It was written on a good quality stationery, but the sheet was an odd size. The top edge held hale irregularities so small as to be almost imperceptible unless you looked for them carefully. The paper spilled a faint trace of scent. I couldn’t tell what kind it was. There was a certain suggestion of cramped angularity about the handwriting.
The letter read:
Dear Helen Framley:
I’m grateful for your letter, but it’s no use. I can’t go through with the marriage now. It wouldn’t be fair to him. The thing you suggest is unthinkable. I’m getting out of the picture. Good-by.
I studied the envelope in which the letter had been enclosed. It was a stamped, air-mail envelope. The General Delivery address on the outside was in that same handwriting as the body of the letter. Someone at the post office had crossed this out and written in the street and number of Helen’s apartment.
I put the letter back in the envelope, put it in my pocket, then thought better of it. I took the letter back out of the envelope, put it in my inside coat pocket, put the envelope in the outside pocket on my coat, and walked back to the Sal Sagev Hotel.
Bertha said, “Donald, what the hell have you been doing?”
“Working.”
“You’ve been fighting again. You’re a mess. Here take this clothesbrush. No, tell me first, what did you find?”
“Clues.”
“Well, don’t be so damned reticent. Tell me what happened.”
“I heard this girl was a slot-machine addict. I would either have had to stick around until three or four o’clock in the morning waiting for her to come in, or go out and find her around the slot machines.”
“Well, you don’t need to play slot machines just because you’re waiting.”
“You look conspicuous if you hang around and don’t play ’em.”
“Go ahead and look conspicuous. Who cares? After all, lover, we’re in business for money, not to conform to what Las Vegas, Nevada, thinks the well-dressed detective will wear. Don’t you think for a minute you’re going to put any gambling expenses on the expense account.”
“I won’t.”
“What happened?”
“There was a fight.”
“You don’t need to tell me that. You’ve been leading with your face again.”
“Does it look bad?”
“Terrible.”
I walked over to the full-length mirror. A table had been moved so it was possible to see my reflection clear across the room. On the table, still in its original silver foil wrapper, was Bertha’s second chocolate bar. There was quite a bit of dust on my clothes. My face had a queer lopsided look to it.
Bertha asked, “What was the fight about?”
“The first one was because someone thought I was tampering with the machines.”
“And you fought over that?”
“No. I got arrested.”
“I gathered as much. What happened after that?”
“I saw the girl again. Where’s Whitewell?”
She said, “He’s due here any minute. He got a telegram. His son’s on the way here. He’s waiting for him to come in.”
“From where?”
“Los Angeles.”
“How’s he coming?”
“He’s driving. There’s been some business emergency and Philip’s bringing his father’s right-hand man with him, someone who’s been in business with him for years.”
“Does Philip know what his father’s doing here?”
“I don’t think so, but I think the father’s going to take him into his confidence.”
“You mean he’s going to let him know about us and what we’re here for?”
“I think he is. Donald, isn’t he the nicest man?”
“Uh huh.”
“The most observing. He has wonderful taste.”
“Uh huh.”
“He’s a widower, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he was just a mite lonely. Not that he’s thinking of marriage. He values his independence too highly, but he isn’t entirely self-sufficient. He’s something of a child down underneath. All men are. They want to be mothered, particularly when things go wrong.”
“Uh huh.”
“Donald Lam, are you listening to me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well then, make some contribution to the conversation other than that inane grunting.”
“Don’t you want me to agree with you?”
“When a man’s as nice as Mr. Whitewell, you should be able to add something to what I’m saying.”
“I couldn’t. No one could.”
Her lips were a thin, straight line. “Sometimes, you little devil, I hate the ground you walk on!”
“Aren’t you going to eat your chocolate bar?”
“You may have it.”
“I don’t want it. What’s the matter with it?”
“I don’t know. That other one gave me sort of heartburn. Have you had dinner, lover?”
“No. I’ve been busy.”
“Well, Mr. Whitewell suggested that we should eat together — that is, if you came back. He said,” and she let her mouth soften into the suggestion of a simper, “that he wanted his son to meet me. He seemed particularly anxious.”
“That’s nice.”
Knuckles tapped on the door.
“Open it, lover.”
I opened the door. Whitewell stood on the threshold. Slightly behind him was a boy who was quite obviously his son. There was the same high forehead, long, straight nose, well-shaped mouth. The father’s eyes were keen with a slightly humorous twinkle. The boy’s were the same color, but didn’t have the keenness nor the twinkle. They looked as though the boy might be slogging his way through life without getting much pleasure out of it. Back of the boy was a man in the forties, bald, thick, competent, and built like a grizzly bear.
Whitewell said, “Philip, this is Donald Lam. Mr. Lam, my son, Philip Whitewell.”
The tall young man gave me an inclination of the head, extended his hand, gripped mine politely but without fervor. “Very pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”
“Won’t you come in?” I asked.
The father made quite a ceremony of it. “Mrs. Cool,” he said, “may I present my son, Philip. Philip, this is the woman I’ve been telling you about.”
Philip looked at her curiously for a moment before he bowed, and said, “Mrs. Cool, I’m very pleased to meet you. Father has been talking about you a lot.”
The thick man who seemed to have been forgotten, grinned, pushed a hand out to me, and said, “My name’s Endicott.”
“Lam,” I said.
We shook hands. Whitewell whirled, and said, “Oh, pardon me,” and then to Bertha, “And may I present Paul Endicott. He’s been with me for years. The real brains of the business. I only take in the profits and pay the income tax. Paul does the work.”
Endicott grinned, the good-natured grin of a man who is too healthy, big, and powerful to ever let anything bother him.
Bertha beamed all over her face. She actually got up out of her chair to be the perfect hostess, telephoned room service, and had some cocktails sent up.
Whitewell said to me, “I suggested to Mrs. Cool that we might all dine together when I found that my son was coming. Have you been looking the town over?”
“Yes.”
“Find out anything?”
“A little.”
“Get a line on Miss Framley?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t talk with her, did you?”
“Yes.”
He studied me for a minute as though I’d said something he hadn’t expected to hear. Then he said with a little laugh, “I’ve taken Philip entirely into my confidence. Philip knows that Mrs. Cool is running a detective agency, and that I’ve employed her to find what happened to Corla Burke. He knows that you’re working for her, so if you’ve found anything that’s at all significant as a clue, you don’t need to hold it back.”