Bertha Cool pushed aside the Monday-morning accumulation of mail, lit a cigarette, looked across the desk at me, and said, “For Pete’s sake, Donald! You’ve been fighting again!”
I sat down in the chair across from the desk. “It wasn’t a fight.”
“What was it?”
“I was escorted out of town.”
“Who did the escorting?”
“From the way he acted, I would say he was a member of the local constabulary, but his tactics were a little too sophisticated for Oakview. I don’t think he was local. He must have had a friend who followed along behind in another car, or else he had one staked out for a get-away car. He left the agency heap. He even bought gas for it.”
“What makes you think he was a cop?”
“He looked like it, he talked like it, and he acted like it.”
She beamed at me, and said, “Donald, you do have the damnedest times.”
“Don’t I,” I said.
“Did you go back?”
“No. I didn’t go back.”
Her eyes hardened. “Why not?”
“The climate,” I said, “isn’t so hot. They have malaria. There are mosquitoes.”
She said, “Nuts.”
“And,” I said, “I think we can do more at this end than we can at that.”
“How so?”
“Two people have been there ahead of me. They wanted the same thing I did. I figured they took away more than they left.”
“Then why did they want you out of town?”
I said, “I’ll bite.”
Bertha Cool studied me through a blue haze of cigarette smoke. She said, “That’s funny as hell, Donald.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“Now, don’t get sore, lover. You know it’s all in a day’s work. It’s what you get for being a little runt. People figure it’s easy to push you around. Who was this guy?”
“I don’t know. He was sitting in the hotel room when I came up, right after I’d sent you that wire. I started to go back to Oakview, and then figured I had a lead I could follow to better advantage at this end.”
She said, “Tell me about the lead.”
I took out my notebook and gave her a summary of the information.
Bertha Cool said, “It’s a bum steer on Mrs. Lintig. She never did sail through the Canal — not in 1919, nor the early part of 1920 — not under her own name anyway, and if she used an assumed name, we’re licked. It’s too far back to trace anyone by a description, and we can’t pay twenty-five bucks for information. They pay us for getting that, and we keep the dough for salaries, office expense, and profit. Don’t ever waste words in a wire asking a question like that again.”
“It was a night letter,” I said. “I had fifty words coming. It didn’t cost you anything extra.”
She said, “I know. I counted the words to make sure — but don’t do it again. Who gave you this information?”
“A girl. I don’t feel so generous towards her now. The guy who ran me out of town might have been Charlie.”
“Who’s Charlie?”
“I don’t know. It’s a nickname. What did you find out about the trunk?”
“An Evaline D. Harris made a claim for seventy-five dollars’ damage to a trunk and wearing apparel.”
“What happened to the claim?”
“Still in process of adjustment. The railroad company caved in one end of the trunk. They claim the trunk was old and defective. They say the claim for damages is exorbitant.”
“Get Evaline Dell’s address?” I asked.
“Evaline Harris,” she said.
“They’re the same. She was there for about a week.”
“Yes, I have it. Let’s see. Where is it? Hell’s fire, I can’t ever find anything!” She picked up the telephone, and said to Elsie Brand, “Find the address of Evaline Harris. I gave it to you... Yes, I did... Oh... In my right-hand desk drawer, eh? Thanks.”
Bertha Cool opened her right-hand desk drawer, rummaged around among some papers, and brought on out a slip of paper. I copied the address into my notebook.
“Going to see her?” she asked.
I said, “Yes. Here’s another hunch. The state medical board may have been asked to transfer a licence from Dr. James C. Lintig to some other name.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Lintig was an eye, ear, nose, and throat specialist. He skipped out. His office nurse went with him. Figure it out. A man doesn’t throw away his right to practice his profession.”
“What makes you think he’d be practicing in this state?”
“Because he couldn’t go to any other state without accounting for the time he’d spent in this state. That would make for inquiries. He probably got a court order changing his name, sent a certified copy to the state medical board, and had his licence issued in a new name as a matter of routine. That would be dead simple.”
Bertha Cool looked at me, her frosty grey eyes twinkling approvingly. “Donald,” she said, “you’re a brainy little runt. It’s a good hunch.” After a minute, she went on: “Of course, our instructions were to concentrate on Mrs. Lintig.”
I said, “After we find Mrs. Lintig, no one will ever know how we found her. I need fifty bucks for expenses.”
She said, “You sure do go through money. Here. Try to make this last. You think he knows where she is?”
“Dr. Lintig,” I said, “gave her everything. He probably gave her a secret property settlement.” I counted the money and pocketed it.
“Well, what if he did?”
“If he was going to give her everything, he could have stayed right on in Oakview where he had a practice built up. A court couldn’t have stripped him any cleaner than he stripped himself. He wanted to go away. If there was a secret property settlement, he probably knows where she is now.”
Bertha Cool narrowed her eyes. “There’s something to that,” she admitted.
“Do you have Smith’s telephone number?”
“Yes.”
“Well, give him a ring and—” I broke off, and Bertha Cool said, “What is it, Donald?”
“Let’s not let Smith know just what we’re doing right now. We’ll find Mrs. Lintig in our own way. I can get in touch with Evaline Harris as a claim adjuster for the railroad company. I’ll pay her seventy-five dollars for damage to her trunk and take a receipt. Later on, I can come back and crab that I made the adjustment under false representations. It’ll give me an angle of approach.”
Bertha Cool’s eyes popped wide open. “My God, Donald,” she said. “Do you think this agency is made of money? We should go around adjusting the claims of the railroad company!
I said, “You can charge it as a necessary expense.”
She said, “Be your age, Donald. There’ll be other expenses. The more we pay to other people, the less we have for Bertha.”
I said, “It’ll cost more than seventy-five dollars trying to follow a cold trail.”
Bertha Cool shook her head. “That’s out. Think up something else.”
I picked up my hat, and said, “All right. I will.”
My hand was on the doorknob when she called me back. “And get to work on this thing, Donald. Don’t mark time while you’re trying to think up ideas.”
“I am working on it. I’ve put an ad in the Oakview Blade asking for information about Mrs. James Lintig or about her heirs, indicating that someone has died and left her property.”
“How much did that ad cost?” Bertha asked.
“Five dollars.”
Bertha looked at me over the smoke that spiraled upwards from the end of her cigarette. “It’s too damn much,” she said.
I opened the door, said casually, “It probably is, at that,” and closed the door behind me before she could say anything.
I drove the agency car around to the address of Eva-line Harris. It was a cheap, three-storied brick apartment house. By the mailboxes was a list of the tenants and call buttons. I found Evaline Harris was in 309, and pressed the button. I had rung the third time when the buzzer announced that the door was being unlatched. I walked in.
There was a lobby stretching across the building and extending back some fifteen feet. It was dark, gloomy, and filled with odours. A door marked Manager was on the left. Midway in the corridor a weak electric light glowed over the entrance to an automatic elevator. I rattled up to the third floor and walked back towards 309.
Evaline Harris was standing in the door, peering down the corridor with sleep-swollen eyes. She didn’t look either mousy or virginal. She said, “What do you want?” in a voice that was rough as a rasp.
“I’m an adjuster for the railroad company. I want to make an adjustment on that trunk.”
“My God,” she said. “It’s about time. Why pick this hour of the morning? Don’t you know a girl who works nights has to sleep some time?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and waited to be invited in.
She stood in the doorway. Over her shoulder I caught a glimpse of a folding wall-bed let down, the covers rumpled and the pillow-cases wrinkled.
She continued to stand in the doorway doubt, hostility and avarice all showing in her manner. “All I want is a cheque,” she said.
She was blonde, and I couldn’t see any dark line near the roots of her hair. She was wearing wrinkled orange pyjamas, a dressing-gown thrown over her shoulders and loosely held in front with her left hand. The back of the hand said she was about twenty-seven. With make-up, her face could have passed for twenty-two. I couldn’t get much of an idea of her figure, but she stood with the balanced posture of one who is young and lithe.
She said, “Oh, well! Come on in.”
I walked on in. The apartment was smelly with sleep. She jerked the covers back into position, propped herself on the edge of the bed, and said, “The comfortable chair’s over there in that corner. Drag it out. I have to move it when I let the bed down. What do you want?”
“I want to get some more particulars on your claim.”
“I’ve given you all the particulars,” she said. “I should have asked for two hundred dollars. Then you’d have settled for seventy-five, which is my actual damage. If you’re trying to chisel, don’t waste your time and mine. And don’t ever call me before three in the afternoon.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
There was a package of cigarettes and an ash-tray on a stand by the head of the bed. She reached out for a cigarette, lit it, and sucked smoke down deep into her lungs. “Go ahead,” she said.
I took out one of my own cigarettes and lit up. “I think I can get the claim through the department for you after you’ve cleared up one or two details.”
“That’s better,” she said. “What are the details? The trunk’s down in the basement if you want to see it. One corner’s smashed in. Splinters of wood ruined my stockings and one of my dresses.”
“Do you,” I asked, “have the stockings and the dress?”
She avoided my eyes, and said, “No.”
I said, “Our records show that while you were in Oakview, you went under the name of Evaline Dell.”
She whipped the cigarette out of her mouth and stared at me with wide-eyed indignation. “Well, of all the snoops! No wonder you’re nursing a black eye! What business is it of yours what name I went under? You smashed the trunk, didn’t you?”
I said, “In adjustments of this kind, the railroad company has to get a valid release.”
“Well, I’ll give you one. I’ll sign it Evaline Dell if you want. My name’s Evaline Dell Harris. I’ll sign it Eleanor Roosevelt if that will help.”
“You’re living here under the name of Harris?”
“Of course I am. Evaline Dell was my maiden name. Harris was my husband’s name.”
“If you’re married, your husband would have to sign with you.”
“Bosh! I haven’t seen Bill Harris for three years.”
“Divorce?” I asked.
She hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes.”
“You see,” I explained, “if the railroad company made a settlement and got a release, and that release wasn’t signed by the person who owned the property, the railroad company would still be liable.”
“Are you trying to tell me I don’t own my own trunk?”
“Not that,” I said. “There’s a discrepancy in names. The railroad company insists that discrepancy be explained.”
“Well, it’s explained now.”
I said, “The head of the Claim Department is very particular, Mrs. Harris. He—”
“Miss Harris,” she said.
“Very well, Miss Harris. The head of the Claim Department is a stickler for detail. He sent me to find out why you made the trip to Oakview under the name of Evaline Dell instead of under the name of Evaline Harris.”
She said sullenly, “Give him my compliments, and tell him to go jump in the lake.”
I remembered the expression of avarice in her eyes when she had stood in the doorway. I got to my feet, said, “All right. I’ll tell him. I’m sorry I disturbed you. I didn’t know you worked nights,” and made for the door.
I had my hand on the knob when she said, “Wait a minute. Come back and sit down.”
I crossed over to drop ashes off the end of my cigarette into her ash-tray and went back to the chair.
“You said you were trying to get the adjustment through for me.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re working for the railroad company, ain’t you?”
“We’d like to get the adjustment off our books. Of course, if we can’t get together, we’ll turn it over to our legal department, and let them handle it.”
“I don’t want a lawsuit.”
“Neither do we.”
She said, “I went to Oakview on business. It’s my business. It’s none of yours.”
“We’re not interested in the business, only in your reason for taking another name.”
“It wasn’t another name. It’s my name.”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t make that stick.”
She said, “All right. I went there to get some information about someone.”
“Can you give me the name of the party?”
“No.” She hesitated long enough to drop the ashes off her cigarette, and then went on: “A man sent me to Oakview to get some dope about his wife.”
“I’d like to check that. Can you give me his name and address?”
I can, but I won’t.”
I took out my notebook, and said dubiously, “Well, I might put that across for you, but I think the Claim Department’s not going to be satisfied. With this confusion about names, they’re going to want the whole story.”
“Suppose you did put it across? When would I get the cheque?”
“Almost immediately.”
“I need the money,” she said.
I kept quiet.
She said, “The information I was after was very confidential.”
“Are you,” I asked, “a private detective?”
“No.”
“What is your occupation?”
She said, “I work in a night spot.”
“Where?”
“The Blue Cave.”
“A singer?” I asked.
“I do a turn.”
“Tell me one thing. The husband and wife were not living together?”
“No.”
“How long had they been separated?”
“Quite a while.”
“Can you give me the name of some witness who knows the facts?”
“What’s all this got to do with my trunk?”
“I suppose you completed your business in Oakview, and turned the information over to the husband?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, if you want your claim settled fast, give me his name and address, let me call on him, and get his verification. I could include it in my report, and that would satisfy the company.”
“Well, I can’t do it.”
“That, of course, leaves us right where we started.”
“Look here,” she said. “This was my own trunk, my own wearing apparel. It’s my own claim. No one needs to know anything about it. That is, the person who sent me mustn’t know anything about it.”
“Why?”
“Because it would be taken out of my sal — compensation.”
“I see,” I said, snapped my notebook shut, put it in my pocket, and closed my fountain pen. “I’ll see what I can do,” I said dubiously. “I’m afraid the boss will want more information. This is full of holes.”
She said, “There’s a bottle of Scotch in it for you if you get me a cheque.”
“No, thanks. I couldn’t do that.”
I got up and ground out my cigarette in her ash-tray. She moved her feet over and said, “Sit down here on the bed. You look like a nice boy.”
“I am,” I said.
She grinned. “What’s your name?”
“Lam.”
“What’s your first name?”
“Donald.”
“Okay, Donald. Let’s be friends. I don’t want to fight with your damned company, but I need the dough. How about putting it across for me?”
“I’ll do the best I can.”
She said, “That’s a dear. How breakfast? Had anything to eat?”
“Long ago,” I said. ‘
“I can fix up a cup of coffee and a little toast if you’re hungry.”
“No, thanks. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Listen, Donald, try and put it across for me, will you? Who gave you the shiner?”
“A guy socked me.”
“Can’t you make out a report that’ll satisfy that old grouch-face?”
“You mean the claim manager?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Ever met him?” I asked.
“No.”
“He’s about thirty-five with dark eyes and long, wavy black hair. Women go nuts over him.”
Her eyes showed interest. “I’ll doll up and go talk with him,” she said. “I bet he’d put through a cheque.”
“It might be a good idea,” I said, “but don’t do it until I’ve made my report. Perhaps that’ll be all you need. If he makes a kick about it, I’ll let you know where the beef is and then you can go do your stuff.”
“Okay, Donald. Thanks.”
We shook hands, and I went out.
There was a grocery store on the corner. I used the telephone to call Bertha Cool’s office. Elsie Brand switched the call through to Bertha Cool’s private telephone without comment. “Donald talking,” I said.
“Where have you been?” Bertha Cool asked.
“Working. I think I’ve uncovered a lead.”
“What is it?”
“This Harris girl is an entertainer in a night spot. Lintig sent her to find out about his wife.”
She said, “Donald, what the hell do you mean by having telegrams sent collect?”
“I didn’t know there were any.”
“Well, there was one, with fifty cents’ charges on it.”
“Who’s it from?”
“How should I know? I sent it back. It wasn’t addressed to the agency. It was addressed to you personally. Get it out of your head that I’m Santa Claus.”
“What company?” I asked.
“Western Union.”
“How long ago?”
“Twenty minutes. It’s back at the main office.”
I said, “All right,” and hung up. I drove down to the main office, and had to wait five minutes while they located the telegram. I paid fifty cents. It was from Oakview and read:
Party you inquired about registered here in hotel under own name. Do I get anything out of it? Marian.
I took an envelope from my pocket, wrote across the face of the telegram: Bertha: This is it. I’ll be at the Palace Hotel in Oakview. Better notify our client.
I always carried envelopes stamped with special delivery, addressed to the agency, for use in making reports. I put the telegram in one of the envelopes, sealed it, dropped it into a mailbox, and started north, wishing that Bertha Cool would either get a new car or have cases closer to home — and wondering why the devil, with everyone in the country looking for her and after an absence of more than twenty years, Mrs. James C. Lintig should decide to return to Oakview and register at the Palace Hotel under her own name. I wondered if there was any possibility my advertisement in the paper had been responsible. If so, Mrs. Lintig hadn’t been so very far from Oakview. Which opened a lot of interesting possibilities.