Beware the Curves

Chapter 2

The newspaper office opened at eight-thirty. I was there at eight-thirty-five. I said I wanted to see the back files of six years ago.

No one even asked me who I was. I was given the back files all nicely bound together.

On the assumption that a honeymoon in Paris in July of six years ago probably meant a June wedding, I concentrated on the June issues, and by eight-forty-seven was looking at a picture of Karl Carver Endicott, flanked by a picture of Elizabeth Flanders. The bride had been employed as a secretary in a local law office. Karl Carver Endicott was the town big shot, orange groves, oil wells — “popular young businessman... far flung oil empire.”

I made my notes, handed the papers back to the girl at the desk. The girl thanked me and smiled. She put her toe on a concealed buzzer button. I could see her weight shift. She wanted to be damn certain the alarm sounded.

I heard the buzzer in the inner office. A door opened and a young chap with long hair and sharp eyes came out of the inner office. He pretended to be looking for something, then his eyes came to focus on me. “Oh, hello,” he said, “anything I can do for your?”

“Thanks, I’m all taken care of.”

“Nothing I can help you with?”

“Nothing.”

It was okay by me. It just showed they were on the job. A man shows up from outside of town, wants to go through the files of the paper of six years ago. It might be nothing. It might be a story. If it was a story, naturally they wanted it. They didn’t want a competitive paper to get it. If it was nothing, they didn’t want to waste time.

I decided to let them know it was nothing.

The girl behind the counter said, “He was just looking over some of the back files.”

The reporter said, “Oh, yes,” and looked at me inquiringly.

I laughed. “Doing a little research work on increase in property values. Attractive land was advertised as being for sale six years ago, and I wanted to find the price it sold for.”

“Did you?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Just found that the property was for sale. I’ve got to hunt up the realtor now and try to find out what I can about price. It may not be too easy.”

“It may not,” the young man agreed. “Of course it would depend somewhat upon whether it was business property or ranching property.”

“It would, wouldn’t it?” I said.

He grinned.

I could have walked out at that time and nothing would have happened, but I had been lulled into a sense of security. I had had things so easy I wanted to get it all buttoned up.

“By the way,” I said, “there’s a chap by the name of Endicott here who has some acreage for sale I understand.”

“Endicott?” he said.

“Karl Carver Endicott,” I told him.

The reporter tried to swallow the expression of startled surprise on his face and didn’t make a good job of it. The girl back of the counter dropped a dating stamp she was holding in her hand, and didn’t stoop to pick it up.

The reporter gulped a couple of times and said, “Did you know Endicott?”

“Shucks, no!” I said. “I’m interested in property, not people.”

“I see.”

“I could be looking for a lease,” I told him.

“You could,” he said.

Well, I’d gone that far. I might as well go the rest of the way. “All right,” I said. “What’s wrong with Endicott?”

“It depends on how you look at it.”

“He still lives here, doesn’t he?”

“He’s a short distance outside of the city.” The blue eyes were watching me as a cat watches a rat hole.

“There’s just a chance,” I said, “I may know the guy at that. I met an Endicott who came from this part of the country several years ago. He was abroad on his honeymoon.”

“I see,” the reporter said.

“Look,” I said, “is anything wrong with Karl Endicott? Has he got the plague, or something?”

“Karl Endicott,” he said, “was murdered a short time after he returned from his honeymoon. In case you’re interested there’s a reward of twenty-five thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for his death. And if you’re snooping around on a live lead we’d sure appreciate getting the story.”

“Murdered?”

“Murdered.”

“Who offered the reward?”

“The Board of Directors of his company, Endicott Enterprises.”

“Well,” I said, “it’s nice having met you.”

“You haven’t met me yet.”

I grinned, “No, I didn’t get your name, but of course I know who you are,” and then added, “and I guess murder cases don’t have anything to do with scouting out pieces of property.”

I walked out of the door.

I’d driven down to Citrus Grove in the agency heap and had parked the damn thing almost in front of the door. I didn’t dare get into the car so I walked over to a real estate office. I went in and chatted generalities with the realtor for a few minutes about this and that and these and those. I went out and had breakfast. I walked over to the public library, found it didn’t open until ten o’clock, went to another real estate office, went to a phone booth and thumbed through the telephone directory.

The reporter was still following me.

I saw an officer going around checking the parking time on automobiles. The last thing I could afford was to have the car tagged, so I went to a restaurant, had a cup of coffee, went toward the back where there was a sign “Rest Rooms,” closed the door behind me and walked out to the kitchen.

The cook, scooping up fried eggs from a hot plate, motioned with his thumb and said, “Over that way, buddy.”

I just grinned at him, walked through the kitchen and out into an alley.

I walked rapidly down the alley, detoured a block, then cut across to my car as fast as I could walk without running.

The officer was just putting a tag on the car and the reporter was standing beside him with his notebook. I said to the officer, “I’m sorry, officer. I was just coming to get in the car.”

“You’re a little late.”

“I didn’t think your ordinance started until 9:00 A.M.”

He pointed to a diamond-shaped sign at the corner. “Parking one hour, 8:30 A.M. to 6:00 P.M.,” he said. “Sundays and holidays excepted.”

I gave him my best smile and said, “You should make some concessions for out-of-town people.”

“You own this car?”

“I drive it.”

“Let’s take a look at your driver’s license,” he said.

I showed it to him.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll let it go this time.”

The reporter grinned like a Cheshire cat.

I got in the car and drove away, leaving behind me a nice little story. I could even see the headlines in my mind’s eye. “LOS ANGELES DETECTIVE INVESTIGATES LOCAL MURDER.”

They could go on from there. “Donald Lam, Junior Partner of the firm of Cool and Lam, Private Investigators of Los Angeles, was in town this morning, consulting newspaper back files, checking on the murder of Karl Carver Endicott.

“Lam refused to be interviewed, refused to give his name to a reporter, and quite plainly was interested in getting information rather than giving it. Nevertheless, the fact that this private detective agency is investigating... etc., etc., etc.”

All right. So what? Damn it, if our client had put his cards on the table, I wouldn’t have led with my chin.

The fact remained I was mad.

I thought of how Bertha had described me as a brainy little bastard. I thought of how our phony client with the poetic features, the dreamy eyes and the long, sensitive fingers, was going to look at me when someone sent him a clipping from the Citrus Grove paper.

To hell with him! I’d have the thing all finished before the paper came out. He’d wanted information. I’d give it to him.

I drove back to the city and telephoned Elsie Brand, my private secretary.

“Hi, Elsie. Bertha in?”

“Yes.”

“Restless?”

“Somewhat.”

“Belligerent?”

“No.”

“Did you see a client we had yesterday, a man by the name of Ansel?”

“No.”

“He called yesterday afternoon about three o’clock. He’s to be back at the same time today. Now get this: At exactly a quarter to three I’ll be over at the bar across the street. The bartender knows me. Give me a ring there the minute this fellow comes in. Don’t tell Bertha that you’ve been in touch with me or that you know anything at all about me. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I hung up and went to the public library.

There is a master index published, giving the names of all authors who have appeared during each year in any of the major periodicals published in the United States.

Thirty minutes after I arrived at the library I knew that our client John Dittmar Ansel had never had anything published in any of the first-string magazines in the United States, either under the name of John Ansel or the name of John Dittmar. I also knew that he had never published any book either of fiction or nonfiction.

I had a friend in the morgue of one of the Los Angeles papers. I went there and got the envelope containing clippings dealing with the murder of Karl Carver Endicott. The Los Angeles papers had given it a pretty good play, setting forth the facts as well as they were known, which wasn’t too well.

I got to the bar in time to watch a couple of innings in a baseball game before Elsie’s call came through letting me know that Ansel was at the office and that Bertha had been tearing her hair trying to locate me. I waited until one more batter had fanned out.