If I’d given him Louie Hazen’s one-two shift in the solar plexus, I couldn’t have given him more of a jolt.

  “If I were in your shoes,” I went on, “I’d have considered the amnesia as just about the best break I’d had in ten years.”

  He said with conviction, “When he finds out how she’s deceived him, he’ll walk out on her. It will hurt for a while, but he’ll walk out.”

  I said, “You’re wrong. He won’t find out. Personally, I’m going to get something to eat. I’ll see you in about twenty minutes.”

  I walked out and left him alone with Bertha.

  I strolled down the street to a bar, got a toothpick, and came back to Bertha Cool’s room. She was alone. “Where’s Whitewell?” I asked.

  “Gone to get some things together. You really shouldn’t have handled him that way, lover. You’ve always had a chip on your shoulder with him.”

  “I gave him a break with that amnesia business, and he was too dumb to realize it,” I said.

  “No, not dumb. Just confident that Philip will do exactly what he expects him to do.”

  “Philip is in love.”

  “Donald, what about that letter he sent. What was in it?”

  “Nothing much.”

  She glared at me. The phone rang. She picked it up, listened a moment after she’d said, “Hello,” and then said, “Okay, we’ll be on our way.”

  She hung up. “Philip has chartered a plane. That and the one you brought from Reno will take us all. We start at once. Donald, what was in that letter?”

  I started for the door. “Let’s get going.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  BERTHA went in the plane with me. The others followed in the plane Philip had chartered. At the last minute, Paul Endicott decided he’d go along, too, just for the ride.

  The drone of the plane motor lulled me to sleep shortly after the take-off. Occasionally, Bertha would prod me into wakefulness with questions. I’d answer in muttered monosyllables and return to the warm comfort of sleep.

  “You mustn’t fight with Arthur Whitewell, Donald.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You little devil, Bertha knew you weren’t falling for a woman. You fall in love with them all right, and I mean really in love, but you’re more in love with your profession than with any woman. Answer me, Donald. Isn’t that right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Tell me, did Helen Framley kill that man she was living with?”

  “She wasn’t living with him.”

  “Oh, splash!”

  “It was a business partnership.”

  Bertha snorted. “Pickle me for a beet.”

  I didn’t say anything. After a few minutes, Bertha said, “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “What?”

  “Whether she murdered him.”

  “I hope she didn’t.”

  I didn’t have to look up to realize that her glittering little eyes were searching every line of my face, trying to surprise some telltale expression. “Helen Framley knows a lot about who committed that murder.”

  “Perhaps.”

  ‘Something she hasn’t told the police.”

  “Possibly.”

  “I’ll bet she’s told you what it is. You wormed it out of her, you little devil. My God, Donald, how do you do it? Do you hypnotize them? I guess you must. You can’t give them the cave-man stuff. You make them come to you. I guess it’s your readiness to fight at the drop of the hat, even when you know you’re going to get licked. I guess that’s it. Women love a fighter.”

  I felt my head jerk forward as I all but slipped into unconsciousness. Bertha pulled me back with her patter.

  “Listen, lover, has it ever occurred to you what’s going to happen next?”

  “What?”

  “Whitewell has money, influence, and brains. He isn’t going to be pushed around.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I’ll bet that Framley girl would do just about anything you asked her.”

  That didn’t seem to call for any reply.

  Bertha said, “I’ll bet the person who did the job is sweating blood right now. Suppose this Framley girl really does know who killed him?”

  I said, “I think she does.”

  “Then she’s told you.”

  “No.”

  “But she’ll tell the police—if they ask her.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Donald.”

  “What?”

  “Do you suppose the murderer knows that?”

  “Knows what?”

  “That she won’t talk.”

  I said, “That depends on who the murderer is.”

  Bertha said suddenly, “Donald, you know who the murderer is, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “Whether or not I know.”

  Bertha said, “That’s a hell of an answer.”

  “Isn’t it,” I agreed and went sound asleep in the few seconds of glaring silence which followed. When I woke up, we were droning in for a landing at the Reno airport. It had been the change in the tempo of the motor that had wakened me.

  Bertha Cool was sitting very erect and dignified, endeavoring to show her displeasure by a cutting silence. We came circling in to a landing, and the other plane was right on our tail, following us in within just a few minutes.

  Paul Endicott said, “I notice there’s a plane leaving here for San Francisco within the next fifteen minutes. I see no reason for driving uptown with you and then rushing back. I’ve enjoyed the ride, and guess we’re all straightened out now.” He looked searchingly into Whitewell’s eyes and said, “Here’s luck, old man.”

  They shook hands.

  Philip said, “I’m the one who is going to need the luck. Do you suppose she’ll know me, Dad?”

  Whitewell said dryly, “I have an idea she will.” Endicott gave Philip a handshake. “Keep the old chin up and take it in your stride. We’re pulling for you, all of us.”

  Philip tried to say something, but his quivering lips mumbled the words. Endicott covered his embarrassment by keeping right on with a line of patter, never stopping, so Philip would not have to say anything.

  We stood there in a little compact group waiting for the taxicab for which we had telephoned. I told them I had to telephone and excused myself. I wanted to check on Helen and Louie, but the Acme Filling Station out on the Susanville highway wasn’t listed in the phone book. I came back and stood around stamping my feet against the cold, waiting for the cab. At length, it drew up and we piled in. Arthur Whitewell stopped for a last word with Endicott, then they shook hands and Whitewell crawled into the jump seat.

  “What’s the name of the hospital?” Bertha asked. “The Haven of Mercy,” I told the driver, and glanced at Arthur Whitewell’s face. It was, set in expressionless immobility. He might have been posing for an old-fashioned time exposure, and concentrating on not even batting an eyelash. Philip was the exact opposite. He kept biting his lip, tugging at his ear, fidgeting uneasily in his seat, looking out of the window of the cab, trying to avoid our eyes, doubtless wishing that he could escape our thoughts.

  We pulled up in front of the hospital. I said pointedly to Bertha, “This will be strictly a family affair.” Arthur Whitewell looked across at his son. “I think, Philip, you’d better go up alone,” he said. “If the shock of seeing you doesn’t clear things up, don’t let it discourage you too much. We’ll have Dr. Hinderkeld come up, and he’ll get results.”

  “And if seeing me does clear things up for her?” Philip asked.

  His father dropped a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be waiting.”

  Bertha Cool looked at me.

  I said, “It gives me the creeps to wait around a hospital. I’ll be back in an hour. That will be early enough in case I can do anything to help, and if I can’t, it will give you time enough to get adjusted.”

  Bertha asked, “Where are you going?”

  “Oh, there are some things I want to do,” I said. “I’ll keep the cab.”

  Whitewell said to Bertha, “It looks as though you and I were going to be left to pace the floor in the expectant-fathers department.”

  “Not me,” Bertha said. “I’ll ride uptown with Donald. We’ll be back here in an hour. And then breakfast?”

  “Excellent,” he said.

  Bertha nodded to me.

  Whitewell said to Bertha, loud enough so Philip could hear, “I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate—Oh, well, we’ll talk about that later. I’m certain you understand.” He placed his hand affectionately on Bertha’s shoulder. “Your understanding and sympathy have meant more to me than you’ll ever realize. And I’ll expect you to control—the entire situation. You—” His voice choked. He gave her shoulder a quick pat and turned away.

  Philip, who had been making inquiries at the desk, entered an elevator with a nurse. Arthur Whitewell was settling himself in a chair as Bertha and I went out into the cold chill of the mountain air.

  “Well,” I said casually, “we’ll take the cab back uptown and—”

  Bertha’s hand clutched my arm. She swung me around so that I faced her, pushed me back against the wall of the hospital. “To hell with that stuff,” she said. “You can stall those other guys, but you can’t stall me. Where are you going?”

  “Out to see Helen Framley.”

  “So’m I,” Bertha said.

  “I don’t need a chaperon.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  I said, “Use your head. She’ll be in bed. I can’t go out there and wake her up and say, ‘Permit me to present Mrs. Cool—’ “

  “Nuts. If she’s in bed, you’re not going near her. You’re not the type. You’d stand guard in front of the door. Donald Lam, what the hell are you up to?”

  “I told you.”

  “Yes, you did. I’m getting so I know you like a book. You’ve got some trick up your sleeve.”

  “All right,” I said. “Come along if you want to.”

  “That’s better.”

  We walked down to the taxicab.

  “What is it?” Bertha asked.

  I told the cab driver, “I want you to drive out of town until I tell you to stop, then let us off, and wait until we come back.”

  He looked at me suspiciously.

  “Set your speedometer at zero when you cross the railroad tracks. I’ll want to get mileage from time to time. You’ll get waiting time while we’re gone, but I don’t want the lights on or the motor running. Do you get me?”

  He said somewhat dubiously, “I know you’re okay, but on a trip out of town that way where we’re left waiting by a highway, we’re supposed to get—”

  I handed him ten dollars. “That enough?” I asked him. “That’s perfectly swell,” he said with a grin.

  “Set the speedometer at zero as you cross the tracks.”

  “Right.”

  Bertha Cool settled back against the cushions. “Give me a cigarette, lover, and tell me what the hell all this is about.”

  “Who murdered Jannix?” I asked, handing her the cigarette.

  “How should I know?”

  I said, “Someone who was close to Arthur Whitewell.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “That’s exactly it. Jannix had been playing the thing from the blackmail angle. Someone double-crossed him.” Bertha forgot to light her cigarette. “Let’s get this straight,” she said, leaning forward.

  “The first part of it is a cinch. Helen Framley didn’t write to Corla Burke. Someone did, someone who gave Helen Framley’s name, and told Corla to reply.”

  “Well?”

  “Get the idea?”

  “No,” Bertha said shortly.

  “If Corla had walked into that trap, if she’d gone ahead and married Philip Whitewell, the marriage would, of course, have been bigamous. Her understanding would have been that Jannix would get a divorce. You know what would have happened. There never would have been any divorce. He’d have kept bleeding her white. Once she married Philip, she never could make a move to get the divorce. Jannix had her then where he wanted her.” -

  “And you don’t think Helen Framley wrote that letter?”

  “I know she didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “For one thing, she told me so. For another thing, it wasn’t the sort of letter she’d have written to a woman in Corla Burke’s position. Someone must have written that letter—and it was someone who was close to Helen Framley.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because he told Corla to send the reply to Helen Framley at General Delivery.”

  “Why not send it to her at her apartment?”

  “Because Helen Framley wasn’t to get it. When she first went to Las Vegas, she’d been getting mail at General Delivery. Jannix had been picking it up occasionally, and probably held her written authorization to deliver any mail addressed to her.”

  “I get you now,” Bertha said.

  “The post-office authorities were too obliging. That was something the conspirators hadn’t anticipated.”

  “I see, I see,” Bertha said. “Go on from there. They delivered the letter directly to Helen Framley. It didn’t make sense to her. But why did Jannix get killed?”

  “Because Jannix was in on it, but he didn’t think it up by himself. Someone was back of him, someone who wanted—”

  “To cut in on the blackmail?” Bertha asked.

  “No,” I said. “That was the bait they held out to Jannix. But whoever did it was someone who knew Corla Burke well enough to know she’d never go through with the wedding under those circumstances. Therefore, it was someone who wanted to stop the wedding. It wasn’t done for the purpose of blackmail.”

  “Who did it? Who was back of it all?”

  “Any number of people, Arthur Whitewell, any one of the Dearbornes—or all three of them. It might have been Endicott, and it might have been Philip himself.” ‘

  “Go ahead.”

  “It was a nice scheme. It worked perfectly. The only trouble with it was that after it worked, Jannix realized he’d been played for a sucker. He didn’t like it. So Jannix threatened to talk.”

  “And got a dose of lead as a consequence?” Bertha asked. “That’s right.”

  Bertha said, “Arthur Whitewell wouldn’t do anything like that.”

  “He hasn’t any alibi.”

  “How about the Dearbornes?” Bertha pointed out. “They’re a lean, hungry bunch of crusaders. I wouldn’t trust any one of them as far as I could throw a bull by the tail up a forty-five-degree slope.”

  “That’s okay with me.”

  The cab swung down the lighted expanse of Reno’s main gambling street, jolted across the tracks, and headed out past the tree-lined residential district. Bertha said, “So you’re going to go see Helen Framley and try to get the information out of her?”

  “I’m going to leave her out of it. All I’m doing is making certain that the other person leaves her out of it.”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “When I left you in Las Vegas, I was very careful to leave under such circumstances that you’d make a loud squawk. I wanted you to tell everyone who had any connection with the case just what a heel I’d turned out to be, that I’d run away with Helen Framley. That information wouldn’t have meant much except to one person.”

  “Who?”

  “The murderer.”

  “Fiddlesticks. I don’t think there’s anything to that. You’re in love with that girl, Donald Lam, and because you are, you’re worrying about her. But in case you’re right, I’m going to be in on the finish.”

  I said, “You can wait in the cab if you want to.”

  “But no one could possibly get out there for a long while.”

  “I’m not so certain about that. Remember that Endicott stayed behind at the Reno airport; that Arthur Whitewell didn’t go up to the room with his son; that Ogden Dear-borne is a pilot and has a quarter interest in an airplane. He didn’t say anything about placing that at Philip’s disposal. Why?”

  “Perhaps because he only owned a one-quarter interest.”

  “That may be, and then again he may have wanted to go somewhere in a hurry himself.”

  “Or with his ‘sister?” Bertha asked.

  “Or his mother.”

  Bertha Cool said, “Well, of all the saps! That’s what comes of having a detective get lovesick. I’d have beet more comfortable waiting in the hospital. I think you’re nuts.”

  “You don’t have to come with me. I told you the cab would take you back.”

  Bertha Cool said, “That’s just it. If I stay out here and shiver and freeze, not a damn thing will turn up. If I bawl you out for being lovesick, take the cab and go back to Reno, you’ll trap the murderer within thirty minutes, make a big grandstand and have the laugh on me. Nuts to you, Donald Lam. I’m going to stay with the show.”

  “All right,” I said, “suit yourself.”

  “You should know me well enough by this time to know that I always do,” she snapped.

  I cupped my hands up against the windowpane of the taxicab, and looked out, trying to get landmarks. We climbed a little hill, made the curve, started down on the other side. The gasoline station with the lone cabin a hundred-odd feet in the rear showed briefly as black splotches against the sky. Then they had swept on behind us.

  I slid open the window. “Stop the car right here, will you?”

  He swung the car over to the side of the road. “Don’t race the engine, just cut it off, and switch out your lights.”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “I want you to wait here.”

  He put on his brakes, shut off motor and lights, and said, “I think you got your distances wrong. There ain’t a thing near here.”

  “It’s all right,” I told him. “I’ll get out and look around.”

  Bertha got out with me. In the eastern sky there was a streak of dim light which as yet had no color. The desert chill seemed intensified after the warmth of the taxicab.

  We started walking. The cab driver looked after us for a few moments, then turned back, settled down in his car, and huddled into his overcoat.