A latch clicked on the inside of the door. I turned the knob and walked in.
It was quite a gathering. All three of the Dearbornes were there, also Paul Endicott, Arthur and Philip Whitewell. Bertha Cool was half reclining on a chaise longue, propped up with pillows. She was wearing a low-cut backless evening gown.
A table in the center of the room was littered with bottles. Glasses were scattered around the room. A silver pail of ice cubes held only an inch or two of water. Ash trays were well filled with cigarette stubs and cigar butts. The atmosphere of the room was pretty thick. The men were in dinner jackets.
Bertha Cool’s eyes grew big as she stared at me.
The conversation came to an abrupt stop as though someone had turned off a radio when a mob scene had been playing.
Bertha said, “Well, fry me for an oyster!”
I stood in the doorway. People put glasses down as though I’d been a prohibition officer making a raid.
“Well,” Bertha demanded truculently, “where the hell have you been?”
“I’ve been to Reno. I’ve found Corla Burke.”
The room became absolutely silent. You couldn’t even hear the rustle of motion or the sound of breathing. Then Anita Dearborne gave a quick, sharp intake of breath. At the same time, Eloise sighed.
Philip Whitewell was coming toward me, hands outstretched.
“How is she?” he asked. “Is she all right? Is she—”
“She’s in a hospital.”
“Oh,” he said, and then after a moment, “Oh, my God!”
“Mental,” I explained.
He was staring at me as if I’d driven a knife into his chest.
“Amnesia. Doesn’t know who she is, who her friends are, or where she came from, or what has happened. Otherwise, she’s in good health.”
“At Reno?”
“Yes.”
Philip Whitewell looked at his dad. “We must go at once,” he said.
Arthur Whitewell ran his hand up over his bald forehead, smoothed the hair on the top of his head, and repeated the gesture twice. He glanced surreptitiously at Ogden Dearborne, then back to me. “How did you do it, Lam?” he asked.
I said, “Helen Framley knew more than she admitted.”
“How did you get it out of her?”
Bertha Cool came in with the answer. “Made love to her, of course. They go absolutely mad over Donald. What did she tell you, lover?”
“I’ll make my report later on,” I said, “in confidence, in writing, and to you.”
I turned to look at Arthur Whitewell.
Philip said, “Come on, Dad let’s get started. We’ll have to arrange for a plane.”
Whitewell said, “Yes. Naturally, we must leave at once. Is she — is there any chance of recovery, Lam?”
“As I understand it, her physical condition is all right. It’s purely a mental reaction.”
“From what?”
“The doctors say it could have been caused by shock, by overwork, by nervousness.”
“Did you tell the doctors—”
“Not a thing.”
Whitewell turned to Mrs. Dearborne, managed to make his remarks include Eloise and Ogden. “Naturally, this is quite a blow — that is, a surprise. I take it you’ll understand.”
Mrs. Dearhorne got to her feet at once. “Certainly, Arthur. We only wish there was something we could do. We know there isn’t. It’s a matter that you must handle.” Her eyes swiveled abruptly to me. She wrapped me in a cold stare until I felt like a barren tree limb the morning after an ice storm. “So you found her,” she said.
I nodded.
She smiled frostily. “I might have known you would,” she said. “Come, Eloise.”
Ogden helped them on with their wraps. Bertha saw them to the door. Mrs. Dearborne paused to make the usual formal acknowledgment of a pleasant evening. Bertha Cool didn’t take time wasting any words. She barely waited until they were out in the corridor, then turned, heeled the door shut, and said, “I thought there was something fishy about you running away with that woman. You were following a lead. How much money have you spent?”
“Quite a bit.”
She snorted.
Philip said, “Please, let’s not lose a minute.”
Arthur Whitewell looked at his watch. “It’s going to be difficult to charter a good plane from here I’m afraid, but we can try. If necessary, we can telephone Los Angeles and arrange to have one leave at once. Philip, suppose you go down to the airport and see what you can do. Paul can go with you and give you a hand. We’ll leave it entirely to you. Use your discretion.”
“I have a plane which brought me from Reno,” I said. “Irwin hold three passengers in addition to the pilot.” Bertha said, “That’s fine. I’ll stay right here. Mr. Endicott can wait with me. Arthur, you and Philip can leave right away, and go with Donald.”
Endicott said, “Let’s not rush the thing too much. After all, she’s perfectly safe. They probably won’t let us see her before morning anyway, and I for one think it’s more important to have the right kind of a doctor on the job than anything else. Don’t you suppose, Arthur, you could get Dr. Hinderkeld to take a plane and meet you in Reno? In cases of this sort, a sudden shock may revive the patient’s memory. On the other hand, it might be disastrous. A great deal would depend on the condition of the patient.”
Whitewell said, “You’re right. Paul, you telephone Dr. Hinderkeld. Wait until you’ve found out what you can do here about a plane. If we have to get a ship from Los Angeles, Hinderkeld can come in on it, and we’ll all go to Reno together.”
Philip was standing at the door, his hand on the knob. “Come on, Paul,” he said, and to his father, “You can do what you want about a doctor. I’m going to her now.”
Endicott flashed Arthur Whitewell one searching glance, then he and Philip were out in the corridor.
Whitewell turned to me. “I suppose I have you to thank for this.”
“For what?”
“As though you didn’t know.”
“You wanted me to find her, didn’t you? I’ve found her.”
He said, “You told Mrs. Cool that you thought I might have dictated that letter, that I might have given her money. Evidently, young man, you don’t have a very high opinion of me.”
I said, “I’m employed to do a job. The letter she wrote Helen Framley was written on your stationery. The top had been cut off with a knife. Women don’t carry knives. A woman cutting off the top of a letterhead would have folded the paper, and cut it with a paper cutter, or she would have used a pair of scissors, or she might have even tried to tear it off. She wouldn’t have cut it with a sharp knife.”
“Well, what of it?”
“The letter was written at night. It was picked up shortly before midnight. It was written on your office stationery. To my mind, that means it was written in your office.”
“Well?”
“A man was present. She hadn’t intended to write the letter before she went to the office. Otherwise, she’d have had the letter written — or else she’d have waited until she got back to her apartment to write it. She went to your office. She met some man. They had a conversation. As a result of that conversation, she decided to write a letter. For some reason, it was considered imperative that she write the letter then and there. She did so. The man cut off the letterhead. Someone furnished a stamped envelope. Corla Burke left very mysteriously the next day. The circumstances surrounding her departure were such that it was impossible to believe she hadn’t left of her own volition. She’d left a purse on her desk with all of her money in it. Evidently, it was all the money she had. She couldn’t have gone far without money. Therefore, it’s obvious she was getting money from someone.
“There was enough in that letter to Helen Framley to show that she was leaving under her own power and because of some circumstance or development which she thought put her in a questionable light, particularly with the man she was to marry. You evidently knew of that letter. You evidently had a pretty good idea what was in it. You were willing to hire a firm of private detectives to start working on the case. You were very careful to see that the detectives met you in Las Vegas and started working from there. You were so afraid they might miss Helen Framley that you had her all ticketed, earmarked, and ready for delivery like a box of quick-frozen strawberries. And you carry stamped envelopes.