Traps Need Fresh Bait

Chapter 1

It was about three-thirty in the afternoon — the time when lunch counters begin to fill up with persons playing hooky from the business offices in nearby skyscrapers, persons who are looking for an afternoon coffee break with perhaps a piece of pie a la mode, or a sandwich for those who have weight problems.

Having no weight problem, I was craving sweets and was about to ask Elsie Brand, my secretary, to go out and join me in an ice cream when I saw a peculiar red flickering light on the frosted-glass panel of my private office.

The knob turned.

Someone on the other side kicked the door open, and then I saw what had made the peculiar lights — a circular cake studded with burning candles.

Elsie Brand was in the lead carrying the cake. Directly behind her was big Bertha Cool, the senior partner in our private detective business — a hundred and sixty-five pounds of rough, tough, profane efficiency.

Behind Bertha was the receptionist, and behind her was the stenographer who did the general typing and acted as Bertha Cool’s secretary.

As the door swung open, they raised their voices: “Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday, Dear Donald! Happy Birthday to you!”

Elsie Brand set the cake on my desk, looked at me significantly and said, “Make a wish and try to blow out all the candles.”

I took a deep lungful of air and blew out all the candles except one.

“You didn’t make it,” said Elsie, and her voice was filled with disappointment as if she had been making the wish.

“Fry me for an oyster,” Bertha said; “the bastard isn’t going to get his wish. That’ll be the first time.”

The receptionist, a tall romantic gal in her late twenties, laughed musically.

The typist produced a percolator of hot coffee and paper cups. Elsie brought out a knife and said, “I baked it myself, Donald. It’s the kind you like.”

I pulled out the candles, stacked them neatly in an ash tray, and started cutting the cake.

A masculine voice from the doorway said, “So, this is where everyone is!”

We all turned.

The man in the door was trying to be affable. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, slim-waisted individual with a bronzed face. He looked too much like a Texan to be one. There were wind-puckered crow’s-feet around his eyes. He had a rather prominent nose and deep calipers running to the corners of his mouth.

Here was a man who could be hard to get along with when he was peeved.

“I seem to have hit the office at the time of a coffee break,” he said. “Pardon me.”

“A birthday party,” I explained. “It’s my birthday and they’re surprising me.”

“Oh,” he said.

Bertha hated to let a nickel slip through her greedy fingers, but she wasn’t going to be dominated by any broad-shouldered Texan.

“They come once a year,” she said; and then added, “Got any objections?”

“None whatever,” the man said. “My sole comment is that I’d like to be included in the party. I could use a piece of that cake and perhaps talk business at the same time.”

“Well, we haven’t got enough chairs in here,” Bertha said. “It’s going to be a stand-up party. How do you want your coffee — black or with cream and sugar?”

“Cream and sugar,” he said.

Bertha looked him over and grunted as she appraised his flat stomach.

Bertha had the figure of a roll of barbed wire, and she alternated between times when she was determined to start taking off weight and times when she said, “To hell with it. What’s the use?”

I cut the cake.

The office party was strangely subdued now that a stranger had intruded.

I gave the uninvited guest the first piece of cake. He gallantly tendered it to Bertha Cool, who latched onto it, picked up a fork from the table and took a big bite.

“Where’d you get the forks, Elsie?” Bertha asked.

“I got the equipment from the restaurant downstairs”

“Good cake,” Bertha said, then turned to the man. “What’s your name?”

“Barney Adams,” he said. “I can’t produce a card while I’m holding a plate of cake, but after I finish I’ll show you that I’m a vice-president in charge of investigations of the Continental Divide Insurance Indemnity Company in New Mexico.”

“What’s the idea?” Bertha Cool asked.

“What idea?”

“Having an insurance company in New Mexico?”

“Because it’s a fine central location for lots of business,” Adams said. “We don’t cater to the city rich. We want the rural business, and we have quite an outfit at the home office — relatively low land value, lots of room for expansion, unlimited parking space, the advantages of living in a city with a small population — a rural background, if you get it.”

Bertha looked him over again and said, “I get it.”

Elsie was disappointed, not only because I didn’t get my wish, but because the stranger had butted in on the party — something that had been intended to be an intimate little inter-office gathering.

And anybody could tell from the way Bertha was planting her feet that she was getting ready to talk business.

Bertha took a new forkful of cake, chewed it appreciatively, washed it down with coffee, let her diamond-hard eyes sweep over Adams in another glittering appraisal, and said, “What’s on your mind?”

“Business,” Adams said.

“This is a business office,” Bertha told him.

Adams smiled.

“Except when Donald has a birthday,” Bertha said, “and the girls get the idea they’re going to celebrate. Nobody gives a damn about my birthday.”

There was a silence for a minute, then Elsie Brand said, “No one knows just when it is, Mrs. Cool.”

“You’re damn right they don’t,” Bertha said shortly.

Adams said, “I take it that you are Mrs. Bertha Cool, the senior partner of the firm, and that this is Donald Lam, the junior partner?”

“Right,” Bertha said.

“I have looked you up rather extensively,” Adams said.

Bertha merely grunted.

“A rather unlikely combination, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Adams went on. “But you have the reputation of accomplishing remarkable results in cases which have been exceedingly difficult.”

Bertha started to say something, changed her mind and took another mouthful of cake.

“I have a matter of the greatest importance — one which will require very delicate handling and one which is quite unorthodox,” Adams said.

“Uh-huh,” Bertha said in a voice muffled by the cake. “All our business is like that.”

“I would like to discuss the matter in detail and inquire into the amount of compensation which you would require to handle the matter.”

Bertha took some coffee and got rid of the mouthful of cake.

“Out that door and into the general reception room,” she said, “then turn to the right, go down to the door marked ‘B. Cool, Private’, go in and sit down. I’ll be in in a minute and we’ll talk money.”

“Can’t we do it here and now?” Adams asked.

“Hell, no,” Bertha said. “When I talk money, I want to be sitting in my own chair in my own office.”

“I take it you make the financial arrangements?” Adams asked.

“That’s right,” Bertha said, “either alone or with Donald. Right now, Donald’s celebrating, so we can do it alone. I prefer it that way, too.”

Bertha scraped the last of the frosting off her plate, put the plate on my desk, said, “Nice cake, Elsie,” turned to Adams, and said, “Come on. Bring your cake and coffee if you want.”

Bertha barged out of the office like a battleship plowing into heavy seas.

Adams hesitated a moment, then put his plate with part of the cake still on it on the desk and tagged along behind.

Elsie Brand said to me, “Oh, I’m glad they’ve left! What was your wish, Donald?”

I shook my head. “Personal and private.”

She said, “Maybe it will work out all right after all.”

The receptionist said, “I’ve got to get back to the telephone.” She walked to the door of the outer office, held the door open and said, “Coming, Hortense?”

The typist said, “I was thinking about seconds.”

“Don’t,” the receptionist warned. “Seconds are never as good as firsts.” She held the door open.

The two girls went out. Elsie Brand said, “Congratulations, Donald!”

“On what?”

“Your birthday, silly!”

I smiled at her. “And thanks for the cake,” I said.

She came close to me, looked up in my eyes, said, “Many happy returns,” and kissed me. “You can make seconds on wishes, Donald,” she said.

“Sounds like a good idea,” I told her.

Elsie, standing close, said, “I should have asked Bertha to let me lock up the office while we were having the cake.”

I grinned.

“Yes, I know,” she said. “Bertha and money are inseparable.”

She was still standing close to me. Again she raised her lips to mine. The telephone rang sharply.

Elsie broke away after the second ring, picked up the phone, said, “Yes?” And the receptionist at the switchboard said in a voice that the instrument made audible for a radius of some feet, “Bertha wants Donald right away.”

“Oh, Donald,” Elsie said, grabbing a cleansing tissue and wiping my mouth. “Oh, Donald... Damn that man Adams anyway.”

I put my arm around her shoulders, drew her to me, held my cheek against hers for a minute, patted her shoulder and went into Bertha’s office, leaving it to Elsie to clean up the plates and get the forks back to the restaurant.

Bertha said, “Sit down, Donald. Mr. Adams says he has quite a story. There’s no use having him tell it twice. When he gets through, we’ll see if we can handle the case.”

She turned to Adams and said, “Now, this starts with the ad in the personal columns of the paper?”

“Well, actually,” Adams said, “It goes back a little before that. We had a similar situation in Portland, Oregon.”

“What were you doing writing policies in Portland, Oregon?” Bertha asked.

He laughed and shook his head. “The same situation which exists here, Mrs. Cool. The policy was written in New Mexico but the insured traveled by automobile to Oregon and had an accident.”

“This present case has to do with the insurance carrier on a Cadillac which was involved in the accident referred to in the ad.”

“I see,” Bertha said somewhat noncommittally.

“I don’t,” I told him.

Adams took a newspaper clipping from his pocket and handed it to me. “Read it aloud,” he said. “The part that’s circled with red pencil.”

I read the ad: “THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD for information leading to witnesses who can testify Ford Galaxie ignored stop signal at Gilton and Crenshaw and hit gray Cadillac about ten P.M., April 15. Address: Box 685 this office.”

“Three hundred dollars,” I said. “Some reward!”

“Can’t they get witnesses easier than that?” Bertha Cool asked.

“Not the kind of witnesses they want,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Bertha asked.

“Notice the wording,” I said. “Reward is to be paid only for witnesses who can testify that the Ford Galaxie ignored the stop light and ran into the Cadillac.”

“Well, if that’s what happened, what’s wrong with it?” Bertha asked.

“Suppose that isn’t what happened,” I said. “Suppose it was the other way around. Suppose the Ford had the green light and the Cadillac ran through a stop light. And notice this ad is put in the section for ‘Help Wanted’.”

Bertha blinked her eyes and said, “Fry me for an oyster!”

Adams said, “Exactly. This is, in our opinion, an attempt to get witnesses to commit perjury.

“Now heaven knows how widespread this situation is, but, as I mentioned, we ran into a similar situation in Portland, Oregon.”

“I take it,” I said, “that you’re representing the man with the Ford Galaxie, that he’s your insured, and naturally you don’t want to see him framed so that...”

“No,” he interrupted, “strange as it may seem, we’re the insurance carrier on the gray Cadillac.”

“And you don’t have any idea who’s doing this?”

“No.”

“If three witnesses show up,” I said, “that would be nine hundred dollars somebody would be paying out. Two witnesses would be six hundred, one witness would be three hundred. Even if there’s only one witness, it’s a pretty good chunk of dough.”

“Right,” Adams said tersely.

“So if he can’t get it out of the insurance company,” I said, “how would the person who represents this mysterious ‘Box Six eighty-five’ get his money back once he had paid it out?”

Adams shrugged his shoulders.

“What about the case in Portland, Oregon?” I asked.

“That was settled.”

“Did the ad bring in any results?”

“We don’t know.”

“And there again the ad was asking for witnesses favorable to you?” I asked.

“No, in that instance the ad asked for witnesses who would be willing to testify on the other side of the case.

“We had some affidavits. Our investigator talked with some witnesses and we decided to settle. It wasn’t until afterward that someone dug up an old newspaper containing this want ad and sent it to us, asking if we were interested. By that time, it was too late to do anything.”

“But you might have been influenced in making a settlement because of evidence that had been secured through this ad?”

“Right,” Adams said.

“How much was the settlement?” I asked.

“Twenty-two thousand five hundred.”

“Pickle me for a beet!” Bertha said half under her breath.

Adams said, “Quite naturally we are concerned about this ad. We want to find out what’s back of it. We want to find out who’s doing it. We want to find out whether it is a bona fide attempt to get evidence or whether it’s an attempt to suborn perjury.”

Bertha said, “This is in Donald’s department. He gets out on the firing line.”

“And the financial arrangements?” Adams asked, and then hurried on. “Shall we say fifty dollars a day plus expenses?”

“Well, of course,” Bertha said, “that would represent a fair per diem, and...”

“And how much cash retainer?” I asked.

Adams looked at me and grinned. “I thought Mrs. Cool made the financial arrangements.”

“She does,” I said. “That doesn’t keep me from asking questions.”

“One thousand dollars retainer,” Bertha said shortly.

“Isn’t that pretty steep?” Adams asked.

“Not on this kind of a job. If there’s any bad faith in connection with it, we’re running up against a gang of crooks and Donald will be taking chances.”

Adams looked me over thoughtfully.

“Don’t make any mistakes about him,” Bertha said hastily. “He’s no superman with the muscle, but the little bastard has it all upstairs with brains.”

Adams said, “That’s according to the reports I have had. You are considered to be a very efficient combination. However, in order to be fair, I think I should state that my experience in this business is such that I feel the assignment may prove physically dangerous.”

“Donald will squeeze in and out some way,” Bertha said.

“It may be a tight squeeze,” Adams warned.

“What are you trying to do,” Bertha asked, “run up the price?”

“I thought we had already agreed on price.”

“A thousand retainer, fifty dollars a day, and expenses?” Bertha asked.

“Right,” Adams said.

Bertha said, “Retainers are payable in advance before we even start in.”

Adams took out a billfold, smiled and said, “You mean before I leave the office?”

He gravely counted out ten one-hundred-dollar bills and said to Bertha, “Make the receipt to the Continental Divide Insurance and Indemnity Company.”

Bertha’s diamonds glistened as her greedy fingers hauled in the money, then pulled out a receipt and started scribbling.

I said, “Expenses will be vouched for, but they’re going to be high.”

“How come?”

“If this is crooked — and you have a pretty good idea it is or you wouldn’t be spending this much money — these people will be suspicious. They’ll check on every answer they get. I’ll have to have a complete secondary identity, place of residence, automobile — everything.”

He said, “Keep the expenses down as much as you can. Get a good secondhand automobile at a bargain price and then you can sell it when you get done with the case, so that we won’t be out too much for the car.”

“Does the ‘we’ mean what I think it means?” I asked.

“What’s that?”

“That several insurances have got together on this thing and picked your company to make the contact because it was a smaller company and apparently could drive a better bargain?”

He said with dignity, “You had better take it that the ‘we’ was simply an editorial plural. Your worry will be in doing a good job, not in trying to read my mind.”

Adams took his receipt from Bertha Cool — didn’t even bother to glance at it but folded it and pushed it in his pocket.

“I’d like to have prompt action. It’s something that has to be handled right now,” he said.

I nodded.

Adams bowed, smiled to Bertha Cool and started for the door.

“Where do I send reports?” I asked.

“You keep in touch with Mrs. Cool, and I’ll keep in touch with her,” Adams said, and stalked out.

Bertha held her stubby forefinger to her lips until we heard the outer door close; then the smile broadened all over Bertha’s face.

“Now, Donald,” she said, “this is the kind of business that gives an agency that aura of respectability which is so hard to come by yet means so much in terms of prestige.”

I didn’t say anything.

Bertha went on. “So many of the cases that you take turn out to be assignments where you get mixed up with the lower element — the criminal class. Now here’s a case where we’re dealing with a man of eminent respectability.”

I feigned surprise. “You mean you’ve looked him up already?”

The smile came off Bertha’s face. “He radiates respectability,” she snapped.

“What department is he in?” I asked. “The claims department, the legal department, or...?”

“He didn’t say.”

“What does his card say?”

Bertha opened a drawer and took out a card that was embossed with brilliant blue ink.

“It simply gives the name of the insurance company, and down in the left-hand corner it says ‘Barney Adams’.”

“What’s the home address of the insurance company?” I asked.

“Hachita, New Mexico,” Bertha said. “That’s a nice name, isn’t it?”

“It’s a nice name.”

Bertha said, “You get the impression of a big company located out there in the open spaces, where there’s lots of fresh air, lots of room for parking. I suppose a lot of their business is done by mail.”

“It would have to be,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Have you ever been to New Mexico?”

“Yes, lots of times.”

“Ever been to Hachita?”

“No, I don’t believe I have. But I know generally where it is.”

“Where?”

“Down around Lordsburg somewhere.”

“I’ve been there,” I told her.

I walked over to the wall, took down the big atlas we had, opened it, looked up Hachita.

I grinned at Bertha Cool. “Hachita, New Mexico,” I said, “is given a population of one hundred and forty-two.”

Bertha was bound to have the last word. Her jaw stuck out belligerently. “That’s an old atlas,” she said.

“So it is,” I told her. “Let’s make it a hundred and forty-three.”

Her face darkened.

“Even if it’s doubled in population,” I went on, “it’s only two hundred and eighty-four.”

“Well, it’s an expensive card!” Bertha snapped.

“Exactly,” I said.

“What do you mean by that crack?” she asked.

“That it couldn’t have been printed in Hachita,” I said, and walked out.