“I can’t make your girl come back to you if she doesn’t want to. Griffin will tell you the same thing.”
“He already has,” the young man said rather wistfully. “But even if she doesn’t come back, to me, we can save her from making a terrible mistake.”
100 Pesos
Published in The Archer Files (Crippen & Landru, 2007).
It started out to be one of those germ-free cases, untouched by the human hand. The firm of lawyers who called me in, Trotter, Griffin and Wake, had the kind of reputation young men dream about aspiringly when they’re sitting up late studying for their bar exams. Their exquisitely hushed offices surrounded a garden court in Beverly Hills.
The lovely young thing in the front office looked at me with aesthetic distance. “Yes?”
“Mr. Archer to see Mr. Griffin.”
“Mr. Griffin is free now.”
He was a lean man in summer gray, with a white crewcut and a wintry smile. The tan against which his teeth flashed hadn’t come out of a bottle. He shook my hand vigorously but briefly, offered me a mottled greenish cigar which I refused, closed the box without taking one himself, waved me into a padded leather chair, leaned back in his own chair and clapped his hands, once.
Nothing happened, except that I jumped a little.
“We’ll get right down to business,” Griffin said. “That suits me and I’m sure it suits you. You’re a busy man, I’m given to understand.”
“By whom?”
“Mr. Colton of the D.A.’s office has recommended you highly, among others. He gave me to understand that you’re among the more intelligent and persistent members of your – ah – profession.”
“That was nice of him.”
“Yes. As you may know, we specialize in corporation law and don’t have much occasion to use detectives. I’m – ah – negotiating with you simply as a favor to a colleague.”
“That’s nice of you.”
He gave me a stainless-steel look. “Yes. Well. It appears that there is this certain person in La Mesa who needs looking into. You know La Mesa?”
“Not like the back of my hand, but I’ve been there. Who’s the certain person?”
“He calls himself Smith. Presumably Smith is not his real name. He’s a man who came to town – to La Mesa, that is – several days ago. Apparently he’s been stirring up a certain amount of trouble, of a rather indeterminate nature.”
“And I’m supposed to run him out of town?”
“Nothing like that,” he said sharply. “Your assignment is to find out who he actually is, where he came from, what he’s doing in La Mesa. Get to know him, if you can. Get him talking. We want a full report on his background, his identity, his intentions.”
“Where can I find him?”
“He’s probably staying at some waterfront motel. It shouldn’t be too hard to pick him up – I can give you a fairly good description of the man.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“No. This is at second hand, but I can assure you of its accuracy.” He shuffled the papers on his desk and picked out a sheet of typewriter paper scribbled over in pencil. “Smith is a man who appears to be in his middle fifties. His hair has streaks of gray in it. It was originally black. His skin is quite dark – whether for – ah – racial reasons or simply because he’s been out in the sun a lot, I can’t say. Brown eyes, almost black – his eyes are said to be his most notable feature. Also, he has a rather large nose with a hump in it – evidently broken at some time. This and his general manner give him the appearance of a rather rough-looking customer, and a fairly exotic specimen, you might say.”
“Foreign?”
“That isn’t clear. He seems to speak English without any accent.”
“Who has he been speaking English to?”
Griffin compressed his lips. “I’m afraid I’m not authorized to name our client, if that is what you mean. In point of fact, the client in question isn’t properly ours. I’m acting in this matter for a colleague in La Mesa.”
“Another lawyer?”
“That is correct.”
“What’s his name?”
“I’m not authorized to give it to you. It was thought best not to.”
“I like to know who I’m working for. And why.”
“Naturally.” Griffin smiled his wintry smile. “Certainly we’re implying no lack of confidence in you, or we’d never have asked you to take a hand in this. But there are circumstances in the present case – family and – ah – psychological considerations – which impose a certain amount of security on us. I’m asking you to go along with it, and I give you my personal assurance that you’re dealing with the highest type of people.”
“In the best of all possible worlds?”
Griffin sat behind his desk, watching me with a no-comment expression. Trying to get information out of a Los Angeles lawyer was like opening a can of sardines without a key. I said:
“This Smith doesn’t sound like any bargain. What’s he been doing to these high-type people, to make them want to investigate him?”
“We look to you for an answer to that, Mr. Archer.”
“You mean they don’t know what he’s been doing to them?”
“His intentions are obscure, shall we say. Everything about the man is obscure. If you can throw some light on him and his motives, you’ll be well paid for your trouble.”
“It will cost your client a hundred dollars a day, whether or not I come up with anything.”
“I anticipated that, and I’m prepared to give you a five-hundred-dollar advance now. Will you take the case?”
I didn’t want the case. I didn’t like Griffin. I resented the secrecy with which he was trying to handle it and me. But he had stirred my curiosity. And I could use the money.
“I’ll take it.”
He handed me a check which he had already made out against his firm’s account, and watched me put it away. With a glint of something in his eye that might have been ownership. I didn’t like it.
“Is Smith blackmailing your high-type people?” I said.
Griffin’s eyebrows went up till his forehead resembled brown corduroy. “I have no reason to think so. You must understand, our knowledge of him is minimal. We’re looking to you, Mr. Archer, to maximize it.”
“Okay, let’s get back to Smith’s description. Brown-black eyes, largish broken nose, swarthy complexion, gray streaks in black hair. How big is he?”
I took out my notebook while Griffin consulted his scribbled sheet. “About six feet. His back is slightly stooped, possibly from doing manual work. He’s broad-shouldered, but not too heavy.”
I wrote this down. “How does he dress?”
“In an ordinary dark business suit. It looks new, but it doesn’t fit him too well. He wears a white shirt and a dark tie. No hat. At least he wasn’t wearing one at the time that he was observed.”
“Where and when was this?”
“I don’t know. In fact, you’ve pretty well exhausted my information.”
“You’re not giving me much to go on, Mr. Griffin. There must be a hundred thousand people in La Mesa–”
“But only a few dozen named Smith.”
“Does he have a first name?”
“Presumably, but I don’t know it. The chances are, as I said, that he’s living in a waterfront hotel or motel. You shouldn’t have too much trouble finding him. After that – I believe you understand your instructions.”
“Yes.”
“If and when you uncover anything significant, report to me. Our answering service can put you in touch with me at any hour.”