“It’s your story,” Kleinsmidt said. “So let’s hear the next installment.”

  “Corla got to brooding over it. She was on the verge of a nervous breakdown from overwork, anyway. She started out to investigate. Naturally, it wasn’t anything she could entrust to anyone else, and she had to make a stall so she could get away and postpone the wedding until she could find out.”

  “That shouldn’t have taken her long.”

  “It wouldn’t have,” I said,’ “if the shock hadn’t thrown her off her trolley. They found her yesterday wandering around in Reno without the faintest idea of who she was or how she happened to get there.”

  Kleinsmidt’s eyes narrowed into slits. He said, “Remember, Lam, I played ball with you once. I got my fingers hurt. Your pitching is full of curves. This time you’ve got to give me something that will stand up with the chief.”

  “What do you suppose I’m doing now?” I asked him.

  “I’m damned if I know. And I’m a little suspicious.”

  I said, “Endicott was fighting for all the delay he could get. Jannix was to back his play. He was to be the witness who‘d swear Corla’s father was in the pen. Endicott was going to pay him. You know Jannix. He was hot tempered and a little suspicious anyway. Endicott made the mistake of coming to see him, and caught Jannix in one of his more suspicious moments. When he left, Jannix was dead.”

  “Very, very nice,” Kleinsmidt said. “Only it’s full of holes. It’s bum stuff, even for a theory. You wouldn’t, by any chance, have any facts to back up this fairy story, would you?”

  “Lots of them.”

  Kleinsmidt said, “Well, you might begin by telling me how it happened Endicott could have done this at the exact moment he was sitting in a picture show. The chief would be interested in that. He’s funny that way, the chief is.”

  I said, “If a woman had killed Jannix, he was killed between eight-fifty and nine-fifteen. If a man killed him, he might have been killed any time.”

  “How interesting!”

  “The trouble with you,” I said, “is that you got a theory and then tried to fit the facts to it. Your idea was that because the people who lived in the adjoining apartment hadn’t heard a shot, the shot must have been fired while they were-out.”

  “Try firing a shot in there without that old dame hearing it,” Kleinsmidt said.

  “Sure. She didn’t hear a shot. She was out at the train. Therefore, the murder must have been committed while she was out.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with that?”

  “Suppose she hadn’t gone out?”

  “Then she’d have heard the shot.”

  “Would she?”

  “Of course, she would.”

  “But suppose she hadn’t?”

  “I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

  “If she hadn’t,” I said, “you’d have tried to find out why, wouldn’t you?”

  “Naturally.”

  I said, “The body was found in an apartment. The people in the adjoining apartment had been out from eight-fifty to nine-twenty. This made it very nice for you. You were able to narrow the crime down to a thirty-minute interval and start asking questions, accordingly. Well, if a woman had killed him, that would have been all right.”

  “Why does a man make it any different?”

  I said, “A big, powerful man could have shot him in the alley or in an automobile or out in an auto camp, loaded the body into a car, parked in the alley, thrown the body over his shoulder, taken it up to Helen Framley’s apartment and dumped it. Then he could have gone to a picture show and started building himself an alibi. Didn’t it ever occur to you as slightly strange that Endicott dashed in to Las Vegas just to see a movie? He must be some little fan.”

  Kleinsmidt shook his head. “It’s lousy,” he said. “It stinks.”

  “All right, you wanted me to give you something you could take to the chief. Don’t say I didn’t do it.”

  “It’s your story,” Kleinsmidt said. “Even the way you tell it, it’s full of holes. If I tried to put it across, it would rise up and hit me on the chin.”

  “Okay, it’s your funeral.”

  “It may be my funeral,” he said, “but you’re going to be the chief mourner. Come on.”

  I said to Bertha, “You can address my mail care of Lieutenant Kleinsmidt.”

  “Like hell I will,” Bertha said, getting to her feet. “Who the devil do you think you are?” she demanded, glaring at Kleinsmidt. “You aren’t going to get away with this. I guess they’ve got lawyers in this town.”

  Kleinsmidt said, “Sure they have. You go right ahead and get ‘em. Mr. Lam is coming with me.”

  Kleinsmidt took my arm. “Let’s go quietly,” he said. We went quietly. Bertha Cool was standing in the doorway, saying uncomplimentary things to Kleinsmidt. He didn’t pay any attention to her.

  As we walked through the lobby, Kleinsmidt said, “I’m sorry, Lam. I hate to do this, but that story just doesn’t hold water. Why don’t you think up a good one?”

  “Okay by me. Don’t overlook Bertha, though. She won’t take this lying down. Later on, when you have a chance to think things over, Lieutenant, this is going to be your embarrassing moment. You can write a prize-winning letter on it.”

  “I know,” he said, “you’re a plausible cuss, but if you talked me out of this, I’d never hear the last of it.”

  He took me down to headquarters. He didn’t, put hie in a cell, but left me in an office with an officer standing guard. Around noon, Chief Laster came in.

  The chief said, “Bill Kleinsmidt has been talking with me.”

  “That’s good.”

  “And Mrs. Cool is waiting in the other room with a lawyer and a writ of habeas corpus.”

  “Bertha’s a two-fisted individual. She makes her compromise with a club.”

  He said, “That theory of yours doesn’t sound as crazy to me as it did to Bill Kleinsmidt.”

  “It’s just a theory,” I told him.

  “You evidently had some evidence on which to base it.”

  “Nothing I’d care to discuss.”

  “But you had some?”

  “No. It was just an idea.”

  He said, “I’d like to know just what gave it to you.”

  “Oh, just an idea.”

  He shook his head. “You had something more to tie to than just an idea. Did the girl tell you something?”

  I raised my eyebrows, said with exaggerated surprise, “Why? Does she know anything?”

  “That’s not answering my question. Did she tell you something?”

  “I’m certain I couldn’t remember. We talked about a lot of things. You know how it is, Chief, when you’re with a girl for several days.”

  “And nights,” he said.

  I didn’t say anything.

  He pinched his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, pulled it way out, then released it, and let it slide back. After a while, he said, “You’re a queer one.”

  “What’s the matter now?”

  He said, “After Bill told me about that theory of yours, I went out and went over the premises inch by inch. We covered the stairs, taking each stair at a time. We found half a dozen drops of blood.”

  “Did you indeed?”

  He said, “That knocks Endicott’s alibi into a cocked hat.”

  “Have you asked him about it?”

  “We can’t. He’s skipped.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. He went to Reno with you last night, and that’s the last anyone has seen of him.”

  “Didn’t he take the San Francisco plane?”

  “No.”

  “What does Whitewell say?”

  “Whitewell is saying a lot. I talked with him over the telephone. He’s having auditors in.”

  I said, “Well, that’s all very interesting, but I’d advise you not to keep Bertha Cool waiting. She’s capable of sudden, unexpected action.”

  The chief got up with a sigh. “I wish you’d tell me what evidence you had to go on. It would help a lot.”

  “I’m sorry. It was just a theory of mine.”

  “You certainly had some sort of a tip.”

  “I don’t see how you arrive at that conclusion. It seems to me it’s a perfectly fair and logical deduction from the evidence. Just because a body is found in a certain place doesn’t necessarily mean that the crime was committed there.”

  “When are you leaving Las Vegas?” he asked.

  “As soon as I can get a plane out, and I’m not going to talk with any newspaper reporters, and as far as I’m concerned, you’re the one who solved the crime.”

  He shifted his eyes and said, “Oh, I don’t care anything about that.”

  “Well, I’m just telling you in case you did.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  MY TELEPHONE rang two minutes after the alarm went off. I picked up the receiver. It was Bertha on the other end of the line. “Are you awake, lover?”

  “I am now.”

  “Bertha didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Mr. Whitewell called up. Apparently, he’s stuck for about forty thousand dollars on the shortage.”

  “Too bad.”

  “He’s asked me to meet him at my office at eight o’clock so he can make a complete settlement.”

  “Why so early?”

  “He’s going to have to go to San Francisco on the ten o’clock plane.”

  “I see.”

  “And I wanted to call you up to be sure I had all your expenses—that trip of yours to Reno, and all those incidentals.”

  “I made an account, itemized it, and put it in an envelope on your desk. You’ll find it there.”

  “All right, that’s fine.”

  “If you want to talk with me,” I said, “you can call me at the Golden Motto. I’m going there for breakfast.”

  “All right, lover.”

  “You had breakfast?” I asked.

  She said, “I’m only taking fruit juice for breakfast these days. I just can’t seem to get my appetite back.”

  “All right, I’ll be in the office after breakfast.”

  I hung up the phone, took a shower, shaved, dressed leisurely, and walked down to the Golden Motto.

  The woman who ran the joint was looking rather groggy. “Good morning,” I said as I walked on through to the back room and took a seat at my favorite table.

  The waitress came for my order. “Ham and, easy over,” I said. “What’s the matter with the madam?”

  She laughed. “She’s having a fit. Don’t worry, she’ll be around to tell you about it. Tomato juice?”

  “A double tomato juice with a shot of Worcestershire. Bertha Cool may call for me. If she does—”

  “Okay, I’ll tell her you’re here. I—here she comes now.”

  I looked up as Bertha Cool came marching through the door with that determined, bulldog set to her chin, her eyes glinting.

  I got up and did the honors, seating her on the other side of the table.

  Bertha heaved a sigh which seemed to come from her boot tops, smiled at the waitress, and said, “I have a hell of a disposition when my stomach’s empty. Makes me feel like snapping somebody’s head off. Bring me a double order of oatmeal, ham and eggs easy over, a big pot of coffee, and see that there’s plenty of cream.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Cool.”

  The waitress moved silently toward the kitchen. “Congratulations,” I said to Bertha.

  “On what?”

  “You seem to have got your appetite back.”

  She gave a snort. “That old fool,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Arthur Whitewell.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Tried handing me a lot of bull about how attractive I I raised my eyebrows.

  “I didn’t mind it,” she said. “In fact, I suppose I lapped some of it up, while it was just social, but when the damn fool tried to spread it on thick in order to wheedle me into making a low charge for our services, I saw through the old buzzard right away. I guess I’ve been a little foolish, lover. I guess a woman likes to hear those things, and if business hadn’t entered into it, I might never have realized what a hypocrite he was.”

  “You got the dough all right?” I asked.

  “Did I!” she said with her eyes glittering.

  The waitress brought my tomato juice. I drank it, then while I was waiting, fished a couple of nickels out of my pocket and started over for the slot machine.

  The woman who ran the place came rushing over to me. “Get away, get away,” she said. “It’s out of order.”

  “What’s the matter with it?”

  “I don’t know, but a man and a girl came in here and played it about an hour ago, and won three gold awards inside of five minutes. Think of it. Three gold awards, to say nothing of the shower of nickels they dragged out of the machine. Something’s wrong with it.”

  “Why,” I said, “what makes you think there’s anything wrong with the machine? You’ve always told me about the people who came in and won—”

  “Well,” she snapped, “this is different. I’ve telephoned for the service man to come over. You keep away from it.” I went back to my seat at the table.

  “What is it?” Bertha asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, “except that someone will probably deliver my car to me today.”

  “Oh, it’s already delivered,” she said. “I forgot to tell you. The attendant at the parking-station said a girl had left a car there for you. It’s an awful-looking jalopy, lover.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  The waitress brought food and placed it on the table. Somehow I didn’t feel hungry. I kept thinking about the breakfasts on the desert and in Reno.

  Bertha scraped the last yellow drop of egg yolk from her plate, looked up at me, and said, “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t feel hungry.”

  “Bah. You should always eat a good breakfast. You can’t keep up your strength if you don’t have food in your stomach.” She snapped her fingers at the waitress. “Bring me a Milky Way,” she ordered, and then turned to me to say, “I’ll keep it in my purse in case I have that all-gone feeling around ten o’clock. Bertha’s been awfully sick, lover. Awfully sick.”

  “I know it,” I told her, “but you’re completely cured now, aren’t you?”

  Bertha opened her purse, took out the blue-tinted check, and regarded it fondly.

  “I’ll tell the world,” she said, “Bertha’s all cured.”

  The End

 

 

  Erle Stanley Gardner, Spill the Jackpot

 

 

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