“If you’ll tell us—”
“Shut up,” Whitewell said.
The command was so crisply authoritative that Bertha Cool mechanically lapsed into an uncomfortable and surprised silence.
“What about it, Lam? What do you want and what can you do?”
“Tell me what I’m up against first. Kleinsmidt knows about Corla now. That means some of the Clutmers’ eavesdropping.”
He said, “That girl is mistaken. I wasn’t near Miss Framley’s apartment.”
I said, “I don’t think she’s lying.”
“Neither do I. Don’t you see what it means? There’s a great family resemblance between Philip and me. She saw Philip. She had no reason to notice him closely, simply saw him as a passing pedestrian. If Philip had been here this morning, she’d have identified him, but he wasn’t. She was anxious to make good for the police; she saw me, and there was enough resemblance— We must manage things so she doesn’t ever see Philip.”
“She’s identified you now. She won’t go back on that.”
“Well, be sure she doesn’t. Can you make any suggestions?”
“Sure. Let her see you a few times more, talk and move around in front of her. Then when she sees Philip, he’ll register as a total stranger.”
“Excellent.”
“Does Philip have any alibi?”
“I wouldn’t know. That’s one thing I want you to find out.”
“Shall let him know that I’m working on that angle?”
“No. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You mustn’t let him know you’re working on anything except Corla Burke’s disappearance.”
I said, “This is going to mean more expenses, you know, and—”
“That’s all right.”
Bertha Cool straightened up in her chair. “Pardon me,” she said, “but—”
Whitewell’s hand motioned her into the background.
Bertha said, “To hell with that stuff. Don’t think anyone sets prices in this agency except Bertha Cool.”
He suddenly became his old self, smiling at her. “Pardon me, Bertha,” he said. “No one was trying to go over your head. I simply wanted Lam to understand what has to be done, because he’s got to start immediately.”
Bertha smiled up at him. Her voice was butter-and-syrup. “You know, Arthur, we have to charge more for working on murder cases than on other matters.”
“How much more?”
Bertha looked at me and nodded toward the door. “All right, lover, you’d better get started.”
Chapter Ten
The still cold of the desert night had melted under the impact of the sun’s rays. The Dearborne residence seemed devoid of life. The brilliant desert sun caught the front of the building and turned the white stucco into eye-aching glare.
I sat in my rented car, parked across the street and in the middle of the block, waiting — soaking up the warmth of the sunlight and trying to keep from feeling drowsy.
I tried smoking cigarettes, but they only relieved the nerve tension, and made me feel even more relaxed. There was a mellow somnolence permeating the entire atmosphere. I closed my eyes to relieve them of the glare — and couldn’t raise the leaden lids again. It might have been ten seconds or ten minutes. I snapped to reproachful wakefulness with a start, lowered a window in the door of the car, tried inhaling and exhaling as deeply and rapidly as possible, getting an over-abundance of oxygen in my blood. I tried to think of something that would make me mad. The door opened, and Ogden Dearborne came out.
He stood on the front porch for a minute, stretching his arms above his head. I slid down in the seat of the automobile so that only my eyes remained above the level of the glass in the door.
He looked up at the sky, down at the little strip of lawn in front of the house, straightened, and yawned again, a man without a care in the world, just an engineer working on a government job under civil service, pay checks coming in regularly, election over with, his party in power, and to hell with taxes. Then he casually went back into the house.
Within three seconds after the door had closed on him, it opened again, and Eloise Dearborne came out.
She wasted no time looking up and down the street or at the scenery. She walked with quick, firm steps, quite evidently headed toward some definite destination.
I sat in the car and watched her go. She turned a corner to the left, three blocks down the street. I started the motor, kept far enough back to be out of sight, and swung the car in close to the curb.
It was easy to keep her in view now. The district was becoming more built up, with little stores rubbing elbows. She went into a small grocery store, and I quit crawling along close to the curb, and shut off the motor.
I waited for nearly ten minutes, then she came out, carrying two large paper bags. This time she went only half a block. The sign on the door said, “Light housekeeping apartments.”
I jumped out of the car, walked rapidly to the grocery store, bought a ten-cent can of condensed milk, went down to the rooming-house. A woman was sweeping the corridor. I held out the can of milk with an ingratiating grin, and asked, “Where can I find the woman who just came in with the groceries?”
The woman paused in her sweeping, looked up, saw the can of milk.
“What’s the matter? Did she drop something?”
“Apparently so.”
“I think she’s in apartment Two-A,” she said. “That’s right upstairs and on the front.”
I thanked her, climbed halfway up the stairs, waited until I heard the swish-swish-swish of the broom cease, and heard the click of a door. Then I ran back down, jumped into my car, tossed the can of milk into the back, and went to the telephone office.
“Long distance,” I said, “station-to-station call. The number of the B. Cool Detective Agency in Los Angeles. Make it snappy.”
Elsie Brand came on the line almost as soon as central got the Los Angeles connection.
“Hello, Elsie. How’s the sex appeal?” I asked.
“Rotten. How’s the boss?”
“You won’t believe it. She’s slimmed herself down to around a hundred and fifty.”
“What?”
“No fooling. What’s more, she’s getting coy.”
“You’re drunk. When are you coming back?”
“I don’t know. Listen. Go down to a friendly newspaper office. Look in their morgue for all the dope on a man by the name of Sid Jannix who was a prize fighter. He was up somewhere near the top at one time. Either get some photographs or get a photographer to copy the pictures if you have to. I want them sent on here by air mail. Sal Sagev Hotel.”
“Using your own name?” she asked.
“Uh huh. So’s Bertha. We’re both there at the Sal Sagev. Here’s another one. Get hold of the Bureau of Vital Statistics, find out who Sidney Jannix married. See if there’s ever been a divorce. Get that information and rush it me by wire.”
“Okay. There are a couple of people anxious to get some service at this end. One of them’s a blackmail case, and the other’s a hit-and-run. What’ll I tell them?”
“Tell them Bertha Cool can’t pledge the agency’s unique service unless she receives a substantial cash retainer. See how strong they’ll go. If it looks good—”
A feminine voice said, “Your three minutes are up.”
I jerked the receiver away from my ear, and slammed it on the pronged cradle, but just before the receiver hit, I could hear the unmistakable click coming over the line that announced Elsie Brand had beat me to it. Bertha Cool would never have stood for overtime on a long-distance call. “It took me less than three minutes to tell my husband where he got off,” she used to declare, “and nothing that’s been said since has been half as important. So if you can’t say what you want to get off your chest within three minutes, you’ve got to learn.”