“But we can’t use you as long as you have that idea about insurance claims and losses. Now, come on, we’ll go out to Foley Chester’s place right now and talk with him.”
“You have his address?” I asked.
“As it happens, I have his address and I know that it’s not too far from here, only about three quarters of a mile.”
“I’ve got a car outside,” I said, “and we—”
“We’ll go in my car,” Breckinridge said, with a tone of finality.
Abruptly, a tall, rather angular woman with high cheekbones, black, burning eyes and a determined manner, came striding into the room.
She stopped in apparent surprise and said, “Why, Homer, I didn’t, know you were having company.”
Her eyes slithered very briefly over me and came to rest on Elsie Brand, looking her over from head to toe, the way a certain type of woman will size up a potential competitor.
Breckinridge apparently didn’t notice the undertone of hostility and suspicion in her voice. He said easily, “A business matter, my dear. I didn’t want to disturb you with it, but permit me to present Miss Brand and Mr. Lam. These people are detectives who are working on a case for us.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, and smiled acidly. “Another female operative?”
“Strictly speaking,” Breckinridge said, “Miss Brand is secretary to Mr. Lam. She met him at the airport and drove him out here... I’m sorry, dear, but I’m going to have to leave for a brief interval. We have to interview a witness immediately.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, and the inflection of her voice was highly significant.
I said to Breckinridge, “Elsie has her car here and there’s no need of complicating the situation. You lead the way and we’ll follow in her car. Then after the interview you can come back here.”
“That probably will be better,” Breckinridge said.
“Where are you from, Mr. Lam?” Mrs. Breckinridge asked, slightly mollified. “Where are your headquarters?”
“They’re here,” I said.
“Oh, I understood Homer to say you came in by plane.”
“I did.”
“From Arizona?” she asked, and her words were dipped acid.
Breckinridge gave me a swift, appealing but furtive glance.
“Arizona?” I said vacantly. “Why, no, I came in from Texas.”
“He’s been working on a case in Dallas,” Breckinridge explained hastily.
“Oh,” she said, and her manner was almost cordial. “Well, if you people have to go, you’d better go so my husband can get back.”
She bowed to Elsie and me and swept out of the room.
Breckinridge said hastily. “All right, let’s get in the cars and go. You people follow me.”
We went out a side door. Breckinridge’s car was parked in the driveway. It was a big, leather-upholstered, air-conditioned vehicle. He climbed in and slammed the door shut.
Elsie and I walked down the driveway to where her car was parked.
“Why did she act that way about Arizona?” Elsie asked. “She almost spat the word out.”
I said, “She’s probably a woman of deep-seated prejudices.”
“You can say that again,” Elsie said. “She has a husband who looks like a matinee idol and she’s not sure of him or of herself.”
Breckinridge paused as he drew alongside of us. He was consulting a leather-backed memo book which he took from his pocket. He checked an address, turned out the dome light in the car, nodded to us and called out, “Ready?”
“Ready,” I said.
I drove Elsie’s car. We encountered very little traffic and made good time to a good-looking apartment house.
At the entrance to the place Breckinridge looked at a folded paper; I looked at the directory and said, “He’s in 1012. Let’s go up.”
“Heaven knows whether we’ll catch him home or not,” Breckinridge said. “I should have telephoned for an appointment, but you have me acting impulsively now.”
We went up in the elevator, found the apartment, and I pressed the mother-of-pearl button. Chimes sounded on the inside of the apartment.
Nothing happened.
I waited some ten seconds and then rang again.
“Well,” Breckinridge said, “he’s out. We should have phoned. However, Donald, the principle is the same. I’m going to settle that case tomorrow afternoon.”
A door opened down the hall. A man stepped into the corridor, started toward the elevator.
We kept walking on toward the elevator. Out of the same apartment stepped another man, who was just behind us.
The man at the elevator suddenly turned. The man behind us said, “Right this way, please.”
Breckinridge whirled. I turned more leisurely. I had heard that tone of voice before.
The man behind us was holding a leather folder with a badge.
“Police officers,” he said. “Would you mind stepping this way.”
“What’s all this about?” Breckinridge asked.
“Right this way, please. We don’t care to discuss it in the corridor.”
The man who had walked toward the elevator and had turned was now right behind us. He put one hand on Breckinridge’s arm, one on mine and pushed.
“Come on, folks,” he said. “This will only take a few minutes. Make it snappy.”
A door across from us opened; a woman looked out.
The man with the badge said to her, “Never mind, madam.”
“What’s all this about?” she asked, suspiciously. “What’s going on here?”
The officer showed her his badge.
“Well, for heaven’s sake,” she exclaimed and stood there in the doorway, her jaw sagging, trying to pull her wits together.
The plain-clothes officer escorted us into the apartment which the two men had emerged.
It was fixed up as a typical police stakeout.
There was a tape-recording machine on the table, a couple of officers seated at another little table, a shortwave radio telephone. The regular furniture of the apartment had been pushed back so that there was room for these new pieces of furniture that had been brought in.
As we entered the room and the door closed behind us, a man, stepped out from a closet.
It was Sgt. Frank Sellers, an unlighted cigar in his mouth.
Sellers took one look at me and made an exclamation of disgust.
“Hello, Pint Size.”
“Hello, Frank.”
Sellers turned to the other officers. “This guy has more cases than any other private eye in the business.”
He turned back to me. “What the hell are you doing now?” he asked.
I nodded toward Breckinridge. Breckinridge cleared his throat, said, “Permit me, gentlemen, to introduce myself.”
He took out a card case, handed Sellers a card.
“I am Homer Breckinridge,’ he said, “president and manager of the All Purpose Insurance Company. This is Donald Lam and, I believe, his secretary, a Miss Brand. They are working on a case In which my company is interested. They came to the apartment of Mr. Chester acting on my orders. We want to interview him.”
“So do we,” Sellers said, studying Breckinridge, looking from him to the card.
“Now this,” Sellers said, “can be pretty damned significant. You don’t mean Chester’s been involved in an accident and you’re interested?”
Breckinridge nodded.
Sellers looked disappointed. “And that’s why he hasn’t come back?”
“I don’t know,” Breckinridge said. “This accident is one that occurred before he left.”