The two rows of regular teeth glistened at me. He was nodding his head and smiling. “A very astute young man,” he said to Bertha. “Very smart indeed! You notice? He puts his finger right on the keynote of the whole business.”

  Bertha’s waitress handed her the plate with the waffle. Bertha put on two squares of butter. The waitress said, “There’s melted butter in that pitcher, ma’am.”

  Bertha tilted the pitcher of melted butter over the waffle, piled on sirup, said, “Bring me another pot of pure coffee and fill up that cream pitcher.” She turned to Hale. “I told you he was a brainy little cuss.”

  Hale nodded. “I’m very well satisfied with my selection of the agency. I feel quite certain you’ll handle the matter satisfactorily.”

  I said, “I don’t want to seem insistent, Mr. Hale, but—”

  He laughed aloud. For the moment, his teeth almost parted. “I know. I know,” he said. “You’re going to come back to the original question. Well, Mr. Lam, I’ll tell you. We want to find her in order to close up an estate. I regret that I can’t tell you anything else. After all, you know, I am working for a client. I am governed by his wishes. It would be well for you to adopt a similar attitude.”

  Bertha washed down a mouthful of waffle with a gulp of hot coffee, said, “You mean he’s not supposed to start backtracking in order to find out what it’s all about?”

  Hale said, “My client will see that you are given the necessary information, and inasmuch as he is in reality your employer—well, I think you can appreciate what an embarrassing circumstance it would be if friction should develop.”

  Bertha Cool frowned across at me. “You get that, Donald,” she said. “Don’t go playing around with a lot of theories. You stick to the job in hand. Find that Fenn girl and quit worrying about who wants her. You understand? Forget that romantic angle.”

  Hale glanced over at me, to see how I was taking it. Then he looked back at Bertha. “That’s being put a great deal more bluntly than I’d have said it, Mrs. Cool.”

  Bertha said, “I know. You’d have done a lot of palavering around. This gets it over with. There’s no misunderstanding this way. I don’t mince words. I hate beating around the bush.”

  He smiled. “You’re a very direct woman, Mrs. Cool.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “What else can you tell me about Roberta Fenn?” I asked.

  Hale said, “I gave Mrs. Cool most of the details while I was on the train.”

  “How about close relatives?” I asked.

  “She had none.”

  I said, “Yet you’re trying to find her to close up an estate?”

  Hale put a big hand on my arm in a fatherly gesture. “Now, Lam,” he said, “I thought I’d made myself clear on that.”

  “You have,” Bertha said. “Do you want daily reports?”

  “I should like them, yes.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “In my New York office.”

  “Suppose we find her, then what?”

  Hale said, “Frankly, I doubt if you will. It’s a cold trail, and a tough assignment. If you do find her—I shall be very much pleased. You will, of course, let me know at once. I feel certain my client will make some substantial acknowledgment by way of a bonus.”

  Hale looked around cautiously. “I feel that I should tell you: Don’t do any talking. Make your inquiries casual. If you have to ask direct questions, ask them in such a way as not to arouse suspicion. Pose as a friend of a friend. You happened to be coming to New Orleans, and your friend suggested you should look up Roberta Fenn. Make it casual and entirely natural. Don’t be too eager, and don’t leave any back trail.”

  Bertha said, “Leave it to us.”

  Hale looked at his watch, then beckoned the waitress. “The check, please.”

  Chapter Four

  BERTHA COOL looked around the apartment, peering here and there into odd corners as a woman will.

  “Darn good antique furniture,” she said.

  I didn’t say anything, and after a moment she added, “If you like it.” She walked over to the windows, looked out on the balcony, turned back to look at the furniture, and said, “I don’t.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  She said, “My God, Donald, use your head! For years I was weighing around two hundred and seventy-five pounds. Somebody was always inviting me out to dinner and throwing a Louis the Quinze chair at me, some damn spindle-legged imitation of a narrow-seated, lozenge-backed abortion in mahogany.”

  “Did you sit in them?” I asked.

  “Sit in them, hell! I wouldn’t have minded so much if the hostesses had used their heads, but none of them did. They’d lead the crowd into the dining-room, and then stand and look at what had been assigned as a parking place for my fanny. In place of doing anything, the nitwit hostess would stand there, looking first at me and then at the damn chair. You’d think it was the first time she’d realized I had to sit down when I ate. One of them told me afterward she just didn’t know what to do, because she was afraid I’d feel conspicuous if she had the maid bring me another chair.

  “I told her that wouldn’t make me feel half as conspicuous as sitting down on one of those gingersnaps on ornamental stilts and having the damn thing fold up with me like a collapsed accordion. I hate the stuff.”

  We prowled around the apartment some more. Bertha Cool picked a studio couch, tried it tentatively, then finally settled back, opened her purse, fished out a cigarette, and said, “I don’t see we’re a damn bit nearer what we want than when we started.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  She scraped a match on the sole of her shoe, lit the cigarette, glowered at me belligerently, and said, “Well?”

  I said, “She lived here.”

  “What if she did?”

  “She lived here under the name of Edna Cutler.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  I said, “We know where she lived. We know the alias she was using. During the time she was here, there was a lot of rain in New Orleans. She’d be eating out. Particularly on the rainy days, she wouldn’t go very far. There are two or three restaurants within two blocks of the place. We’ll cover those and see what we can find out.”

  Bertha glanced at her wrist watch. I got up, walked over to the door, and went out.

  There was a flight of noisy stairs down to a patio, then a long passageway. I made a right-angled turn past another patio, and came out on Royal Street. I walked down to the corner and saw a sign, Bourbon House. I walked over there.

  It was typical of the real French Quarter restaurant— not the tourist-trap affairs that put on a lot of glitter and charge all the traffic will bear, but a place where the prices were low and the food good. There were no frills or la-de-dah, and the place catered to regular customers.

  I knew I’d struck pay dirt. Anyone who was living in that section of the Quarter would hang out there pretty regularly.

  I walked over to the door that led to a bar, then turned back to the room that had the lunch counter, a couple of pinball machines, and a juke box.

  “Want something?” the man behind the counter asked.

  “Cup of pure coffee and some nickels for the pinball machine,” I said, tossing four bits on the counter.

  He handed me the nickels and drew off the coffee.

  Two or three men were hanging around one of the pinball machines, giving it a good play. I gathered from their conversation they were regulars around the place. The juke box clicked into noise. A feminine voice said, “May I have your attention, please. This song is dedicated to the management.” Then the juke box started playing Way Down Upon the Swanee River.

  I took from my pocket the pictures Hale had given me. Just as I tasted the coffee, I gave an exclamation of disgust.

  “What’s the matter?” the man behind the counter asked. “Something wrong with the coffee?”

  “No,” I said. “Something wrong with the photographs.”

  He looked puzzled, but sympathetic.

  I said, “The photographer gave me the wrong ones. I wonder where mine are.”

  There was no one else at the counter at the moment. The man leaned across the bar, and I casually swung the pictures around so he could take a look.

  I said, “I suppose now I’m out of luck. They’ll have mixed the films up, given mine to someone else, and I’ll never see them again.”

  “Perhaps they just switched the orders,” he said. “You got this girl’s pictures, and she got yours.”

  “That isn’t going to help any. How am I going to find her?”

  He said, “Say, I’ve seen that girl! I think she used to eat in here once in a while. Wait a minute. I’ll ask one of the boys.”

  He motioned to the colored waiter, handed him one of the pictures. “Who’s this girl?” he asked.

  The waiter took the picture, turned it toward the light, and said instantly, “Ah don’ know her name, but she ate heah about two-three years ago quite regular. Ah don’ think she comes heah no mo’.”

  “Left town?” I asked.

  “No, suh. Ah don’ rightly think so. Ah seen her on the street about a month ago. She just ain’t been in heah, that’s all.”

  I said, “Well, there’s a chance the photographer may know. She seems to have been in there recently with this roll of pictures. They’re nearly all of her.”

  “Ah’ll tell you where Ah seen her,” the colored boy said. “Ah seen her about a month ago comin’ out of Jack O’Leary’s Bar. Somebody was with her.”

  “Man?” I asked.

  “Yes, suh.”

  “You didn’t know the man?”

  “No, suh, Ah don’. He was a tall man with kinda big hands, carryin’ a briefcase.”

  “How old?”

  “Maybe fifty, maybe fifty-five. Ah don’ remember rightly, suh. He was a stranger to me. Ah just happened to remember the girl and that she didn’t eat here no mo’. Ah used to wait on her when she was here.”

  “Can you tell me anything more about this man?” 1 asked.

  The waiter thought for a minute, then said, “Yes, suh.”

  “What?”

  “He looked like he was holdin’ somethin’ in his mouth,” he said.

  I didn’t press the inquiry any further. I paid for the coffee, went over and stood watching the boys who were playing the pinball machine, and after a few minutes walked out.

  I went down to Jack O’Leary’s Bar. At this hour there wasn’t so much of a crowd. I climbed up on one of the stools and ordered a gin and Seven-Up.

  The bartender brought my drink, waited on another customer, then drifted over my way.

  “What’s the picture?” I asked, showing him the photograph.

  “Huh?”

  I said, “It was here on this stool next to me, face down. I thought it was a piece of paper and was going to crumple it up. Then I saw it was a photograph.”

  He took a good look at it and frowned.

  I said, “She must have dropped it here—must have been someone who was here a minute ago, sitting on that stool.”

  He shook his head, even while he was trying to think, said, “No. She wasn’t there a minute ago, but I’ve seen her. Wonder how that picture got there. She was in here —seems like it was quite a while ago. I’m certain she hasn’t been in today.”

  “Know her?” I asked.

  He said, “I know her when I see her, but I don’t know her name.”

  I put the picture in my pocket. He hesitated a moment as though debating the ethics of the situation, then moved away.

  I finished my drink and went out to stand on the street corner, thinking things over.

  I put myself in the position of a young woman-hairdresser, manicure, cleaning and dyeing.

  There was a beauty shop across the street and part way down the block. A woman who seemed bubbling over with good-natured friendliness came to the door when she saw me fumbling around with the knob.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  I said, “I’m trying to find out something about a woman. She’s a customer of yours,” and pushed the best picture of Roberta Fenn in front of her.

  She recognized the picture instantly, said, “She hasn’t been here for as much as a couple of years, I guess. She used to come in quite regularly. I can’t think of her name now, but she was a good customer—came down here from Boston or Detroit or some place up north. I think she was looking for work when she first came here, and then she didn’t seem to worry about it any more.”

  “Perhaps she got a job.”

  “No. She didn’t. She used to come down weekdays around the middle of the day. I used to see her going out for breakfast around eleven o’clock, sometimes not until afternoon.”

  “You don’t know whether she’s still in town?”

  “I don’t think she is, because she’d have been in. We were friends—well, you know, she liked my work and liked to talk with me. I think she was-say, why do you want to know?”

  I said, “I—well—she’s a nice girl. It means a lot to me —I should never have lost track of her,”

  “Oh.” She smiled. “Well, I wish I could help you, but I can’t. I’ve got a customer in there. In case she shows up again, do you want to leave a message for her?”

  I shook my head and said, “If she’s in town, I’ll find her myself,” and then added with a little smile, “I think it would be better that way.”

  “It would for a fact,” the woman said.

  I trudged on down the street to a cleaning establishment. It was a combination residence and business place, with a counter half across the front room. I pulled out the picture, said, “Know this girl?”

  The woman who was in charge of the place looked at the picture, said, “Yes. She used to place a lot of work through me. That’s Miss Cutler, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Know where she is now?”

  “No, I don’t—that is, I can’t tell you where she’s living.”

  “She’s here in town, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, yes. I saw her on the street about—oh, let me see, I guess it was about six weeks ago. I don’t get uptown very often. This place keeps me tied down. I can’t leave it unless I have someone else to put in charge.”

  “What street?” I asked.

  “Canal. It was—let me see, it was just about five-thirty in the evening, and she was walking down the street. I don’t think she recognized me. I have a pretty good memory for faces, and I see lots of my customers when I’m out on the street.” She smiled. “Lots of times they know they’ve seen me before, but can’t place me, because they’ve been accustomed to seeing me behind the counter here. I never speak to them unless they speak to me.”

  I thanked her and went back to the apartment. Bertha Cool was lounging back in a chair, smoking a cigarette, with a glass of Scotch and soda on the little table by the side of the chair.

  “How you doing?” she asked.

  “Not too good.”

  “Like hunting for a needle in a haystack,” Bertha said. “My God, Donald, I’ve found the most wonderful restaurant.”

  “Where?”

  “Right up the street here.”

  “I thought you’d had your one meal for the day. I didn’t know you were hungry. I just came back now to see if you wanted something to eat.”

  “No, lover, not now. I find I get along better if I don’t let myself get too hungry. Just eat a little something to take the keen edge off my appetite.”

  I nodded and waited.

  A dreamy look of satisfaction came over Bertha’s face. She all but smacked her lips. “Gumbo with rice,” she said, “I thought it would be light.”

  “Was it?”

  “It was a meal, but what a meal.”

  “Had enough?” I asked. “Want to go out for a bite to eat with me now?”

  “Don’t you say food to me again, Donald Lam! I’ve had my quota for the day. I’ll have some tea and toast tonight and that’ll be all.”

  I said, “Well, I’m going to grab a bite to eat and stay on the job.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  Bertha said, “I don’t know why I’m here.”

  “Neither do I.”

  She said, “That lawyer insisted on my coming. He said that after you’d found her I could talk with her better than you could. He had the money to pay for it, and since he was giving the party, I decided to attend.”

  “That’s right.”

  Bertha said, “It would be swell if we could get that bonus.”

  “Wouldn’t it!”

  “How do things look?”

  “I can’t tell yet. Well, I’m on my way.”

  I went back to Royal Street and walked down toward Canal, picking my way along the sidewalk which had been paved years ago by embedding huge, flat-surfaced rocks in the dirt and connecting them with cement.

  Some of the rocks had sunk more than others. Some of them had tilted slightly. The general effect was artistic, but not conducive to blind walking.

  I was halfway to Canal Street when the idea struck me. I went into a telephone booth and started calling the business colleges.

  The second one gave me everything I needed. No, they didn’t know any Edna Cutler, but a Miss Fenn had taken a course and had been a very apt pupil. Yes, they’d been able to place her. She was in one of the banks. She was secretary to the manager. Just a minute and they’d give me the address.

  It was that simple.

  The manager of the bank was a human sort of chap. I told him that I was trying to get some information which would enable me to close up an estate and asked him if I might talk with his secretary. He said he’d send her out in a few minutes.

  Roberta Fenn looked exactly like her pictures. She was perhaps twenty-six from the standpoint of statistics, but she looked around twenty-two or perhaps twenty-three. She had a quick smile, clear, alert eyes, and a well-modulated, pleasant voice. “Something that you wanted to know?” she asked. “Mr. Black said you were trying to close up an estate.”