Cut Thin to Win

Chapter 1

The sign on the frosted glass of the door read:

I opened the door, walked in, nodded to the receptionist and crossed over to the door marked: DONALD LAM, Private.

Elsie Brand, my secretary, said, “Did you notice the man who’s waiting in the outer office?”

“Not particularly. Why?”

“He wants to see you.”

“What about?”

“Something that is so highly confidential he won’t discuss it with anyone except you.”

“What’s his name?”

She handed me a card. The ink embossing had been piled on so thick a blind man could have read it with the tips of his fingers.

The card read, DAWSON RE-DEBENTURE DISCOUNT SECURITY COMPANY. Down in the left hand corner were the words, Clayton Dawson, Assistant to the President.

The address of the company was Denver, Colorado.

“All right,” I said to Elsie, “let’s see him.”

Elsie buzzed the receptionist and said, “Mr. Lam is in now. Have Mr. Dawson come in.”

A few moments later the receptionist opened the door for Dawson.

He was medium height, around fifty, wearing clothes that were quiet and subdued in pattern but of a quality which made them stand out. There was a rich luster about the cloth.

He looked around the office and let his eyes focus on me the second time around.

“Mr. Lam?”

There was just a touch of incredulity in his voice.

“Yes,” I said.

He didn’t sit down. He looked at Elsie Brand, then he looked at me, then he shook his head and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but it’s better to do it now than later. I’m afraid you just won’t do.”

“Get someone who will do then.”

“I had expected a much bigger man.”

“You want an investigator?”

“Yes.”

“What did you want him to do, play pro football or investigate?”

“I... well, I understand that in your profession you have to face certain odds, odds which sometimes require a degree of physical proficiency.

“I have no doubt that you’re very skillful and highly competent but, for the type of job I have in mind— What about your partner?

“Is Mr. Cool more... more beefy?”

I said, “For your information, B. Cool is a bit more beefy.”

His face lit up.

“The ‘B’,” I said, “stands for ‘Bertha.’ B. Cool is a woman.”

Dawson sat down suddenly, as though his knees had given away. “Oh, my God!” he said.

I said, “You’ve probably been reading novels where the private investigator is trapped in a washroom with two torpedoes bearing down on him with knives. He grabs the wrist of the first torpedo, twists the knife out of his hand with such a jerk that it flies to the ceiling and sticks there. At the same time, he kicks the other assailant in the stomach.

“Then crashing his knuckles into the face of the first man, he can feel the crunching of bone as a nose flattens under the blow, and has the satisfaction of seeing blood spatter like drops from the nozzle of a garden hose.

“The man staggers backward for two steps, then crashes through a swinging door and comes to a sitting position.

“That gives our hero an idea. He lifts the other unconscious man from the floor and seats him in another stall.

“The door swings shut. The detective washes his hands under the warm water faucet and is drying them under an air dryer when the door of the rest room bursts open and two police come in and stare about them as our hero pauses in front of the mirror to adjust his tie.

“ ‘Any trouble in here?’ one of the cops asks.

“Our hero raises his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Trouble?’ he asks. ‘Not for me—’ ”

“You don’t need to go on,” Dawson said.

“I can,” I told him. “Indefinitely.”

“You’ve evidently been reading that stuff yourself.”

“Why not? If you can put yourself in the position of the hero, it’s fun to live in that sort of a world.”

“But you couldn’t do it in reality,” he said.

“Neither could you,” I told him. “Bertha Cool is the only one I know who might.”

He looked me over thoughtfully. “The deuce of it is your firm has one hell of a reputation. I personally know of two very difficult jobs you’ve handled.”

“Muscle jobs?” I asked.

He hesitated, then said, “Brain jobs, I guess. What sort of a woman is this Mrs. Cool?”

“You’d better look her over,” I said.

“There’s a woman involved in this case,” he told me.

“There usually is.”

“It might be... it just might be that, in a matter of this kind, your Bertha Cool could do a job.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“The girl is young, wayward, obstinate, independent, impudent and ungrateful.”

“In other words,” I said, “she’s a thoroughly normal, modern young woman. Is she, by any chance, your sweetheart, or rather, was she before the serpent entered the Garden of Eden?”

He said with dignity, “She is my daughter.”

“I see,” I told him. “Perhaps you’d like to talk with Mrs. Cool?”

“I think it would be advantageous to have her in on the conversation.”

I nodded to Elsie Brand.

Elsie put through a call on Bertha Cool’s line and, moment later, I heard the rasping sound of Bertha Cool’s voice.

Elsie explained the situation briefly.

She hung up the phone and said, “Mrs. Cool will be right in.”

A few moments later the door opened, and Bertha Cool entered the room.

Bertha was built like an old-fashioned freight locomotive. She had short legs, a big torso, diamond-hard glittering eyes, and as she came barging into the office it was quite evident that she wasn’t in her most amiable mood. She always liked to rely on the prerogative of her sixty-odd years and be the senior partner. She would have preferred to have Dawson brought in to her office with a proper fanfare.

“Mrs. Cool,” I said with my best company manners, “may I present Mr. Dawson, assistant to the president of the Dawson Re-Debenture Discount Security Company.”

Dawson jumped to his feet.

Bertha’s glittering eyes looked him over. “How do you do, Mister Dawson,” she said.

Dawson bowed. “It is a distinct pleasure, an honor,” he declared.

Bertha Cool turned to me. “Business or social?”

“Business,” I told her. “Mr. Dawson wants to talk with us about a case. He feels there may be some trouble connected with it which I can’t handle.”

“What sort of trouble?” Bertha asked.

“Violence,” I said.

“No, just a minute, just a minute,” Dawson interposed. “I didn’t exactly say it in that way.”

“You intimated it,” I countered.

He started explaining to Bertha. “I merely suggested,” he said, “that is was my understanding that private investigators had to be a little broader, a little heavier and a little older than your partner; that, at times, they encountered violence.”

“We get by,” Bertha said.

“I daresay you do.”

“There’s a woman in the deal,” I said to Bertha, “and Mr. Dawson thought that might complicate the situation somewhat.”

“It always complicates any situation,” Bertha said.

She heaved herself into a chair. Diamonds scintillated as she moved her hands. She saw to it that they did. Her eyes glittered as she surveyed Dawson.

“Want to tell us about it?” she asked.

“It is,” he said, “a matter which will involve the utmost delicacy of approach.”

“We’ve never had one that didn’t,” Bertha told him.

“It’s a family matter.”

I handed Bertha the embossed card.

Bertha rubbed a speculative thumbnail over the embossing, said abruptly to Dawson, “You’re assistant to the president?”

“That’s right.”

“Your name’s Dawson?”

“Yes. Clayton Dawson.”

“But the name is the Dawson Re-Debenture Discount Security Company. How come you have the same name?”

He said, “It was founded by my father.”

“Your father’s no longer alive?”

“He’s retired. He’s chairman of the board.”

“Then how come you’re not the president?”

“I see no reason to discuss my personal family affairs, Mrs. Cool,” Dawson said with dignity, “but it happens that my older brother is president.”

“I see,” Bertha said. “All right, what’s the pitch?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What’s this all about? What do you want us to do?”

Dawson looked from Bertha to me, then looked back to Bertha.

“I have a daughter,” he said.

Bertha sat silent.

“She is twenty-three. She is undisciplined, ungrateful, and I am afraid, if judged by strictly old-fashioned standards, immoral.”

“People don’t judge women by strictly old-fashioned standards these days,” Bertha said. “They’ve gone out of style. What’s the specific problem?”

“When it became apparent that she was not going to be amenable to discipline and seemed intent on disgracing the family name, I terminated all financial contributions. In other words, I made it plain to her that if she was going to ignore my wishes and no longer consider me as her mentor, I would no longer be financially responsible in any way.”

“And what did she do?”

“She walked out.”

“This scene took place in Denver, Colorado?” I asked.

His eyes shifted to me, looked down at his feet for a moment, then raised back to mine.

“Yes.”

“Go on,” I told him.

“My daughter,” he said, “left home. She came to Los Angeles. She got all tangled up with a man. I do not approve of the alliance. I do not approve of the man.”

“You’ve met him?”

“Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Sidney Eldon.”

“What’s your daughter’s name?”

“Phyllis. P-h-y-l-l-i-s.”

“You seem to have kept up with your daughter.”

“She has written me occasionally.”

“How long since she left?”

“About two months.”

“Why do you come to us?”

He fidgeted around slightly, shifting his position two or three times in the chair.

“Quit stalling,” I told him. “Something is bringing all this to a head. What’s your problem?”

He said, “I don’t know whether you people can help me.”

“Neither do I,” I told him.

He glanced at me sharply.

Bertha said, “What Donald means is that hiring a firm of private investigators makes rather an expensive way to solve a romantic problem.”

“Money,” Dawson said, snapping his fingers, “is nothing.”

Bertha’s face softened. “I see,” she cooed. “It’s a matter of principle with you.”

“Exactly,” he said. “That and the family name.”

“What about the family name?” I asked.

He said, “Anything that I tell you is confidential?”

“Yes.”

“As private detectives, are you licensed?”

“Yes.”

“If you should cover up evidence of a crime, you would lose that license?”

“That’s right.”

“Therefore, you can’t take employment which would cause you to lose your license.”

“You’re doing the talking,” I said, as Bertha hesitated.

“Therefore,” he said, “if I should be entirely frank with you, you couldn’t accept the employment and you couldn’t protect me, and on the other hand, if you are going to protect me in the way I want, I can’t be entirely frank with you.”

“Deals of that sort,” I warned, “are apt to run into a hell of a lot of money.”

Bertha beamed at me.

Dawson bent down, opened his brief case and took out an envelope. From the envelope he extracted a small, torn fragment of cloth. He handed the torn fragment of cloth to Bertha.

Bertha’s diamonds glittered as she turned the cloth over in her fingers. “What’s this?” she asked.

“I have to express this very carefully so that I will not put you in a precarious position and so I will not put myself in a dangerous position,” Dawson said. “It is possible someone might claim that piece of cloth could have been found adhering to an automobile which my daughter was falsely accused of driving on the fifth of this month, at a time when she was more or less under the influence of liquor.”

Bertha said, “You mean that—”

“Shut up. Bertha,” I said.

Bertha glowered at me.

I said, “Dawson has expressed himself in unmistakable language. This situation requires very careful consideration and we mustn’t say anything which would put our client in a precarious position.”

Dawson nodded emphatically.

The idea began to soak into Bertha’s mind. She let her eyes shift from one to the other of us.

“We can’t cut corners, Donald,” she warned.

“Certainly not,” I told her. “So far, no one has shown us any corners which could be cut. I take it, Mr. Dawson, that you’re not prepared to tell us who discovered this piece of cloth or what significance it has?”

Dawson said piously, “I don’t know that it has any significance. That is why I am coming to you. I would like to have you find out what significance, if any, that cloth does have.”

“And if it should have some significance, what do you want to do?”

“Take it from there in the best way possible,” he said.

“You have regard for your family’s good name but no particular affection for your daughter, is that right?” Bertha asked.

“That is not right. I love my daughter very much but I have worn out my patience. I am now afraid she has placed me in such a position that I cannot show my love... at least, openly. Anything that is done would have to be done under cover and behind the scenes, so to speak, very much under cover.”

“Your daughter’s living here?”

“Yes.”

“As Phyllis Dawson?”

“No, as Phyllis Eldon. She is living with this man, Sidney Eldon.”

“Where?”

“The Parkridge Apartments.”

“What does Sidney Eldon do? How does he get by?”

“I am afraid he is, at least at present, getting by on my daughter’s money.”

“She has some money?”

“She took some money with her, when she left — and I don’t want you trying to check on that in any way because, if you did, it would attract attention, and right at the moment I don’t want to attract attention.”

“Just what do you want?” I asked.

“I want matters handled swiftly, efficiently and quietly. If that fragment of cloth has any significance, I want the situation handled so there are no embarrassing repercussions.”

“Put the cloth back in your brief case,” I told him.

“But I wanted you to see it.”

“We’ve seen it.”

“But you may need it so you can be sure—”

“We don’t want to be sure,” I told him. “If we’re going to help you, or help your daughter, we can’t afford to be sure of anything. You should understand the implications.”

Slowly, he put the cloth back in the envelope, the envelope back in the brief case.

“Now then,” I said, “if you want us to represent you, we don’t want to know anything more. We’ll get the facts from our own investigation. You want to find out what you daughter’s been doing, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, I suspect that she’s—”

“We don’t want suspicions,” I broke in. “All we want to know is that you want us to find out about your daughter. We’ll investigate in our own way.”

“I see,” he said. There was a note of relief in his voice.

“That,” Bertha said swiftly, “is going to cost you a hundred dollars a day and expenses with no guarantee on results.”

“Plus a retainer,” I added quickly, “of five hundred dollars, payable in advance.”

“As I told you,” he said “money is no object.”

Bertha said, “Now, if it should appear that—”

“I think your partner understands the situation, Mrs. Cool,” Dawson interposed quickly.

Dawson turned to me. “I beg your pardon for doubting your competency, Mr. Lam. You have a very quick alert mind.”

He took a billfold from his pocket, took out a stack of one-hundred dollar bills. “Here,” he said, “is a retainer of five hundred dollars, three hundred dollars for expenses, and pay in advance for seven days of investigative work. When the matter is concluded you can send me a telegram, care of the company in Denver, Colorado, or write me a letter. Be sure to mark either the letter or the telegram personal.”

“I’ll have the bookkeeper make a receipt,” Bertha Cool said.

“Good heavens, no,” Dawson exclaimed. He once more turned to me. “I think you understand the situation, Mr. Lam.”

He shot his left arm out so that he could look at his wristwatch, made clucking noises with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, said, “I am running farther behind schedule than I thought. I must leave. Goodbye.”

He virtually ran out of the office.

Bertha turned to me and said, “Well, you were so goddam smart, I hope you know what it is all about.”

“I think I do,” I said.

“Well, I’m your partner,” she reminded me.

“I think our friend, Mr. Clayton Dawson, is in a jam,” I said, “and he expects us to get him out.”

“He’s in a jam?” Bertha asked.

“Yes.”

“He said it was his daughter.”

“I heard what he said.”

“You don’t think that it is his daughter?” she asked, puzzled.

“Let’s put it this way,” I said, “I don’t think she is his daughter.”

“Then who is she?”

“His witness.”

“But she’s Eldon’s mistress.”

“So he said.”

“Then who the devil is this Sidney Eldon?” Bertha asked.

“He could be our client,” I said. “Clayton Dawson to you.”

Bertha jumped as though her chair had been wired. “We can’t take on a case of that sort,” she said.

“What sort?”

“The kind your intimating.”

“I haven’t intimated anything about the case,” I said, “only about the client.”

Bertha shook her head.

I said to Elsie, “Take this money out to the bookkeeper. Tell her to deposit it and credit Clayton Dawson of Denver.”

Bertha’s greedy eyes focused on the pile of money. “Fry me for an oyster,” she said. She heaved herself up out of the chair. “It’s your baby,” she announced, “and you can change the diapers.”

She waddled out of the office.