“That,” I said, “is because the porter didn’t see me. He didn’t report to the conductor that anyone had got aboard with a ticket for lower nine.”
“Isn’t that going to make it rather tough?”
“Perhaps.”
Bertha said, “Well, you’re a brainy little devil. You can keep yourself out of jail all right, but we must do something to help Mr. Whitewell. Do you suppose this murder has anything to do with Corla Burke’s disappearance?”
“I don’t know yet. A lot of people could have killed Harry Beegan — and among them is my very estimable friend, Lieutenant William Kleinsmidt of the Las Vegas police force.”
Bertha said, “Don’t be a sap, Donald. If Kleinsmidt had killed him, he’d have admitted the shooting — posed as a hero — ‘Fearless-officer-kills-desperate-criminal-who-has-terrorized-neighborhood,’ and all that sort of bunk.”
I said, “I’m not sold on it. I’m suggesting it as a possibility.”
“I don’t see where it’s even possible.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Citizens don’t like it when a cop is too handy with a gun. Kleinsmidt was looking for Pug, and Kleinsmidt was sore. Pug was handy with his fists, and wasn’t in any mood to be pushed around.”
“But Kleinsmidt could have claimed it was a self-defense no matter what had happened.”
“Uh huh.”
“Donald, that’s not the way to treat me. What’s wrong with what I’m telling you?”
I said, “Pug was unarmed. He was in his house. It was something which would pass for that with a jury. An officer is supposed to be able to take an unarmed man without anything more than a sap.”
“But Pug was a good fighter.”
“An officer is supposed to be able to take an unarmed man.”
“What makes you think Kleinsmidt did it?”
“I don’t.”
“I thought you said you did.”
“I said it was a possibility.”
“Well, what makes you think it’s a possibility?”
“The way the police are trying so hard to pin it on someone else.”
“Meaning you?”
“Among others.”
“Arthur Whitewell made me promise I’d let him know just as soon as you arrived in town.”
“Did he know Kleinsmidt had gone after me?”
“I don’t know. He knew someone was going to get you.”
“Okay, give him a ring.”
I handed Bertha the telephone. She cleared her throat twice and said into the telephone, “Would you ring Mr. Arthur Whitewell’s room pulleese. Good morning, Arthur. This is Bertha. Oh, you flatterer! Donald’s here— Yes— That will be splendid!”
She hung up, looked up at me, and said, “He’s coming right up.”
I sat down, lit a cigarette, and asked, “How long has this been going on?”
“What?”
“This Arthur and Bertha business.”
“Oh, I don’t know. We just started calling each other by our first names. After all, you know, we’ve had quite an experience together — this murder and the resulting investigation.”
“How about Philip?”
“I haven’t seen Philip except for a moment when the police were asking questions.”
“Has Endicott gone to Los Angeles?”
“No. He’s still here, but he wants to go.”
“Whitewell planning to go?”
“Not for a few days. Give me a cigarette, lover.”
I handed her a cigarette, held a match for her. Knuckles sounded on the door, and I opened it for Arthur White-well and Endicott.
“Well,” Whitewell said, shaking hands, “this is hardly the way we’d anticipated it, is it, Lam?”
“No.”
Endicott followed Whitewell’s lead in shaking hands, but said nothing.
Whitewell stood over Bertha, smiling down at her. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Have virtually a sleepless night and still look as fresh as though you’d been in bed ever since ten o’clock. I can’t get over marveling at your sheer vitality.”
Bertha said coyly, “I wish I were one-tenth as good as you think I am.”
I said, “I suppose you people/have told your story to Kleinsmidt.”
They nodded.
“He’s been checking up. You’ll hear more from him. He’s a persistent cuss. I’d say he might be dangerous.”
No one said anything for a few seconds, then Endicott said, “Yes, I have an idea you’re right.”
“Well, it might be just as well for us all to run over the facts and—” I broke off as I heard the pound of rubber heels in the corridor. Then as knuckles beat on the door, I said, “Even money that this is the law now.”
There were no takers. I opened the door. It was Kleinsmidt.
“Come in,” I said. “I wouldn’t doubt if someone is going to suggest breakfast.”
“Why, yes,” Whitewell said. “An excellent idea. Good morning, Lieutenant.”
Kleinsmidt didn’t do any pussyfooting. “I have a little checking up to do,” he said. “You, Whitewell, haven’t told me everything that happened last night.”
Whitewell said, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Weren’t you down at the corner of Beech and Washington Streets at about nine o’clock last night?”
Whitewell hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said after a moment, “just how I am going to co-operate with you, Lieutenant. You seem determined to—”
“Quit sparring for time,” Kleinsmidt said. “Were you or weren’t you?”
Whitewell glowered at him. “No.”
“You’re positive?”
“Of course, I’m positive.”
“You weren’t there at any time, let us say, between eight-forty-five and nine-fifteen?”
“No, not at any time during the evening.”
Kleinsmidt stepped back, jerked open the door, looked out in the hall, and nodded his head.
I said, “Brace yourself, Whitewell.”
We heard the sound of quick steps in the corridor, then a girl stood in the doorway.
“Come in,” Kleinsmidt said. “Look at the persons in this room and tell me whether any of them is the person you saw last night.”
She stepped across the threshold. There was something proudly defiant about her, as though she knew that every hand would be turned against her, and had schooled herself to a pretended indifference. She didn’t give the impression of having been aroused at an early hour to face this ordeal. Somehow, looking at her, you felt she hadn’t been to bed and that she wasn’t accustomed to going to sleep before daylight. There was a little too much color on her face, and her mouth was hard. But she’d taken care of herself, watched her figure, cared for her hands, was particular about her clothes — a woman in the late twenties who had learned never to let her guard down for a moment.
You knew what she was going to say before she said it. Her eyes moved in a swift half circle of appraisal, and then stopped on Whitewell. But before she could say anything, Bertha Cool was leaning forward on the edge of her chair. “No, you don’t,” she said to Kleinsmidt. “You’re not going to pull any frame-ups here. If there’s going to be an identification, you put the man in line with some other man of approximately the same age and build and—”
“Who’s running this?” Kleinsmidt demanded indignantly.
“You may be running it, but I’m telling you how you’ll have to do it if it’s going to count.”
“It’ll count with me. How about it? Is that person here?”
She raised a finger and pointed it at Whitewell.
Kleinsmidt said, “That’s all. Wait outside.”
“Just a minute,” Whitewell said. “I demand to know—”
“Wait outside.”
She nodded and walked through the door, shoulders back, chin up, hips swinging with just enough exaggeration to indicate that she knew what we thought and was telling us what we could do about it.