Then she hung up and said to Billings, “Mrs. Cool will see you now. You may go right in.”
“Mrs. Cool?” the man said.
“Yes.”
“That’s B. Cool?”
“Yes. B. for Bertha.”
He hesitated perceptibly, then straightened his plaid sport coat and walked in.
The receptionist waited until the door had closed, then looked up at me and said, “He wants a man.”
“No,” I told her, “he wants the senior partner.”
“When he asks for you what shall I tell him?”
I said, “You underestimate Bertha. She’ll find out how much dough he has, and if it’s a sizable chunk she’ll ask me in for a conference. If it isn’t a big wad and John Carver Billings the Second intimates he thinks a woman isn’t as good a detective as a man, you’ll see Mr. John Carver Billings the Second thrown out of here on his ear.”
She looked very demure. “You’re so careful with your anatomical distinctions, Mr. Lam,” she said without smiling.
I went back to my office.
In about ten minutes the phone rang.
Elsie Brand, my secretary, answered, then glanced up and said, “Mrs. Cool wants to know if you can come into her office for a conference.”
“Sure,” I said, and gave the receptionist a wink as I walked past and opened the door of Bertha’s private office.
One look at the expression on Bertha’s face and I knew everything was fine. Bertha’s little, greedy eyes were glittering. Her lips were all smiles. “Donald,” she said, “this is John Carver Billings.”
“The Second,” he amended.
“The Second,” she echoed. “And this is Mr. Donald Lam, my partner.”
We shook hands.
I knew from experience that it took cold, hard cash to get Bertha to assume that ingratiating manner and that cooing, kittenish voice.
“Mr. Billings,” she said, “has a problem. He feels that perhaps a man should work on that problem, that it might—”
“Be more conducive of results,” John Carver Billings the Second finished.
“Exactly,” Bertha agreed with a cash-inspired alacrity of good humor.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
Bertha’s chair squeaked as she moved her hundred and sixty-five pounds around so as to pick up the newspaper clipping on the far corner of her desk. She handed it to me without a word.
I read:
KNIGHT DAY’S COLUMN — DAY AND NIGHT
BLOND BEAUTY DISAPPEARS. FRIENDS
FEAR FOUL PLAY. POLICE SKEPTICAL.Maurine Auburn, the blond beauty who was with “Gabby” Garvanza at the time he was shot, has mysteriously disappeared. “Friends” have asked police to make an investigation.The police, however, who feel that the young woman was considerably less than co-operative during their investigation into the shooting of the mobster, are inclined to feel that Miss Auburn, who kept her own counsel so successfully a few nights ago, is about business of her own. So far as police are concerned, her failure to pick up milk bottles from the doorstep of her swank little bungalow in Laurel Canyon is a matter of official indifference. In fact, officers pointed out quite plainly that Miss Auburn resented having police “stick their noses” into her private life a few days ago, and the police intend to respect her desire for privacy whenever possible.The story as given to police by “friends” is that three days ago Maurine Auburn, who was the life of the party at a well-known nitery, became peeved at her escort and walked out.Nor did she walk out alone.Her departure was prefaced by a few dances with a new acquaintance whom she had met for the first time at the night club. The fact that she left the place with this newfound friend, rather than with members of her own party, is a circumstance which police consider to be without especial significance. Friends of the young woman, however, regard it as a matter of the greatest importance. Detectives are frank to state they do not consider this occurrence unique in the life of the mysterious young woman who was so singularly unobservant when Gabby Garvanza was on the receiving end of two leaden slugs.When milk bottles began to pile up on Miss Auburn’s doorstep, the peeved and jilted escort, whose name is being withheld by the police, felt that something should be done. He went to the police — perhaps for the first time in his life. Prior to that time, as one of the officers expressed it, the police had gone to him.In the meantime, Garvanza, who has so far recovered that he has been definitely pronounced out of danger, continues to occupy a private room at a local hospital and, despite his convalescence, continues to employ three special nurses.After coming out of an anesthetic at the hospital following the operation which resulted in removing two bullets from his body, Gabby Garvanza listened patiently to police inquiries, then, by way of helpful cooperation, said, “I reckon somebody who had it in for me must have taken a coupla shots at me.”Police consider this a masterly understatement of fact and point out that as an aid to investigative work it is somewhat less than a valuable contribution. There was a distinct feeling at headquarters that both Gabby Garvanza and Miss Auburn could have been much more helpful.
I dropped the clipping back on Bertha’s desk and looked at John Carver Billings the Second.
“Honestly,” he said, “I never knew who she was.”
“You’re the pickup?” I asked.
He nodded.
“And Maurine left the nitery with you?”
“It really wasn’t a night club. This was late in the afternoon, a cocktail rendezvous, food and dancing.”
I said to Bertha, “We might not want to handle this one.”
Bertha’s greedy eyes flashed at me. Her jeweled hand surreptitiously strayed toward the cash drawer. “Mr. Billings has paid us a retainer,” she said.
“And I offer a five-hundred-dollar bonus,” Billings went on.
“I was coming to that,” Bertha interposed.
“A bonus for what?” I asked.
“If you can find the girls I was with afterward.”
“After what?”
“After the Auburn girl left me.”
“That same night?”
“Of course.”
“You seem to have covered a lot of territory,” I said.
“It was this way,” Bertha explained. “Mr. Billings was to have been joined for cocktails by a young woman. This young woman stood him up. He had been attracted to Maurine Auburn, and, when he caught her eye, asked her to dance. One of the men who was with her told Billings to go roll his hoop. Miss Auburn told the guy he didn’t own her, and he said he knew that; he was watching the premises for the man who did.
“It looked like the party might get rough so Billings, here, went back to his own table.
“A few minutes later Maurine Auburn came over to his table and said, ‘Well, you asked for a dance, didn’t you?’
“So they danced, and, as our client says, they clicked. He was nervous because her escorts looked like tough mugs. He suggested she shake them and have dinner with him. She told him about another place she liked. They went there. As far as Billings knows she’s still powdering her nose.”
“What did you do?” I asked Billings.
“I stuck around, feeling like a sap. Then I noticed two girls by themselves. I made a play for one of them and got the eye. We danced for a while. By that time I realized, of course, Maurine had stood me up. I wanted one of these girls to ditch the other one so we could go places. No dice. They were together and they were going to stay together. I moved over to their table, bought them a couple of drinks, danced with them, had dinner, paid the check, and took them to an auto court.”
“Then what?”
“I stayed all night.”
“Where?”