“How?”

  “Palpitation after eating.”

  “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “And I get short of breath sometimes.”

  “Did you go to a doctor?”

  “When I lie down, I can feel my heart pounding so it shakes the whole bed.”

  “But the question is, did you go to a doctor?”

  “Hell, no!” Bertha exclaimed angrily. “Why would 1 want to go to a swivel-eyed sawbones and have him carve me all up at so much a slice?”

  “I just thought a doctor might help.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t.”

  “Sometime you might want to get a physician’s certificate.”

  “When I do, I’ll get one all right. Don’t you worry about that.”

  “What am I supposed to do about this construction job?”

  “Bertha will have to go over it with you, lover. Let’s try and get this case finished first. But if anyone should start asking questions, remember that I haven’t been able to stand the strain, that I’m threatened with a breakdown, and you’re taking over the entire construction.”

  “But why should I say that?”

  Bertha said angrily, “Dammit, don’t be so contrary. Say it because—” She caught herself, after a moment finished in a more conversational tone of “voice: “because you wouldn’t want to let Bertha down, particularly when Bertha had bitten off more than she could chew trying to do something for her country.”

  “Patriotism?” I asked.

  “We’ve all got to do our part,” Bertha said unctuously.

  I said, “All right, do you want to meet Hale with me?”

  “Do you think I should?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, lover, whatever you say.”

  I stretched, yawned. “Well, I have a few odds and ends to do. I’ll meet you here at seven-forty-five on the dot.”

  “I’ll be here,” Bertha promised. “I want to wait for the afternoon mail. I’m expecting a package. When it comes, I’ll show you something. You’ll see Bertha’s a smart buyer. Merchandise you can’t get any more, and I’m getting it cheap—real silk hosiery. You’ll be surprised.”

  I went to the public library and put in the rest of the afternoon reading an old file of newspapers—the ones that dealt with all the activities of the petting-party stick-up man—and I paid particular attention to the Craig case.

  I came out about 5:30 and started for the hotel, but stopped at a shoe-shine place on Fifth Street. I picked up an afternoon paper and settled down to read while my shoes were being shined.

  I turned to the personals.

  Rob. Am here in Los Angeles. Must talk with you at once. Regardless of what anyone has told you, I have your interests at heart. Telephone Helman 6-9544 and ask for me. Edna C.

  The shoe shine was just about finished. I surprised him by jumping down off the stool, flipping him a quarter, and saving, “That’s all we need for now.”

  A taxi rushed me to the hotel. I got my key and went up to the room.

  The maid had been in. The rooms were made. Roberta wasn’t there. She had evidently gone shopping, because a very thin peach-colored nightgown lay on the bed, together with two pairs of stockings of about the same shade. There was a paper package on the foot of the bed, and a smart compact traveling-bag on a chair. The traveling-bag was empty. The price tag was still on it. A newspaper lay on the floor.

  I went back to my room, picked up the receiver, and said to the girl at the switchboard, “My sister telephoned a friend and went out to meet her. She gave me the telephone number and I’ve lost it. Can you look at the records and tell me the last number that was called from this room?”

  “Just a moment.”

  I waited for about ten seconds; then she gave it to me: “Helman six-nine-five-four-four.”

  I said, “That’s the number. Ring it back, will you, please?”

  I waited on the line, heard the connection being made; then a voice said, “Palm View Hotel.”

  “You have an Edna Cutler of New Orleans registered?” I asked.

  “Just a moment.”

  Another five seconds, and I had the information. Miss Cutler had checked out about twenty minutes earlier. She had left no forwarding address.

  I hung up the telephone, took the elevator down to the lobby, went into a luggage store, bought a suitcase, went back upstairs, threw all of my belongings into the suitcase. I packed the paper parcel on Roberta’s bed without unwrapping it. I also put in her nightgown and stockings. The creams and toilet articles on the dresser I managed to get into the little bag she’d purchased.

  I moistened a towel and went over the place for fingerprints, rubbing door handles, mirrors, dresser tops— anything I thought she might have touched. When I had finished I telephoned the office to send up someone for the baggage. I went down and checked out, telling the clerk that my mother had passed away very suddenly, and that my sister and I were going out to stay with another sister who lived in Venice and was completely broken up. We didn’t want to leave her alone.

  I took a taxicab to the Union Depot, let it go, checked the baggage, put the checks in a stamped envelope, scribbled my office address on the outside, sealed the envelope, and dropped it into the mailbox. I looked at my watch and saw I had just time to go down to the office, pick up Bertha Cool, and get out to the airport.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  THE PLANE came roaring down out of the sky, to soar along for a few feet, skimming the ground; then the wheels touched the cement runway, and the big transcontinental express glided slowly to a landing, then snarled into speed as it came up the runway and swung gracefully around in a wide pivot, stopping almost directly in front of the exit gate.

  Emory G. Hale was the second one off. He was talking with a rather distinguished-looking individual who wore a close-cropped, gray mustache, half spectacles, and looked altogether too much like a banker to be a banker.

  Hale seemed in a rare good humor as though he had had a wonderful trip. When he saw us he came toward us with outstretched hand, his face wreathed in his characteristic set smile.

  His greeting for Bertha was hurried. Most of his attention was for me.

  “Lam, I’m certainly glad to see you! I was hoping that you’d get down here to meet the plane. That’s splendid of you. Lam, I want you to meet—but pardon, me, I’m forgetting my manners. Mrs. Cool, may I present Lieutenant Pellingham of the New Orleans police force? And this is Donald Lam, Lieutenant.”

  We all shook hands.

  Hale seemed to be enjoying his role of master of ceremonies. “Lieutenant Pellingham is an expert on ballistics. He does most of the technical work for the New Orleans Police Department. He’s brought that gun with him, Lam. I told him that you were with me when we first discovered the weapon, that we debated whether we should call in the police at once, or wait until you had made an investigation in Los Angeles to get the exact status of the Craig murder case.”

  Hale glanced significantly at me as though trying to impress upon me that this preliminary speech was my cue to follow along, and not make any contradictory statements.

  I nodded at Lieutenant Pellingham, said, “I’ve already been in touch with Sergeant Rondler here in headquarters.”

  “You didn’t tell him about the gun?” Hale asked.

  I seemed surprised. “The gun! Why, no I I understood I was simply to investigate the murder, and then if it appeared the crime had been committed with a thirty-eight caliber revolver which had never been found, I was to get in touch with you, and you were to notify the police.”

  “That’s right,” Hale said, positively beaming at me. “That’s exactly the way I understood it. But,” he went on, “you were with me when I first discovered the gun there in the desk. That’s the point that Lieutenant Pellingham was interested in. He wants some corroborating evidence.”

  I turned to the lieutenant. “Mr. Hale was looking through the desk. There were some papers which had evidently dropped down in a partition behind a desk drawer. When we started to get them out, we discovered a revolver.”

  “You can identify that revolver, of course?” Lieutenant Pellingham asked.

  I said, “It was a thirty-eight, blued-steel. I’m not certain of the make of the gun. It—”

  Pellingham said, “That’s not the point. What I’m getting at is that you can identify the gun which you saw there.”

  I looked at him blankly. “Why, I can tell you the general kind of a gun it was.”

  “But you can’t tell me whether the gun 1 have is the same gun?”

  “Of course it’s the same,” Hale said.

  I hesitated; then after a moment I said, “Of course, neither one of us jotted down the serial numbers or any thing of that sort. We simply saw this gun there in the desk, but we put it back where we found it, and if Hale says it’s the same gun, that’s good enough for me.”

  “Of course it’s the same gun,” Hale said. “I can assure you on that point.”

  Pellingham said, “What we need is someone who can assure a jury.”

  “Oh, we can do that all right,” Hale said confidently.

  I said to Pellingham, “If you have this gun with you, perhaps I can identify it. If I can, it might be a good idea for me to scratch my initials on it.”

  Pellingham said, “That’s an excellent idea. And when you get on the witness stand, you won’t need to tell anyone when those initials were scratched on it. Do you get me?”

  “I’m not certain that I do.”

  “The district attorney will simply say, ‘Mr. Lam, I show you a gun which has scratched on it the initials D.L. I’ll ask you who scratched those initials on there, if you know. Then you’ll say, ‘I did.’ Then the district attorney will say, ‘Why?’ and you’ll say, ‘So I could identify it.’ Then the district attorney will ask you, ‘Is this the revolver which you first saw in a desk in an apartment in New Orleans?’ and so on, and so on.”

  I said “I see.”

  “That’s splendid,” Hale said. “We’ll both scratch our initials on there.”

  Pellingham took us over to a comer of the waiting-room. “We’ll do it right here,” he said, “because I’m going to rush right up to police headquarters, fire some test bullets, and compare them with the fatal bullet which killed young Craig.”

  We watched him while he placed a light Gladstone bag on his lap, opened it, took out a small wooden box. He slid the cover back on this wooden box. Tied to the bottom by strings which went through holes bored in the wood was the .38 caliber revolver the agency had furnished me months earlier.

  Hale pounced on it. “That’s the one,” he said emphatically. “That’s the one that was in there. And I’m betting ten to one it was the gun that killed this man Craig.”

  “Scratch your initials on it,” Pellingham said and handed him a knife.

  Hale scratched his initials on the rubber butt plate of the revolver.

  Pellingham handed the gun to me.

  I looked at it carefully. “I think it’s the same gun. Of course, I didn’t take down the serial number. But as nearly as I can tell—”

  Hale said, “Why, Lam! Of course it’s the gun. You know that.”

  “I think—well, it looks—”

  Pellingham said, “Here, put your initials on it.” He handed me his knife.

  Bertha was looking from the gun to me. Her face was a study. Hale was beaming.

  Pellingham said, “Now you’ve identified that gun. Don’t go back on that identification, and don’t let any shyster lawyer mix you up when he comes to the cross-examination.”

  The loud-speaker blared, “Telegram for Lieutenant Pellingham of New Orleans police force. Inquire at the ticket office. Lieutenant, please.”

  Pellingham said, “Excuse me,” and closed the Gladstone. He went to the ticket windowpar. Hale said, “I’m glad you identified that gun, Lam.

  We should have taken the serial number when we first found it.”

  Bertha said, “I’m surprised you didn’t think of that, Donald.”

  Hale laughed. “He’s a wise owl all right, Mrs. Cool, but even an owl blinks once in a while. This is the one slip he’s made, and—”

  Bertha interrupted, looking hard at me, “Owls don’t blink.”

  Pellingham came hurrying toward us, a telegram in his hand, his lips tight. “Lam, did you take a plane from Fort Worth Saturday night?”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Lam. I’m going to ask you to go to headquarters with me—at once.”

  I said, “I’m sorry. I’ve got other things to do. They’re important.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you’ve got to do. You’re coming with me.”

  “Got any authority for that?”

  Pellingham’s hand dropped down to his side trousers pocket. I thought he was going to come out with a star. Instead he brought out a nickel.

  “See that?” he asked. “That’s my authority.”

  “Five cents’ worth?”

  “No. When I drop that nickel into the coin box of a pay telephone and call police headquarters, I’ll have all the authority I need to back up anything I want to do.”

  I felt Hale’s eyes burning into mine, saw Bertha’s glittering stare of intense concentration, and the fixed, cold-blooded determination of Pellingham’s gray eyes.

  “Are you going to come with me now?”

  Pellingham said, “Go ahead and drop your nickel,” and started for the door.

  Bertha Cool and Emory Hale stood completely petrified, looking at me as though I’d dropped a mask and turned out to be a stranger.

  Pellingham took it all as a matter of course. He might have been expecting that particular development in that particular way, from the minute he had opened the interview. He marched calmly and without hurry toward a telephone booth.

  The agency car was outside. I jumped in it and made time. I had to make a detour to be safe, up through Burbank to Van Nuys, then down to Ventura Boulevard, then through Sepulveda to Wilshire Boulevard, and into Los Angeles that way. I knew that Pellingham would have the other roads blocked by officers and a description of the agency car out.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I DIDN’T have time to bury the agency car. I simply drove it into a parking lot near the Palm View Hotel and left it.

  I went into the hotel, found the bell captain, and pulled a couple of dollars from my pocket.

  “Something I can do for you?” he asked.

  “I want about two dollars’ worth of information.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Sometime early this afternoon a woman who was registered here as Edna Cutler checked out.”

  “Lots of women check out.”

  “You’ll remember this one because she’s brunette and has a figure.”

  “I seem to remember her checking in. I don’t remember her checking out.”

  “She wouldn’t have had much baggage. There was another girl with her, a brunette with hazel eyes. She wore a black dress with a red belt, a red hat, and—”

  “I get you now. They got Jeb Miller’s cab.”

  “Know where I could find him?”

  “He should be outside now. He has a regular stand here.”

  I handed the bellboy the two dollars. He said, “Come on, and I’ll introduce you to Miller.”

  Jeb Miller listened to what I had to say. He squinted his eyes in an attempt to cudgel his memory into line. “Yeah, I remember the two dames,” he said. “I’m trying to remember where I took them. It was a little apartment house somewhere out on Thirty-fifth Street. I can’t remember the number. I could take you out there and—”

  I had the cab door open before he realized he was getting a passenger.

  “Don’t pay any attention to speed limits,” I told him.

  “Says who?” he asked. “An officer?”

  I pulled out my wallet. “Says the bankroll.”

  “Okay.”

  We started with a jerk. The signal at the corner changed as we got into motion, but Miller managed to skid around the corner just in advance of the oncoming avalanche of cross-street traffic. We had a run of three blocks before another signal changed against us, and Miller made a screaming turn to the right, caught an open signal at the next block, turned to the left, and gave it the gas.

  Once he had to stop for a closed signal and a stream of traffic pouring against him. The rest of the time it was nonstop.

  He pulled up in front of a little apartment house, an unpretentious, two-storied affair only some fifty feet in width, but running the length of a deep lot—the usual type of brick building with a half-hearted attempt made at freshening up the front by the use of white stucco and red tile.

  “This is the joint,” Miller said.

  I handed him a five-dollar bill.

  “Want me to wait?”

  “No. It won’t be necessary.”

  I consulted the directory. It was all filled up. Most of the cards, however, were slightly soiled. Some of them were printed.

  There was no name anywhere on the board which remotely resembled that of Edna Cutler, no card which seemed absolutely fresh.

  I pressed the button for the manager. After a while she came to the door.

  I gave her my most ingratiating smile. “Two young women who just moved in telephoned me about some automobile insurance. I’m from the Auto Club of Southern California. They wanted to get fixed up with driving licenses and insurance.”

  “You mean the New Orleans women?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you ring them? They’re in two-seventy-one.”

  I said, “I’m sorry. I must have had the wrong apartment number. I didn’t take down the name, just the number of the apartment. I must have transposed the figures. I had two-seventeen. It didn’t answer.”

  I gave her my best smile while she was thinking that over, and climbed the stairs.

  It was dark in the corridor. A ribbon of light was coming from under the door of apartment 271. I closed my fingers over the handle on the door, twisted the knob gently and noiselessly. When I felt the latch had freed, I tried a little pressure.