Turn on the Heat

Chapter Four

It was exactly nine-five a.m. when I entered the office of Dr. Charles Alftmont. A nurse who radiated hatchet-Faced efficiency asked me my name, address, and occupation. I told her I was a travelling man who had developed some eye trouble, and the heavy dark glasses which I was wearing bore out my statement. I gave her a fictitious name and address and told her I wanted to see Dr. Alftmont at once.

She said, “Just a minute,” and went through a door into the inner office. A few minutes later, she popped out and said, “This way, please. Dr. Alftmont will see you now.”

I followed her in through an eye-testing room to where Dr. Alftmont sat behind a desk in a private office that radiated an atmosphere of quiet prosperity.

He looked up. He was Mr. Smith, our client.

Seen without his dark glasses, his eyes matched the rest of his face, a keen, incisive, hard grey. He said, “Good morning. What can I do for you?”

The nurse was hovering around, and I said, in a low voice, “I’ve been having a lot of eye trouble, doing quite a bit of night driving.”

“Where,” he asked, “did you get those dark glasses?”

I said, “They’re just a cheap pair I picked up in the drugstore. I’ve been driving all night. The daylight hurts my eyes.”

“Worst thing you can do,” he said, “driving all night. You’re young yet. Some day you’ll pay for it. Your eyes weren’t intended to stand any such strain. Come into the other room.”

I followed him into the other room. The nurse adjusted me in the chair. Dr. Alftmont nodded to her, and she went out.

“Now, just slip off those glasses,” the doctor said, “and we’ll have a look.”

He wheeled a machine with a big lens and a shield in it up in front of my face. He said, “Rest your chin on this strap. Look directly at this point of light. Hold your eyes steady.”

He took up a position behind the machine. I slipped off the glasses. He turned various attachments. Lights appeared on each side of the big disc. He spun them slowly, and said, “Now, let’s have a look at the other eye,” and swivelled the lens over towards my left eye, and went through the process all over again. He made some notes on a pad of paper which he held in his hard and said, “There s considerable irritation apparently, but I see no serious defect in vision. I can’t understand why your eyes have been bothering you. Perhaps it’s just a momentary muscular fatigue. There’s a bruise over the right eye, but the eye itself seems not to have been damaged.”

He swung the machine to one side, and said, “Now we’ll take a look—” For the first time he got a good look at my face. He stopped in mid-sentence and stared at me with sagging jaw.

I said, “Your wife was in Oakview yesterday, Doctor.”

He sat looking at me for the space of ten seconds, then he said in that calm, precise voice of his, “Ah, Mr. Lam. I should have seen through your little ruse. Are you at the— Come into my private office.”

I got up out of the chair and followed him into his private office. He closed and locked the door. “I should have expected this,” he said.

I sat down and waited.

He paced the floor nervously. After a moment, he said, “How much?”

“For what?” I asked.

“You know,” he said. “What’s your price?”

“You mean for services rendered?”

“Call it anything you want,” he said irritably. “Let me know how much it is. I should have known better. I’d heard all private detective agencies resorted to blackmail when the opportunity resented.”

“Well, you heard wrong,” I said. “We try to give a loyal service to our clients — when our clients will let us.”

“Nonsense. I know better. You had no business trying to get in touch with me. I told you specifically that I wanted you to find Mrs. Lintig, to make no effort to locate Dr. Lintig.”

“You didn’t put it exactly that way, Doctor.”

“That was the effect of it. All right, you’ve found me. Let’s quit beating about the bush. How much do you want?”

He crossed over to the other side of the desk and sat down. His eyes bored steadily into mine.

“You should have been frank with us.”

“Bosh! I might have known you’d try something like this.”

I said, “Now listen to what I have to say. You wanted us to find Mrs. Lintig. We found her. We found her very unexpectedly. We wanted to get in touch with you. You wrote in terminating our employment. You have the right to do that if you want to, but there are some things I thought you should know. As a client, you’re entitled to a report.”

“I fired you,” he said with some feeling, “because of your meddling into my affairs.”

“You mean tracing you through the state medical bureau?”

“Yes.”

I said, “All right, that’s done. We’ve found you. You’re here, and I’m here. Now, let’s talk turkey.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted you to do, but understand this, young man, I’m not going to be held up. I—”

“Forget it. Here’s the dope. Two other people have been up to Oakview trying to get a line on your wife. One of them was a man named Miller Cross. I can’t find out anything about him. The other one, about three weeks ago, was a girl named Evaline Harris, who went under the name of Evaline Dell when she was in Oakview. She’s a cabaret entertainer at the Blue Cave in the city. I haven’t checked up on the place, but I understand it employs B girls who come out on the stage, show plenty of figure, sing a song or two, just enough to give them an ostensible occupation, and for the rest, make a commission on drinks and pick up what they can on the side.

“I contacted this Evaline Harris. I have her address here in case you’re interested. I put it up to her that I was an adjuster from the railroad company. Her trunk was damaged in transit to Oakview. She fell for it. I told her we had to know her business and why she was going under an assumed name. She said she was making an investigation trying to find out about a woman and that she was making that investigation on behalf of the woman’s husband. Now then, why didn’t you play fair with us?”

There was surprise on his face. “The woman’s husband?” he repeated.

I nodded.

“Then she’s married,” he said.

“To you.”

“No, no, there must be someone else.”

“There wasn’t. Mrs. Lintig showed up in Oakview, hired an attorney, and secured a dismissal of the divorce action on the grounds of lack of prosecution. I talked with her—”

“You talked with her?” he interrupted.

I nodded.

“What does she look like?” he asked. “How is she?”

“She shows her age,” I said. “I’m assuming she was approximately your age.”

“Three years older.”

“All right. She looks it, every bit of it. She’s put on some weight. Her hair is silver-grey. She’s a fairly competent-looking customer.”

He clamped his lips together. “Where is she now?”

“I don’t know. She left Oakview.”

His eyes became hard. “Why didn’t you follow her?”

I sprang my alibi on him. “Because Bertha Cool had telephoned me and said that we were fired.”

“Good heavens, that’s the one thing I wanted. I want to know where she is. I want to know about her. I want to know what she’s doing, what she’s been doing, whether she’s married. I want to find out all about her. And you let her slip through your fingers!”

“Because we were fired,” I pointed out, patiently. “I thought you acted hastily under the circumstances. I decided to run down to Santa Carlotta and tell you the facts.”

He pushed back his chair and paced the office nervously. Abruptly he turned and said, “I simply have to find her.”

“Our agency is the best means you have of doing that.”

“Yes, yes. I want you to find her. Go ahead and get busy. Don’t waste any time. Don’t waste a moment.”

I said, “All right. Doctor. The next time we get on a hot trail, don’t call us off. After all, you have only yourself to thank for this. If you’d trusted us and been frank with us, we could have closed the case within forty-eight hours without any further expense. As it is, we’ve got to begin all over again.”

“Look here,” he said. “Can I trust you?”

“I don’t know why not.”

“You won’t try to take advantage of me?”

I shrugged my shoulders and said, “The fact that I’m here, and not asking for a shakedown, is your best evidence of that.”

“Yes,” he said, “it is. I’m sorry. I apologize. I apologize to you. Explain the circumstances to Mrs. Cool, will you?”

“Yes, and you want us to go right back to work?”

“Right back to work,” he said. “Wait a minute. I want the address of that young woman who claimed I’d employed her. It’s preposterous. I never heard of such a thing.”

I gave him Evaline Harris’s address.

“Get started right away,” he said.

I said, “All right. Shall we make reports here, Doctor?”

“No, no. Make those reports just as I instructed Mrs. Cool. Make them to Mr. Smith at the address I gave her. Don’t under any circumstances let anyone know where I am or who I am. It would be — disastrous.”

“I think I understand.”

“Get out of town at once. Don’t form any acquaintances here. Don’t be seen around my office.”

I said, “All right. We’ll protect you at our end of the line, but be careful with those reports we’re sending.”

“That’s all arranged for,” he said.

“And you don’t know anything about this Evaline Harris?”

“Good heavens, no!”

“Well,” I told him, “it’s going to be a job. We’re working on a cold trail again.”

I understand. It’s my fault, but that’s something I’ve worried about for years, that someone might try to trace me through my professional registration. You were clever — damned clever — too damned clever.”

“One other thing,” I said. “Who would be interested in giving me a black eve because of the work I’m doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“A man about six feet,” I said, “something over two hundred pounds, beefy, but not fat, dark hair, deep-set, grey eyes, a man in the late thirties or early forties, a mole on his cheek, and a fist like a pile driver.”

Dr. Alftmont shook his head and said, “I know no one of that description.” But he avoided my eyes as he said it.

“He waited for me in my room in the hotel,” I said. “He knew all about me. He’d appropriated the agency car, driven it around to the back of the hotel.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted me to leave town.”

“What did you do?”

“Made the mistake of trying to yell for the cops.”

“What happened?”

“When I regained consciousness, I’d been bundled out of town.”

The corners of his lips quivered. His chin moved twice before he said anything. “There m-m-must have been some mistake,” he said.

“There was,” I said dryly. “I made it.”

“You mustn’t let anyone know about what you’re doing or whom you’re working for,” he cautioned. “That’s imperative.”

“Okay,” I said. “I just wanted to know.”

His eyes were fighting fear as I went out. The office nurse looked at me curiously. My money said ten to one she wasn’t Vivian Carter and had never been named as a co-respondent in any divorce action.

My breakfast was long overdue. Santa Carlotta was a city on the through coast highway. It catered to the wealthy tourist trade. There were three swank hotels, half a dozen commercial hotels, and flocks of tourist camps. The restaurants were good. I picked one at random.

I saw a placard in the window. Dr. Alftmont’s features, looking ten years younger, stared out at the street from that placard. I stood at the window and read the printing on the placard:

I walked in, found a booth, and settled back to the luxury of real orange juice, grapefruit, poached eggs that were fresh and hot on whole-wheat toast that hadn’t been made soggy by having lukewarm water poured over it.

Over coffee and a cigarette, the waitress asked me if I wanted to see the papers. I nodded and, after a moment, she came back rather apologetically and said, “I haven’t a city newspaper available. They’re all in use, but I can give you the local paper, the Ledger.”

I thanked her and took the paper she handed me.

It was a metropolitan job with wire service, balanced headlines, good make-up, and a fair sprinkling of syndicated features.

I turned to the editorial page and read the editorial with interest:

The waitress brought me a second cup of coffee, and I smoked two thoughtful cigarettes over it. When I paid the check, I asked her, “Where’s the city hall?”

“Straight down the street four blocks, and turn to the right a block. You’ll see it. It’s a new one.”

I drove down. It was a new one all right. It looked as though the graft had been figured on a percentage basis, and the boys who were in on it wanted to get plenty — on the principle of the more dollars the greater the graft percentage. It was one of those buildings which had been built for posterity, and the city administration of Santa Carlotta rattled around in it like a Mexican jumping bean in a dishpan.

I found the office marked Chief of Police and walked in. A stenographer was clattering away in the reception-room. A couple of men were sitting waiting.

I crossed over to the secretary and said, “Who could give me some information about the personnel of the department?”

“What is it you want?”

“I want to make a complaint about an officer,” I said. “I didn’t take his number, but I can describe him.”

She said acidly, “Chief White can’t be bothered with complaints of that nature.”

“I understand that,” I said. “That’s why I’m asking his secretary.”

She thought that over for a moment and said, “Captain Wilbur is on duty. He can tell you what to do and where to go. His is the next office down the hall.”

I thanked her and had started to turn away when my eye caught a framed picture hanging on the wall near the door. It was a long panorama strip photograph, showing the police officers lined up in front of the new city hall. I gave it a passing glance and went out.

Captain Wilbur had the same photograph hanging in his office. I asked an officer who was waiting, “Do you know who took this picture?”

“A photographer here in town, name of Clover,” he said.

“Nice work.”

“Uh huh.”

I went up and scrutinized it, then put my finger on the fifth man from the end. “Well, well,” I said. “I see Bill Crane is on the force.”

“Huh?”

“Bill Crane. I used to know him in Denver.”

He came over and looked. “That’s not Bill Crane,” he said. “That’s John Harbet. He’s on Vice.”

I said, “Oh, He looks just like a chap I used to know.”

When the officer went in to see Captain Wilbur, I drifted out of the door, climbed in the agency car, and drove out of town.

Bertha Cool was just going out for lunch. Her face lit up when she saw me. “Why, hel-lo, Donald,” she said. “You’re just in time to go to lunch with me.”

“No, thanks. I had breakfast a couple of hours ago.”

“But, lover, this is on the house.”

“Sorry. I can’t do justice to it.”

“Oh, come along anyway. We have to talk, and I want you to try and find Smith. I tried to get in touch with him after I had his letter and found he isn’t at the address he gave me. He gets mail there, but that’s all, and they don’t know anything about him or won’t tell me if they do.”

“That’s nice,” I said.

Her eyes grew hard. “Nice, hell!” she said. “That man was on a spot. He was a frightened man if I ever saw one. He was Santa Claus. And now, damn it, he’s stuck in the chimney, and our stockings are empty.”

I said, “Oh, well, I’ll come to lunch if you feel that way about it.”

“That’s better. We’ll go down to the Gilded Swan. We can talk there.”

Bertha Cool and I walked out together. I said, “Hi, Elsie,” as I held the door open for Bertha Cool, Elsie Brand gave me a nod without looking up. Her fingers never missed the tempo of perfect rhythm on the keyboard.

Over in the Gilded Swan, Bertha Cool wanted to know if I felt like a cocktail. I told her I did, that I was going home and spend the afternoon sleeping anyhow, that I’d driven virtually all night, and that I intended to go around to the Blue Cave in the evening.

She said, “No, you don’t, Donald. You stay away from that night spot. You’ll spend money there, and Bertha has no money to squander. Unless Smith changes his instructions, we let the matter drop like a hot potato. Not that Bertha is doing so badly at that. She got a retainer in advance, but you hooked me for too damned many expenses, Donald.”

I waited until we had a couple of Martinis, then lit a cigarette and said, “Well, it’s okay. Smith says for us to go ahead.”

Bertha Cool blinked her frosty eyes. “Says which?”

“For us to go ahead.”

“Donald, you little bastard, have you found Smith?”

I nodded.

“How did you find him?”

I said, “Smith is Dr. Alftmont, and Dr. Alftmont is Dr. Lintig.”

Bertha Cool put down her cocktail glass and said, “Well, can me for a sardine. Now, ain’t that something?”

I couldn’t seem to work up a great deal of enthusiasm over spilling information to Bertha. I’d done too much night driving, and sitting up all night doesn’t agree with me. I said, “Dr. Alftmont’s running for mayor in Santa Carlotta.”

“Politics?” Bertha Cool asked, her eyes turning greedy.

“Politics,” I said. “Lots of politics. The man who beat me up and ran me out of Oakview was a man named John Harbet of the Santa Carlotta police force, evidently the head of the vice squad.”

Bertha said, “Oh-oh!”

“One of the newspapers has been throwing mud at Dr. Alftmont. The other newspaper intimates that Dr. Alftmont is going to sue for libel. Ordinarily that would be a nice hint, but the way I size it up, the mud-slingers are pretty certain of their ground. They’re going to keep on dishing out the dirt and then dare Alftmont to sue them for libel. If he doesn’t sue, he’s backing down. If he does sue, he has to show damage to his character. When that time comes, what the Santa Carlotta Courier will do to his character will be plenty. Alftmont realizes that. He doesn’t dare to sue. He wants to find out whether his wife ever remarried or got a divorce.”

The expression in Bertha Cool’s eyes was like that of a cat wiping canary feathers off its chin. “Pickle me for a peach,” she said, half under her breath, “What a perfect set-up! Hell, lover, we’re going to town!”

“I’ve already been to town,” I said, and settled back against the cushioned bench in the booth, too weary to talk.

“Go on,” Bertha said. “Use that brain of yours, Donald. Think things out for Bertha.”

I shook my head and said, “I’m tired. I don’t want to think, and I don’t want to talk.”

“Food will make you feel better,” Bertha said.

The waiter came, and Bertha ordered a double cream of tomato soup, a kidney potpie, a salad, and coffee with a pitcher of whipping cream on the side, hot rolls and butter, and then said, with a jerk of her head towards me, “Bring him the same. The food’ll do him good.”

I gathered up enough energy to protest to the waiter. “A pot of black coffee,” I said, “and a baked ham sandwich, and that’s all.”

“Oh, no, lover,” Bertha said solicitously. “You need some food. You need something to make energy.”

I shook my head.

“Something with sugar in it,” Bertha said. “Sugar makes for energy. Some old-fashioned strawberry shortcake, Donald, with lots of whipped cream, some French pastry, some—”

I shook my head again, and Bertha gave up with a sigh. “No wonder you’re such a skinny runt,” she said, and then to the waiter: “All right. Let him have his own way.”

When the waiter had gone, I said to Bertha, “Don’t do that again.”

“What?”

“Act as though I were a child whom you were taking out to dinner. I know what I want to eat.”

“But Donald, you don’t eat enough. There’s no meat on your bones.”

Arguing with her was going to take energy so I let it go at that, and sat smoking.

Bertha watched me while she was eating. She said solicitously. “You’re looking awfully white. You aren’t going to come down with typhoid or something are you?”

I didn’t say anything. The salty tang of the fried ham made my stomach feel a, little better. The black coffee tasted good, but I couldn’t manage all of the ham sandwich.

“I know what it is,” Bertha said. “You’ve been eating in those greasy-spoon restaurants up in Oakview. You’ve knocked your stomach out, lover. Hell, Donald, think of the break it’ll he if Dr. Alftmont gets out in front in a political campaign where the citizens can’t afford to let him back out, and the other side are gunning for him. We can write our own ticket.”

“He’s already done that,” I said.

“We’ve got to work fast. It’ll mean a lot of night work.” I started to say something, then gave up.

She said, “Don’t be like that, Donald dear. Tell me.”

I poured out the last of my coffee, finished it, and said, “Get the sketch. Dr. Lintig runs away with his office nurse. She’s probably Mrs. Alftmont now, but there wasn’t any marriage. It would have been a bigamous ceremony. If they’d tried to solemnize a marriage, that would be a felony. Well, they may have at that. Figure it out for yourself. If Mrs. Lintig is dead or had a divorce, Dr. Alftmont is in the clear. He hasn’t committed bigamy, and his office nurse is the legal Mrs. Alftmont. Perhaps there are children.

“But if Mrs. Lintig didn’t get a divorce — and she says she didn’t — if she’s alive and well, all the picture needs is to have her come swooping into Santa Carlotta on the eve of the election. She identifies Dr. Alftmont as Dr. Lintig, the husband from whom she’s never been divorced. The woman Santa Carlotta society has recognized as Mrs. Alftmont becomes Vivian Carter, the co-respondent. They’ve been living together openly as man and wife — sweet little mess, isn’t it?”

“But,” Bertha said, “they have to have Mrs. Lintig in order to pull that.”

“Probably,” I said, “they already have her. You’ve got to admit it looks suspiciously like it — her showing up at this time in Oakview, oozing love and affection for her husband, dismissing the divorce action so the records will be cleared.”

“Tell me all about that, lover,” Bertha Cool commanded.

I shook my head and said, “Not now. I’m too tired. I’m going home and get some sleep.”

Bertha Cool reached her jeweled hand across the table to grip my hand with strong fingers. “Donald, dear,” she said, “your skin feels cold. You must take care of yourself.”

“I’m going to,” I said. “You pay the check. I’m — going to get some sleep.”

Bertha’s tone was maternal. “You poor little bastard, you’re all in. Don’t try to drive the car home, Donald. Take a taxi — no, wait a minute. Do you think Alftmont’s sending me any an more money?”

“He said he would.”

Bertha Cool said, “To hell with what they say. It’s what they pay that counts. Well, anyway, dearie, take a streetcar. Don’t try to drive the agency car.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’ll need the car tonight. I can drive it.”

I walked out and piloted the agency heap out to my rooming-house, feeling like the tail end of a mis-spent life. I climbed into bed, took a big swig of whisky, and after a while drifted off into warm drowsiness.

It seemed that I was just really getting some good sleep when an insistent something kept trying to drag me back to consciousness. I tried to ignore it and couldn’t. It seemed to have persisted through an eternity of time in various forms. I dreamed that naked savages were dancing around a fire, beating on war drums. Then there was a respite and I dropped back into oblivion once more, only to have carpenters start putting up a scaffold on which I was to be hung. The carpenters were all women, attired in sunsuits, and they drove the nails to a weird rhythm of thump thump thump thump — thump thump thump thump — thump thump thump thump. Then they would chant, “Donald, oh, Donald.”

At last my numbed senses came to the surface enough to realize that the noise was a gentle but insistent tapping on my door, and a feminine voice calling, “Donald, oh, Donald.”

I made some sleepy, inarticulate sound.

The voice said, “Donald, let me in,” The doorknob rattled.

I got out of bed and staggered groggily as I walked over to the closet door for a dressing-gown.

“Donald, let me in. It’s Marian.”

I heard the words, but they didn’t make sense. I walked to the door, turned the key, and opened it.

Marian Dunton came in, her eyes wide with emotion. “Oh, Donald, I was so afraid you weren’t here, but the landlady downstairs insisted you were. She said you’d been up all night and were sleeping.”

I snapped into wakefulness at the sound of her voice. “Come in, Marian. Sit down. What is it?”

“Something horrible’s happened.”

I made shift to comb my hair with my fingers. “What is it, Marian?”

She came and stood close to me. “I went to see Evaline Harris.”

“Okay,” I said. “I gave you that lead. Try and get another one.”

“Donald, she’s — she’s dead! Murdered!”

I sat down on the bed. “Tell me about it.”

Marian crossed over to sit beside me. Her words poured out in a low, steady monotone. “Listen, Donald, I’ve got to get out. The landlady’s a suspicious busybody. She said I’d have to leave your door open. You must help me.”

I looked at my wrist watch. It was quarter past five.

“What’s happened?”

“I found where she lived. I kept ringing her bell. Nothing happened.”

“She sleeps late,” I said. “Works in a night spot.”

“I know. Well, after a while, I rang the bell marked Manager and asked where I could find Miss Harris.”

“Go ahead.”

“The manager said she didn’t know, that she didn’t try to chaperon her tenants, and seemed very crusty.

“I asked if I might run up to her apartment, and she said I could, that it was 309.

“I went up to the third floor in the elevator. As I started down the hall, a man came out of a room at the far end of the corridor. I don’t know — I think it was 309.”

“That’s probably why she didn’t answer the doorbell.”

“Donald, listen to me. She was dead.”

“How do you know?”

“I went down to 309. The door wasn’t locked. It was closed, but not locked. I knocked on it two or three times, and no one answered. I tried the knob, and the door was unlocked. I opened it, and saw — well, a girl was lying on the bed. I thought — well, you know — I said, ‘Excuse me,’ and went out. I pulled the door shut. I thought I’d better wait for a while, and then come back — you know.”

“Go ahead,”

“Well, I went back downstairs and out of the building. In about half an hour, I went back and rang the bell again.”

“You mean the bell of Evaline Harris’s apartment?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I rang and rang and didn’t get any answer, but I was sure she hadn’t gone out because I’d been watching the door of the apartment house.

“While I was standing there ringing the bell, a woman came up the stairs and fitted a latch key to the door. She smiled at me, and said, `May I help you?’ and I said, ‘Yes, thanks,’ and walked in right behind her.”

“Did she ask you where you were going?”

“No. She was very nice.”

“Then what?”

“Then I went up to the third floor again and knocked. Nothing happened. I opened the door and peeked in. She was still lying on the bed in the same position, and — well, something in the way she was lying — I walked in, went over and touched her. She was dead. There was a cord drawn tightly around her neck. Her face looked — awful. It was turned away from the door. Oh, Donald, it’s terrible!”

“What did you do?”

“I was in a panic,” she said, “because you see I’d gone in once before, a half an hour earlier. The manager knew it. I was afraid that they might think — you know, that I’d done it.”

“You little fool,” I said. “How long ago was this?”

“Not very long. I’d found out where you lived. I’d telephoned your agency and said I was an old friend, that you’d told me I could locate you there. The girl who answered the telephone told me where I could find you.”

“And you came here?”

“Yes, just as fast as I could drive.”

I said, “Get in your car. Drive like hell to police headquarters. When you get there, tell them you want to report a dead body. Remember, don’t tell them it’s a murder, and remember to tell them that you’re from Oakview.”

“Why the Oakview? I mean why should I tell them about it?”

“Because,” I said, “you’re going to have to take the part of an unsophisticated country girl.”

“But they’ll find out that I was up there before — when I asked the manager.”

“They’ll find that out anyway,” I said. “The best way you can stick your neck into a noose is to try to cover up. Don’t you understand?”

“Y-Yes,” she said dubiously. “Donald, can’t you go with me to the police station?”

“Absolutely not. That would be the worst thing that could happen. Forget all about coming here. Forget all about knowing me. Don’t mention my name. Don’t say anything about the B. L. Cool Bureau of Investigations. Remember now, you’ll have to follow those instructions absolutely. Tell your story just as it happened, only tell them that when you found out the woman was dead, you drove directly to the police station. Don’t let on that you know she was strangled. Say she was dead, that you didn’t touch anything. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t touch anything, did you?”

“No.”

“Who was this man you saw leaving the apartment?”

“I don’t know. I can’t even be certain he left the apartment. It might have been one of the adjoining apartments, but I think it was that one.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was rather slender and very straight. He looked dignified.”

“How old?”

“Middle-aged. He looked nice.”

“How was he dressed?”

“A grey, double-breasted suit.”

“How tall?”

“Fairly tall, slender. He was very dignified. He had a grey moustache.”

“Would you know him if you saw him again?”

“Yes, of course.”

I pushed her towards the door and said, “On your way.”

“When will I see you, Donald?”

“As soon as they get done questioning you, give me a ring. Remember not to tell them anything about me or about the agency— Wait a minute. They’ll ask you what you wanted to see Evaline Harris about.”

“Well, what did I?”

I thought rapidly and said, “You got acquainted with her when she was up in Oakview. She confided in you. She told you she was an entertainer in a night spot here. Remember, you mustn’t say a word about Mrs. Lintig. Don’t mention anything about the girl making an investigation. Don’t let on that you knew she was in Oakview on business. She told you she was up there spending a vacation. You’re a country girl, and the more country atmosphere you can pull in, the better it’ll be for you. Go in for that rural stuff strong. You wanted to leave Oakview. Everybody does. It’s no place for a young woman who has an eye to the future. You wanted to get to the city. You didn’t want to work in a night club, but you thought Evaline Harris might have some connections and could get you in somewhere. Does your uncle know what you’re doing here?”

“No, I’m doing this on my own, Donald. There’s a lot of things — a lot of developments that I can tell you about, suspicious circumstances that—”

“Save them,” I said. “Seconds are precious. If someone else finds that body before you report it, you’re sunk. Remember, you left there and drove to the police station just as fast as you could. You don’t know anything about the time. Do you have a wrist watch?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Let me see it.”

She took it off her wrist. I set the hands back to eleven-fifteen and smacked the watch sharply against the corner of the dresser. It stopped. I said, “Put it back on. Remember, you broke your wrist watch this morning driving down. You dropped it in the rest-room of a service station. Think you can put this stuff across, think you understand it?”

“Yes, yes,” she said. “I understand it. You’re so nice! I knew I could depend on you.”

“Nix on it,” I said. “Get busy. On your way. Don’t try to call me here. Call me at the agency. Don’t call me while you’re under surveillance or from the police station. If it comes to a showdown, you can tell them that you know me and intended to look me up later. You didn’t give your name to Elsie Brand, did you?”

“Who’s Elsie Brand?”

“The office girl in the agency.”

“No, I just told her I was a friend of yours.”

I pushed her out into the corridor, patted her shoulder, and said, “Good luck, kid. On your way.”

I waited until I heard her go down the stairs and slam the outer door. I was a little afraid the landlady might try to question her.

After the front door slammed, I walked out to the telephone booth in the corridor and called the agency office. Elsie Brand answered.

“Bertha gone home yet?” I asked.

“No, she’s just leaving.”

“Tell her to wait. Tell her I’m coming up. It’s important.”

“All right. Did some girl get in touch with you?”

“A girl?”

“Yes. She said she was an old friend of yours. She didn’t give her name. She sounded on the up and up, and I told her where you lived.”

“All right. Thanks, Elsie. Tell Bertha I’ll be right up.”

I hung up the telephone, went back to my room, and dressed. I got the motor started on the agency car and no fought the afternoon traffic getting up to the office. It was ten minutes to six when I walked in.

Elsie Brand had gone home. Bertha Cool was waiting. She said, “For Pete’s sake, Donald, don’t sleep all day, and then make me stay in the office all evening. What is it you want?”

“Heard anything from Smith?” I asked.

Her face beamed. “Yes, lover,” she said. “He was in. He left me a very substantial deposit.”

“How long ago?” I asked.

“Not over half an hour ago. He seemed very, very nice. But he certainly is nervous.”

“Exactly what did he want?” I asked.

“He didn’t say anything about the political situation,” she said, “but I could read between the lines. He said that he wanted us to keep on trying to find Mrs. Lintig, that he was in some other difficulties and was going to need our services, that he wanted to be certain we’d be on the job. You made a fine impression on him, Donald. He said particularly he wanted you to work on his case. He thinks you’re very smart.”

“How much did he leave?” I asked.

Bertha said cautiously, “It was a nice little sum, Donald.”

“How much?”

“What the hell?” she said with sudden belligerency. “I’m running this agency.”

“How much?” I asked.

She met my eyes and clamped her chin shut. I said, “Kick through, Bertha. There s more to this than you realize. He wants me to work on his case. You’ll be in a fix if you and I part company now.”

“We’re not going to part company, lover.”

“That’s what you think.”

She thought things over for a while, and then said, “A thousand dollars.”

“I thought so. Now, I want you to come with me.”

“Where?”

“We’re going to call on Evaline Harris,” I said.

“Oh, that jane.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You could do more with her alone, Donald,”

“I don’t think so. I think this is the time when it needs your fine Italian hand.”

“Sometimes my hand gets pretty rough,” she said.

“Okay, come on.”

She said, “Donald, what’s got into you? What’s all the rush about? Why are you so nervous?”

“I’ve been thinking,” I said.

“Well,” she admitted grudgingly, “that’s one thing you can do.” She got up, crossed over to the closet which held the washstand, and started powdering her face and putting on lipstick. I paced the floor impatiently, looking at my watch from time to time. “Did Dr. Alftmont say when he’d arrived in town or when he was going back?” I asked.

“He asked us particularly not to refer to him as Dr. Alftmont, Donald. He said in our office conversation and in memos we must refer to him as Mr. Smith.”

“All right. Did he say when he’d come in or when he was going back?”

“No.”

“Was he wearing a double-breasted, grey suit?”

“Yes.”

“Did he say what he’d come to town for?”

“He said he’d been thinking over your visit this morning and had decided to come down and apologize to me for his letter discharging us and leave some more money.”

I said, “All right. All right. Let’s go.”

“Donald, why are you in such a hurry?”

“I think Evaline Harris can tell us something.”

“Well, you’ve had all afternoon. Why get in such a stew now?”

“I was too tired to think clearly. I’ve just figured the thing out.”

“All right, lover. Let’s go.”

“And I want some expense money.”

“What? Again?”

“Yes.”

“My God, Donald, I can’t—”

I said, “Listen, this is going to be a big case, one of the biggest you’ve ever handled. That thousand dollars is just a drop in the bucket.”

“Well, I wish I shared your optimism.”

“You don’t have to, just so I share your take.”

“You’re working for me, you know, Donald. I’m the agency. You aren’t a partner.”

“I know,” I said.

“You haven’t filed a complete expense account on that other yet.”

“I will.”

She sighed, crossed over to the cash drawer, took out twenty dollars, and handed it to me. I stood with the twenty dollars in my extended hand waiting, and, after a while, she handed me another twenty. I kept waiting, and she sighed, handed me ten more, slammed the drawer shut, and locked it. “You’re getting exalted ideas about your value,” she said.

I pushed the money down in my pocket, said, “Come on,” and tried to rush Bertha down to the agency car.

Trying to hurry Bertha Cool was just that much wasted effort. By the time we got to the agency car, I’d used up enough nervous energy to have gone to Evaline Harris’s place and back, and I hadn’t made a fraction of a second’s difference in Bertha Cool’s schedule. She did everything at a certain rate of speed, like a truck that has a governor on the motor.

I slid in behind the wheel, feeling used up. Bertha pulled the body way over on its springs as she hoisted her bulk into the car and settled back against the dilapidated cushions.

I rattled the motor into noise, eased out the clutch, and slid out of the parking lot. Bertha Cool said, “It’s still a pretty good car, isn’t it, lover?”

I didn’t say anything.

It was the slack hour in the business district, and I made time to Evaline Harris’s apartment house. A whole flock of machines were parked out in front of the place. The machines had the red spotlights of police cars. I pretended not to notice them. Bertha Cool did. She looked at me a couple of times, but didn’t say anything.

I led the way to the apartment house and said, “I think it’ll be a good plan to ring the manager. In that way we can work a stall and go up to the apartment unannounced.”

I rang the manager’s bell. Nothing happened. I rang it a couple more times.

A press car came rolling up and double-parked. A photographer with a Speed Graphic and synchronized flash bulb jumped out and ran up the steps. A slender man with the hard-boiled look of a metropolitan reporter came behind him. They tried the door. It was locked. The reporter looked at me and said, “You live here?”

“No.”

The photographer said, “Ring the manager, Pete.”

They rang the manager’s button. When nothing happened, the reporter started pushing buttons at random. After a while they got a customer, and the door buzzed open. They walked on in and Bertha Cool and I tagged along behind them.

“What’s the apartment number?” the photographer asked.

The reporter said 309.

I felt Bertha Cool’s eyes on me. I nudged her and said in an undertone, “Hear that?”

She said, “Uh-huh.”

The four of us got in the elevator. Bertha Cool took up most of the room. The elevator rattled upward.

The third floor was pretty well filled with people. An officer stopped the reporter. The reporter showed him a press card and he and the photographer went on past. The officer pushed his way up to me. “What do you want?” he asked.

I stood staring curiously and said, “Nothing.”

“Beat it. Move on. You’re blocking traffic.”

I said, “I’m looking for the manager. Is she up here?”

“How should I know? I guess so.”

“I want to see her about renting an apartment.”

“Well, come on back in a couple of hours.”

“What’s happened here?” I asked.

“Homicide,” he said. “Jane in 309. Know her?”

I looked at Bertha blankly. “You don’t knew anyone here, do you Bertha?”

She shook her head.

“Okay,” the officer said. “Beat it.”

“Can’t we see the manager?”

“No. I can’t hunt her up now. She’s probably answering questions. G’wan. Beat it.”

We walked back to the elevator. “Well,” I said, “someone beat us to it.”

Bertha didn’t say anything. We rattled back down in the elevator, went out, and got in the agency car.

“Well,” I said, “I’ll go back to the office and do a little thinking. Do you want me to drop you at your apartment?”

“No, Donald, my dear. I’ll go back to the office and help you think.”