Traps Need Fresh Bait

Chapter 10

When Bertha Cool once got away from the office she loved to lounge around her apartment, wearing pajamas, slippers and a silk robe, listening to classical music on a hi-fi.

It was always difficult for me to reconcile this picture of Bertha with her attitude in the office when she was encased in a girdle, sitting erect in a creaky swivel chair, her eyes as hard as the diamonds on her fingers, trying to squeeze every last cent of profit out of everything she touched.

I knew that Bertha hated to be disturbed by business affairs after she had left the office, but we were in a jam and there was no other way out.

I called her on her unlisted telephone.

When she answered I could hear the dreamy strains of Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony.

“Donald talking, Bertha,” I said.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Working.”

“What do you want?”

“I have to see you.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Now.”

“All right, come ahead if you have to.”

“It’s that important,” I told her.

“It had better be,” she said, and hung up.

I drove around to Bertha’s apartment, a place devoted to sheer physical luxury — heavy drapes; subdued, indirect lighting; soft reclining chairs; and the smell of incense.

Bertha greeted me at the door with her finger on her lips, said in a subdued voice, “Come in and sit down and don’t talk until this number is finished.”

Bertha melted her figure into a reclining chair, settled back, closed her eyes, and waited with a beatific smile on her face, soaking up the music as a tired golfer might soak up the luxury of a hot bath.

When the record was finished, Bertha pressed a button, the hi-fi clicked off, and Bertha glared at me with beady-eyed hostility.

“I hate to be interrupted at night with matters of business, Donald.”

“I know.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to dissolve the partnership.”

“What?” she asked, the words rasping out of her throat as she started to struggle to an upright posture.

“I want to dissolve the partnership.”

“What have I done now? God knows I’ve put up with your shenanigans... you should...”

“It isn’t what you’ve done,” I told her, “it’s what I’ve done.”

“What have you done?”

“I’ve got in a jam where I’m going to lose my license, and there’s no need for both of us losing it.”

“You sound as if you’ve been talking with Frank Sellers.”

“He’s been talking with me.”

“I see,” Bertha said; and then added after a moment, “There is a difference.”

I said, “It’s this damned automobile-ad case. There’s something in there that’s mighty fishy.

“I went to a lot of trouble and quite a bit of expense building up an identity for myself and then called on this number in the Monadnock Building. A girl by the name of Katherine Elliott is running one of these fly-by-night offices where you can rent an office for an hour or probably for fifteen minutes.

“A man by the name of Harper interviewed me. I did a good job of it, letting him know that I’d be available for a perjured affidavit if he’d kick through with three hundred bucks.

“I thought I had the sale made, but there was another person who had answered the ad — a girl named Daphne Creston. And as soon as I saw her I knew that I might have trouble because she was just exactly what they were looking for — a green kid, naive, and down on her luck.

“So I decided to have a second string to my bow. I made it a point to get acquainted with Daphne.

“Sure enough, they passed me up in favor of Daphne and gave me the old brush-off.

“So I started working through Daphne and found out that Rodney Harper was actually a man named Walter Lucas — of the very prominent contracting firm of Lathrop, Lucas and Manly.

“In the meantime, our client, Barney Adams, has some kind of an in with Katherine Elliott. I imagine that he’s bribed her to tell him all she knows.

“He found out through her that I had been given the brush-off, and that made him mad. After all, he’d put up quite a little dough to get a line on the situation through me, and he didn’t want to kiss that money goodbye.”

“It wasn’t our fault,” Bertha said, “if another sucker showed up. What the hell did the guy expect — infallibility?”

“That’s exactly what he expected,” I told her. “Infallibility.”

“Well, you’re sitting pretty if you’ve got a line on this Daphne Creston — and, knowing you as I do, I have a hunch that if this babe is naive and impressionable she’s looking up at your infinite wisdom with starry-eyed worship.”

“I’ve kept in touch with her,” I admitted.

“Where is she now?” Bertha asked.

“In an apartment I rented as a hide-out.”

“Under what name?”

“My own, fortunately.”

“Why fortunately?”

“Because,” I said, “this whole thing is mixed up in a murder case in some way, and the reason they wanted a patsy was to deal with Dale Finchley.

“They took Daphne Creston out to Finchley’s house. They told her to go in and pick up a brief case, Daphne went in. Finchley was getting murdered at just about the time Daphne went in. The man she knew as Rodney Harper got wise, high-tailed it out of there, and left her to face the music. But she was smart enough to get out of the house, avoid the police, and get back to me. But the police know some woman was in the house, and this Katherine Elliott is shooting off her big mouth, trying to get even with me because I went to the Better Business Bureau to check on her operations. So, all in all, it’s a sweet mess.”

Bertha closed her eyes for a little while, thinking; then she said, “What the hell, Donald! A big contracting firm wouldn’t lay themselves wide open, spend three hundred bucks, and go to all this rigmarole simply in order to get a patsy.”

“They would, and they did,” I said. “That means it had to be something big. They thought that they might be walking into a trap. So they’d send somebody into that trap who was willing to commit downright perjury for three hundred bucks. There was, of course, big money at stake in this contracting deal.”

“How much money?”

I said, “The brief case Daphne picked up contained forty thousand bucks.”

“Fry me for an oyster!” Bertha said.

“Exactly,” I said, “and it may have been the wrong brief case at that.”

Bertha was silent for a while. Then she asked, “What does Sergeant Sellers know about this babe?”

“Not too much,” I said. “He knows that she’s my client. He knows that I was somewhere near the Finchley house at the time Finchley was getting murdered.”

“What the hell were you doing down there then?”

“Following the car that had Daphne Creston in it.”

“You got yourself in a sweet mess,” Bertha said.

“That’s why I’m here.”

“I’m surprised Sellers didn’t take you down to headquarters and shake you down.”

“He would have, if it hadn’t been for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Daphne Creston’s husband — a husband by a bigamous marriage, incidentally — who won the Irish Sweepstakes and got his picture in the paper.

“I knew that Frank Sellers would be trailing me to find out where Daphne Creston fitted into the picture. I went out and put the bite on Daphne’s husband just for the sake of building up an alibi. I thought that he might try beating up on me, but I came just as close to blackmail as I dared; and then Sergeant Sellers showed up and the husband thought I had police backing, so he caved in and that’s that.”

“How much did you nick him for?” Bertha asked.

“Five grand.”

“You little bastard!” Bertha said admiringly.

“But,” I said, “this thing is all mixed up. This Katherine Elliott is running a fly-by-night office, and the Better Business Bureau doesn’t like her, and Barney Adams has been trying to bribe her, probably with some success, so he could find out what the ad is is all about and...”

“What’s Adams’ hookup?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I told her, “and I wish I did. This business of his representing a combination of insurance companies is just so much baloney.”

Bertha was silent again, and then said, “This Daphne Creston — is she good-looking?”

“Tops.”

“I should have known,” Bertha commented. “Why do I always ask such goddamned foolish questions?”

“I’d have co-operated in any event,” I said. “She had to be the second string to my bow.”

“She wasn’t a string to your bow,” Bertha said. “She was a beau on your string! God Almighty, I’m getting crude. That’s a hell of a way to make a pun.”

“She’s a good kid, Bertha,” I said.

“What else have you done for her?”

“I collected three hundred bucks for her.”

“Cash?”

“Cash.”

“What about the five grand?”

“A check.”

“Payable to us or to Daphne?”

“To Daphne. In full of account.”

“Daphne know anything about this?”

“No, and I don’t dare to tell her.”

“Why not?”

“I think they’re shadowing me. I’m hotter than a stove lid.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Get yourself in the clear, Bertha. We’ll dissolve the partnership as of now. We’ll make a written declaration and date it, and we’ll call in a witness and you can show it to Sergeant Sellers...”

“Don’t be silly,” Bertha said. “I’m a cantankerous old bitch, but I don’t leave a partner on a sinking ship. The hell with that stuff.”

“This,” I said, “could be serious. Usually I can see a way out, but this time I can’t see a way out. And this Katherine Elliott is trying to do everything she can to get me in trouble on the theory that if I’m in enough trouble I can’t make trouble for her.”

Bertha’s jaw pushed forward a little. “All right,” she said, “we’ll take care of this Katherine Elliott.”

“It isn’t going to be that simple,” I said.

“Everything is simple,” Bertha said, “when one woman deals face to face with another woman. It’s when women are dealing with men that the situation becomes complicated.

“Women are creatures of intrigue. They love to set obscure causes in motion to bring about results that will take place behind the scenes. Women love to make-believe. They put on mascara, false eyelashes, bird’s-nests in their hair, falsies on front, and bustles on behind.

“They live their lives the same way. They use subtleties and accomplish what they want by indirection. When some woman who is a believer in direct methods enters the picture and strips off the falsies from these sirens they go all to pieces.

“I’ll go to this Katherine What’s-her-name and tell the bitch where she gets off, and don’t think I won’t. You happen to know her home address?”

“Yes. She’s in the Steelbuilt Apartments. I got her address from my friend Evelyn Calhoun.”

“Another woman,” Bertha said.

“Another woman.”

“Friend of yours?”

“Yes.”

“Who is she?”

“Secretary for the Better Business Bureau. She’ll cooperate with us on anything reasonable, but we’ll have to deal her in because she has been laying for the type of operation Katherine Elliott carries on. They had a run-in once before, and she told Katherine to keep her nose clean.”

Bertha said, almost musingly, “I’d better go see Katherine Elliott and give her a going over.”

“I don’t think so, Bertha,” I said. “Not yet, anyway. We’ve got to know more about what the picture is before we start rubbing too many people the wrong way.

“That’s one thing about this whole deal that bothers me: it’s big — whatever it is — and the people we’re working with so far are pawns.”

Bertha thought for a moment, then said, “This Daphne Creston — what about her?”

I said, “The poor kid has about thirty-five cents to her name.”

“And a brief case with forty thousand bucks?” Bertha asked.

“In cash,” I said.

“Who knows she has that?”

“Walter Lucas, for one, may know that she has it with her.”

“And what’s this Daphne Creston doing for living expenses?”

“I had my dummy apartment provisioned up. She’s living there. At least I hope she is. I told her not to go out under any circumstances.”

“And Sergeant Sellers knows you’ve collected five grand for her?”

I nodded.

“He’ll be watching to see what happens to that five grand,” she said.

I nodded.

“So what do you do?” Bertha asked.

“So,” I said, “I get hold of Elsie Brand. I write Daphne Creston a very impersonal letter: ‘My dear Miss Creston: It will interest you to know that we have been in touch with your former husband, so-called, and secured from him settlement in an amount of five thousand dollars.

“‘The check is payable to you in full of account. We are enclosing it herewith and suggest that, if the amount is satisfactory to you and bearing in mind that it represents a complete settlement of all financial affairs between yourself and your former husband, you cash the check and then get in touch with us for an adjustment of our fees in the matter.’”

“And how do you send that?” Bertha asked.

“Through the United States mails, special delivery, leaving a carbon copy in our files. And if Sergeant Sellers comes down with a search warrant to search our files for anything, he finds this letter and...”

“And gets the address,” Bertha said.

“And gets the address,” I told her.

“Do you want him to have that?”

“No, I can’t afford to let him have that until...”

“Until what?”

“Until the case is solved.”

“But you just said he’s going to get it.”

“That’s right. He’ll get it, but it will be probably twenty-four hours before he can get it.”

“And you mean that in that time you’ve got to have the case solved?”

“In that time I want to have the case solved.”

“What case?”

“I’m very much afraid,” I said, “it’s the murder of Dale Finchley. At least that’s mixed up in it enough so that I can’t be sure of anything until I know what happened there.”

Bertha shook her head. “You can’t do it. The police are working on that case tooth and nail. You stick your neck in there and you’ll be sucked into a vortex of activity that will bust you wide open.”

“What else can I do?” I asked.

“Sit tight,” Bertha said.

I said, “Frank Sellers is going to be at the office. He’s going to want to look for our files in the case of Daphne Creston. He’ll ask us to produce the files as evidence of good faith. We’ll tell him we can’t do it because it’s a confidential matter with a client. And he’ll then demand that we produce them on the ground that they may be evidence in a murder case.”

“All right,” Bertha said; “use that ingenuity of yours. How are we going to stop him?”

“We can’t stop him.”

“All right, then; how are we going to confuse him?”

“That isn’t what I came up here for, Bertha. I want to get you in the clear.”

“To hell with that stuff. We’re in this together. Now, use that noggin of yours to get this thing straightened out, and then get the hell out of there and let me soak up some more music.”

“Well,” I said, “we could write Daphne at General Delivery and send the letter there and then get Elsie to pick up the letter at General Delivery under the name of Daphne Creston and take the letter to Daphne at the apartment. They wouldn’t be shadowing Elsie Brand early in the morning.”

“You know the number of Elsie’s phone and, her apartment?” Bertha asked.

I nodded.

“You would,” Bertha said; and then added, “Get her on the phone. I’ll talk to her.”

“She may have a date,” I said.

“Then we’ll call her when she gets in. She’ll be at the apartment sometime tonight.”

“Presumably,” I said.

“She isn’t the type of girl who stays out all night,” Bertha said. “Not unless you’re involved. My heavens, the way that girl looks at you! She follows you with her eyes around the office... It looks like hell. Why don’t you get rid of her and get some homely, hatchet-faced... No, you wouldn’t be happy — and if you got some other girl, it would be the same way. I don’t know what the hell it is you do to women, but I guess it’s because you don’t fall all over yourself making passes at them. You just go about your business, and it’s a challenge to them.”

Bertha pointed an imperious finger. “Hand me that telephone, Donald.”

I handed her the phone and gave her Elsie Brand’s number.

Bertha called and, after a few moments, had Elsie on the line.

“Take your pencil, Elsie,” she said, “I want to dictate a letter to you. I want you take it in shorthand. You ready?”

Bertha dictated the letter to Daphne Creston.

“Now, I want you to address that to Daphne Creston — General Delivery. I want you to go to the office right now and type it, and before you get it finished Donald will be in there with five thousand bucks to put in the letter. Then he’ll tell you what else to do first thing tomorrow morning before you come to work. Got it?

“Yes, he’s all right... Yes, he’s right here... Yes, of course he’s all right... Oh, my God, hang onto the phone.”

Bertha turned to me disgustedly. “She wants to hear you say that everything’s all right,” she said.

I picked up the telephone, said, “Hello, Elsie. I’m all right.”

“Donald, I’ve been worried.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Call it a woman’s intuition, if you want, but — you are in some kind of trouble, aren’t you, Donald?”

“Forget it,” I told her. “I’m always in trouble. Go up to the office and I’ll meet you up there. We’ll get that letter out, and I’ll give you a check to put in it — also three nice new crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.”

“Isn’t that risky sending money that way through the mail?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do it, Donald? I could take it.”

“That would be even more risky. I’ll be seeing you at the office. Don’t worry, Elsie. Everything is all right.”

I hung up the telephone. Bertha shook her head. “That girl has put you up on a pedestal, and I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do about it except get the relationship on a more mundane, normal basis, and that would present even more problems.”

“And so?” I asked.

“And so,” Bertha said, “you’ll have to put up with it. It would drive me nuts, having someone looking starry-eyed at me that way. But don’t try to make an operative out of her, Donald, because she isn’t the type.”

“I know.”

Bertha grunted. “Why don’t you make passes at them and get your face slapped once in a while? It’s a more normal relationship.”

“Suppose they don’t slap?”

Bertha thought that over and said, “It probably would undermine office efficiency.” And then, after a moment, she added, “But it’s undermined anyway. Get the hell out of here and let me listen to some music.”

“Sellers is on the war path,” I told her.

“How long have we got?”

“Perhaps twenty-four hours as an extreme limit. You know Sellers. He may come down like a ton of bricks at any time. I’ve stalled him off for a while — probably twelve to twenty-four hours.”

Bertha sighed. “That’ll give me time to listen to music,” she said, “and time for you to think up one of those damned ingenious schemes that always gets us out of trouble. One of these days you’re going to get caught.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. This may be the day.”

“All right,” Bertha said; “I was running a collection agency until you came along, and you’ve scared the pants off me ever since, but I could retire if I had to. I couldn’t keep up this apartment. I’d have to have a hole in the wall somewhere.”

“If you would only dissolve the partnership...”

“To hell with that noise,” Bertha said. “Get out of here and go to work.”

I let myself out of the apartment. As I closed the door I heard the strains of a Strauss waltz calming Bertha’s ruffled nerves.