when she goes messing out around the address I gave her in Glendale trying to find a woman by the name of Boskovitche.”
5
Philip E. Cullingdon turned out to be a middle-aged man with tired gray eyes from which spread a network of fine wrinkles. There were calipers around the edge of his mouth, and a certain firmness about the jaw. He gave the impression of being a kindly, somewhat quizzical man who would be slow to anger, but who could really go to town if he was once aroused.
I didn’t beat around the bush any with him at all. I said, “You’re Philip E. Cullingdon, the general contractor who was the defendant in the case of Begley versus Cullingdon?”
The tired gray eyes sized me up. “What’s that to you?”
“I’m checking up on the case.”
“What about it? It was all settled.”
“Sure it was. You carried insurance, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know the amount of the settlement?”
“I know the amount of the settlement, but I still don’t know to whom I’m talking, or why you want to know.”
I handed him a card. “Donald Lam,” I said, “of the firm of Cool & Lam, private investigators, and we’re checking up on the case.”
“For whom?”
“A client.”
“Why?”
“I’m trying to find out something about Irma Begley, the plaintiff in the action.”
“What about her?”
“I want to find out about the nature and extent of her injury.”
He said, “I guess she was injured all right. The doctors say she was — doctors on both sides. Somehow, I never felt right about that case.”