THE TAXI driver turned into the eight hundred block on Willoughby Drive. Mrs. Cool said, “Go down to 907, but don’t stop. Drive past slowly and let us look it over.”
The driver asked no questions. Fares who send a cab prowling around at that hour of the morning are apt to make peculiar requests, and a cab driver gets his tips by saving his arguments until he gets home to his wife.
“Take a look at it, Donald,” she said, as the driver indicated the house on the corner.
I studied the driveway leading into the garage, figured the general layout of the house, and said, “That could be it.”
“You’re not certain?”
“No.”
“Well,” she said, “it’s a hell of a chance, but we’ll give it a try. Swing around to the curb, driver, and stop at that house across the street—the one on the corner.”
The cab driver swung the car to a stop. “Want me to wait?” he asked.
“Yes, wait,” she said.
I held the door open. She pulled the springs far over as she stepped to the ground, disdaining our assistance. The driver stood and watched us go up the cement walk toward the dark, silent house. I groped for the bell button, found it, and leaned against it. Inside the house, I could hear the jingling of the bell.
“Do I do the talking, or do you?” I asked.
“If it’s the right party,” she said, “tip me off. Let me go on from there.”
“All right,” I said, “but if someone I’ve never seen before comes to the door, we’ll have to get in the house before I can be certain.”
“All right. Tell them I’m sick, and you want to come in and telephone for a doctor—you’ve seen the room where the telephone’s located, haven’t you?”
“One of the phones, at any rate.”
“All right. That’s all we need—don’t keep that thing going so steadily, Donald. Take it easy. Let up, and ring again after a minute or two.”
I could hear someone moving around on the upper floor. A window raised, and a masculine voice said, “Who is it?”
“It sounds like the chief’s voice,” I whispered.
Bertha Cool raised her voice and said, “I have an important message to deliver here.”
“Put it under the door.”
“It isn’t that kind of a message.”
“Who are you?”
“I’ll give you the name when you come down,” she said.
For a second or two the man seemed undecided, then he slammed the window down. A light clicked on, and the window blazed into an oblong of brilliance that was subdued as the shade was pulled. A second or two later I heard steps on the stairs.
“Move over to one side, Donald,” she said. “Let me stand in front of the door.”
The porch light clicked on, flooded us with brilliance. Bertha Cool stood squarely in front of the oval plate glass window in the front door. The steps had ceased now, and I had the impression that someone was looking through the window, sizing her up.
After a moment, the door opened a crack, and the man said, “What is it?”
I stepped back and around so I could see him. It was the chief. He was wearing light silk pajamas and slippers, with no robe.
I said, “Hello, chief.”
He stiffened for a minute into ominous, tense immobility. Then his fat, blubbery lips twisted into a smile. He said, “Well, well, well, it’s Lam! I hadn’t expected to see you so soon, Lam. I hadn’t expected you’d find your way back so quickly. And who’s your friend?”
“Bertha Cool,” I said, “head of the Cool Detective Agency.”
“Well, well, well,” the chief beamed. “This is indeed a pleasure, and I want to congratulate you—er—er—is it Miss or Mrs.?”
“Mrs.,” she said. “Mrs. Bertha Cool.”
“It’s indeed a pleasure.” He bowed. “And you’re to be congratulated on having a man so quick-witted and courageous as Lam working for you. He’s a bit of all right, that boy! A most observing disposition; and I can personally vouch for his courage. Do come in.”
He stood to one side. I hesitated, but Mrs. Cool sailed past me through the door and into the reception hall. I followed her. The chief slammed the door shut, and shot a bolt into place. “So you found your way back, Lam?”
I nodded.
“I’ll have to speak to Fred about that. I will indeed. That was rather a faux pas on his part, letting you get the address. Would you mind telling me just how you did it, Mr. Lam?”
Bertha Cool answered the question. “Yes, he would,” she said.
“Well, well, well, no hard feelings,” the chief said. “Won’t you come in and sit down—sorry I can’t offer you a drink.”
He switched on lights in the living room and we went in and sat down.
A woman’s voice from the head of the stairs called down, “Who is it, dear?”
“Come down, m’love. Slip on something and come down. We have a couple of visitors. You know one, and I’m quite anxious to have you meet the other.”
He beamed across at Mrs. Cool, and said, “Always like to have the little woman in our conferences. You know how it is. I believe marriage is a partnership, and two heads are always better than one. Whenever the situation becomes just a little delicate, I always call in the little woman.”
I heard a door slam up above, and then the stairs began to creak. We followed the creak on down until the tall woman came silently into the room, walking on the felt soles of bedroom slippers.
She didn’t pay any attention to me. Her eyes were fixed on Bertha Cool’s.
I got up when she came in. The chief didn’t. I said, “Mrs. Cunweather—is that the name?”
The fat man hastened to say, “It will do just as well as any, Lam, my boy. After all, what’s in a name? Yes, yes, let it be Cunweather by all means. Mrs. Cunweather, my wife, Mrs. Cool. I want you two to be friends.”
The tall, big woman looked down at the chunky one. Mrs. Cunweather said, “How do you do, Mrs. Cool?” And Mrs. Cool said, “Howdy do. I hope you don’t stand on formality—I don’t.”
Mrs. Cunweather sat down. Her eyes were cautious—watchful.
The chief said, “Precisely what do you want, Mrs. Cool?”
“Money,” Bertha Cool said.
His face broke into blubbery smiles. “Well, well, well, Mrs. Cool. That’s being direct! That’s a woman after my own heart. I’ve always said that I like plain, straightforward business where there’s no beating about the bush, haven’t I, m’love?”
He didn’t turn toward his wife as he spoke. Evidently, he expected no reply from her, and she made none.
Mrs. Cool said, “I thought we’d talk terms.”
“Now, don’t get me wrong,” the fat man said. “I don’t know what Mr. Lam has told you, but if he insinuates that he received other than the most courteous treatment at my hands, he—”
“Nuts,” Mrs. Cool said. “We’re not wasting time over that. You beat him up—it’s good for him—toughen him up some. Beat him up again if you want to, only don’t leave him so he can’t go to work at eight-thirty in the morning. I don’t give a damn how he spends his evenings.”
The chief broke into laughter. “Well, well, well,” he said, “if you aren’t a quaint, original woman—that is, if you don’t mind my saying so. That’s being delightfully frank. Now tell me, just what was it you had in mind, Mrs. Cool?”
“You want to know about Morgan Birks. I might be able to tell you something.”
“Well, well, well, that’s nice of you, Mrs. Cool. We certainly appreciate that, my wife and I. And it was nice of you to drive out here early in the morning and tell us. After all, you know, sometimes seconds are important in this business, and we hate to lose them. Now precisely what was it you had to offer, Mrs. Cool?”
Mrs. Cool said, “We served papers on Morgan Birks.”
“Oh, you served them.”
“Of course we served them.”
“Do you know,” the man said, “I insisted all along that Donald had served them. And so did the little woman. You served them somehow in the hotel, didn’t you, Donald?”
“Don’t answer, Donald.”
“I’m not going to,” I said.
The chief turned to his wife. “There you are, m’love,” he said, “perfect teamwork. That’s what comes of doing business with people who appreciate the possibilities of a situation.
“Well, well, well, Mrs. Cool. I don’t know just what to say. You say that we want Morgan Birks. That isn’t at all correct, and yet it’s the way it would doubtless appear to a person running a detective agency. But let’s concede, just for the sake of the argument, that we would like to have a few words with Morgan Birks—what of it?”
“How much is it worth?”
“Well now,” the fat man said, stroking his chin, “this is a rather unusual proposition.”
“And rather unusual circumstances,” Bertha Cool reminded him.
“Yes, yes, that’s right. It is for a fact—I can’t get over Donald finding this place so promptly. It’s rather uncanny, you know. I had thought that all the necessary precautions had been taken.”
Bertha Cool said, “I know where Morgan Birks can be found. You can’t talk with him. Is that information worth anything to you?”
The smile froze on the chief’s face. Above the curved lips, his eyes were hard and watchful.
“You mean he’s in jail?”
“I mean you can’t talk with him.”
“He’s been drinking again?”
“I can tell you where he is.”
“How much do you want?” the chief asked.
“Whatever it’s worth.”
“Why can’t I talk with him?”
Bertha Cool said, “I don’t want to take an unfair advantage.”
“You mean he’s dead?”
“I can tell you where he is.”
The fat man looked at his wife. She shook her head. The gesture was all but imperceptible.
The chief turned back to Bertha Cool. He seemed more relaxed now. “No,” he said, “the information wouldn’t be worth anything to me. I’m sorry, Mrs. Cool, because I think you have a great deal of ability. And I’m positively fond of Lam. I really am. Perhaps some day I can hire your agency. There might be some information you could get for us.”
Cunweather turned back to his wife, and said, “What do you think, m’love? Don’t you think Mr. Lam is a bright young man?”
Mrs. Cunweather said, tonelessly, “Fred was driving the sedan when he took Lam back to his room. Lam got a look at the license number.”
Cunweather’s headshake was emphatic. “I don’t think he did, m’love. When I told Fred to take the sedan, I cautioned him about that. I told him to switch out the lights when he parked the car, deliver Mr. Lam to his room, and not switch on the car lights until he was certain Lam was where he couldn’t see.”
“That’s how Lam found this place,” Mrs. Cunweather said in a tone of flat finality.
The chief pinched his pendulous lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. “I hope Fred isn’t getting careless,” he said. “I do, indeed. I’d hate to lose Fred. That’s the worst of a man who has a great deal of physical prowess. He underestimates men who are not as strong as he is. I think Fred always underestimates the other man’s mentality, don’t you, m’love?”
“We’ll talk about Fred later,” she said. “Right now we’re talking about hiring Mrs. Cool and Mr. Lam.”
“Leave me out of it,” I said.
Mrs. Cool said, “Don’t pay any attention to Donald. He’s working for me. I’m giving the orders. What’s your proposition?”
“I don’t know that we have any,” Cunweather said.
His tone lacked finality, and Bertha Cool didn’t take the answer as final. She continued to sit there, waiting. Cunweather glanced once more at his wife, twisted his underlip into a weird shape. “I’ll be frank with you, Mrs. Cool,” he said. “We’re in a position where time is precious. Seconds may count. We need help to get certain information. I think you have some of the information we want. We might talk a while.”
“You talk,” she said. “I’ll listen.”
“No, that won’t do at all. We’d have to exchange information.”
Bertha Cool said, “I don’t want any of your information. If you want some of mine, it’s going to cost you money.”
“Yes, yes. I understand,” Cunweather said. “But in order to determine how extensive your information is and how much it might be worth to us, we’d have to talk things over.”
“Go ahead and talk,” Bertha Cool said, shifting her weight in the chair in search of a more comfortable position.
Cunweather said, “We don’t want Morgan Birks now. We do want information about Morgan Birks. We’re particularly interested in knowing about Morgan’s sweetheart. My men slipped up on that, and slipped up badly. I knew that there was to be a play at the Perkins Hotel. I knew Morgan was scheduled to meet someone there. I didn’t know when. I didn’t know whom. Apparently the woman we wanted was registered as Mrs. B. F. Morgan. Now my men were so busy looking for Morgan Birks they didn’t pay much attention to that woman. She gave us the slip.”
Cunweather paused to give Mrs. Cool a chance to talk. She didn’t say anything.
“We’d like very much to know more about Mrs. B. F. Morgan,” Cunweather said.
“How much do you want to know, and what’s it worth?”
“We’d like to know where we could find her.”
“I could help on that,” Bertha Cool said.
“Could you put your finger on her?”
“Yes.”
Cunweather glanced again at his wife. She maintained a stony stare of silent attention. When Cunweather failed to receive any signal, he turned to Mrs. Cool. “Well now,” he said, “that would help. Of course, Mrs. Cool, I’ll be frank with you; one of our objections to hiring outside help is that they sometimes try to do a little chiseling on the side. We don’t like that. I think Mr. Lam has told you it isn’t healthy to try to chisel on us.”
Bertha Cool said, “Don’t try to frighten me. My health is very good. I have a damn strong constitution.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” Cunweather laughed. “That’s good! A strong constitution. Yes, Mrs. Cool, I’m satisfied you have. I like the way you handle yourself. I think we could offer you employment.”
Mrs. Cool said, “When I leave here, I’m going to see Sandra Birks. If you want me to work for you and there’s enough money in it, I’ll work for you. If Sandra Birks wants me to work for her and there’s enough money in it, I’ll work for her. I want to pick the job that offers the most money.”
“You mean you want me to make an offer?”
“Yes.”
“And then you want to see Mrs. Birks and see what she has in mind?”
“Yes.”
“And accept the best offer?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think I’d like that,” Cunweather said. “I’m quite certain I wouldn’t like it. I don’t think it would be ethical.”
“Don’t lose any sleep worrying about my ethics,” Bertha Cool said. “I’m putting cards on the table.”
“Yes, I can see you are, Mrs. Cool—are you going to tell Sandra Birks that you had this chat with me?”
“That depends,” she said.
“On what?”
“On what Sandra Birks wants me to do, and how much money there is in it.”
“We wouldn’t like you to mention that you were here. We’d consider it a violation of a confidence,” Cunweather said.
“I wouldn’t,” Bertha Cool retorted. “You didn’t invite me here. I found the place.”
“You’re making things rather difficult,” Cunweather said.
Bertha Cool sighed, “We’re doing a hell of a lot of talking without getting any place.”
Cunweather said soothingly, “Look here, Mrs. Cool, I’m interested in your proposition, but I have to know a little more before I fix my price. I can’t go it blind.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know that you can really put your finger on Morgan’s sweetie. I want to know that you really served Morgan Birks, and weren’t being victimized by a clever hoax.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Sandra Birks wanted a divorce. She had to serve papers on Morgan. She couldn’t find Morgan, so she thought it might be clever to plant someone as Morgan Birks. You think Morgan Birks came to the Perkins Hotel today. We feel positive he didn’t.”
Mrs. Cool opened her purse, took out a cigarette, put it in her lips, groped around for matches, lit the cigarette, and said, “Tell him, Donald.”
“What?” I asked.
“All about serving Morgan Birks. Keep talking until I tell you to stop.”
I said, “Sandra Birks hired us. I went up to her apartment and got pictures of Morgan Birks. They were good snapshots. I checked up on them to make certain she hadn’t planted some phonies in the album.”
“Yes, I know,” Cunweather said. “You’re right on that. Those snapshots were in your pocket together with the original summons.”
I said, “Sandra’s brother, B. L. Thoms, whom she calls Bleatie, came out from Kansas City to—”
“From where?” Mrs. Cunweather interrupted.
“From Kansas City.”
The chief glanced sharply at his wife. “Go on, Lam,” he said.
“Bleatie came out to help Sandra. He knows Morgan Birks very well. I gather he’s more friendly with Morgan than he is with his own sister. He said he’d give us a lead that would let us put the finger on Morgan Birks any time he was satisfied Sandra wasn’t trying to double-cross Morgan. He didn’t seem to have a particularly high opinion of his sister’s morals or integrity.”
I could see gleaming interest in the eyes of the fat man. Mrs. Cool said casually, “That’s far enough, Donald. If we go on from there, it costs money.”
“What do you mean money?” the fat man asked.
“Something,” she said, “to pay for getting up at this hour of the morning. I’m running a detective agency. I have rent to pay, salaries to pay, a tax on my payroll, a federal income tax, an occupation tax to the city, and a state income tax on the money that’s left after the federal people get done with my income. Then I have to pay a sales tax on all the clothes I buy and—”
“Yes, yes,” he interrupted, smiling and bobbing his head with mechanical regularity, but keeping his turquoise green eyes fastened on Mrs. Cool. “I understand. I have problems of my own, Mrs. Cool.”
“Well, I’m in the business of getting information and capitalizing on it,” she said. “I have something you want. You tried to beat it out of my operative. I don’t like that.”
“We were a little abrupt, for a fact,” the chief conceded.
“It costs me money to get my information. I don’t pass it out for charity.”
“I’m very much interested in that Perkins Hotel situation,” the chief said. He said to his wife, “Do you suppose, m’love, that we could have had the double-cross?”
“Something screwy somewhere,” she said.
“Should we say a hundred dollars to Mrs. Cool?”
The little woman nodded.
“One hundred dollars,” the chief said.
“Make it two hundred,” Bertha Cool said.
“A hundred and fifty,” Mrs. Cunweather said to her husband, “and if she doesn’t want that, give her nothing.”
“All right,” Bertha Cool said, “a hundred and fifty.”
The fat man turned to his wife. “Do you happen to have a hundred and fifty, m’love?”
“No.”
“My wallet is upstairs. Would you mind running up and getting it?”
“Take it out of your belt,” she said.
He moistened his lips again, and said, “I’ll tell you, Mrs. Cool, you go ahead and tell us, and I’ll guarantee that you’ll have the hundred and fifty. I’ll promise it.”
“You get the hundred and fifty,” she said.
He sighed with resignation, got to his feet, and opened the top part of his pajamas. His belly was huge, white, and flabby. A chamois-skin money belt circled his middle. It had been soaked and discolored with perspiration. He opened one of the pockets and took out two hundred-dollar bills.
“That’s the smallest you have?” Bertha Cool asked.
“That’s the smallest.”
“It’s going to take nearly all of my small change.”
“I’m sorry. That’s absolutely the smallest.”
Bertha Cool fished around in her purse, then looked hopefully at me. “Got any money, Donald?” she asked.
“Not a nickel,” I said.
She counted out her money and said, “I have to save five dollars for the taxi bill. I’ve got forty dollars in change. I’ll give you thirty-five. Call it square for that or you can go upstairs and get your wallet.”
“We’ll call it square for that,” he said. “I wouldn’t walk upstairs to save fifteen dollars.”
“Bring over the two hundred, Donald,” she said.
The fat man extended the money to me. I carried it over to Mrs. Cool. She gave me the change in one-dollar, five-dollar, and ten-dollar bills. I took them over to Cunweather. He passed them over to his wife. “Put that somewhere,” he said. “I don’t want that chicken-feed in my money belt.” He closed the flap of his money belt, buttoned up his pajamas, tucked the coat down in the pants, looked across at me, and said, “Does Lam do the talking?”
“Lam does the talking,” Mrs. Cool said.
I said, “Sandra gave Morgan Birks a—”
“Never mind that, Donald,” she said. “That’s betraying the interest of a client. Just tell him what happened about Morgan, how we found him, and how we served him. But don’t tell him the name or address of Morgan’s sweetie.”
“Bleatie,” I said, “gave me the name of Morgan’s girl friend. I went to her and put on an act that we were going to drag her into the divorce action, and then shadowed the place. She led me to the Perkins Hotel She registered as Mrs. B. F. Morgan and got room 618. I bribed the bell captain to find out about what rooms were in the vicinity. He—”
“Yes, yes,” Cunweather interrupted. “We know all about that, Donald. We know everything you did from the time you got to the Perkins Hotel.”
“Then you know about serving Morgan Birks?” I asked.
“You didn’t serve Morgan Birks—you served somebody else.”
“The hell he did!” Bertha Cool interrupted. “He served Morgan Birks.”
“Where?”
“In the girl’s room—in 618.”
Cunweather and his wife exchanged glances. “There’s some mistake,” Cunweather said.
“No, there isn’t.”
“Morgan Birks didn’t go into room 618. We’re absolutely positive of that.”
“Don’t worry. He was in there all right,” Bertha Cool said. “I saw him myself.”
“How about it, m’love,” Cunweather said, turning to his wife, “shall we—”
“Let Donald finish his story,” she said.
Cunweather looked back at me. “Go on with your story, Donald.”
I said, “I got a room. Several people were with me. Sandra and Bleatie came in. Alma Hunter was there. I left them, and went out to a masquerade costume place, and got a bellboy’s uniform that would fit me. I had a telegram addressed to Mr. B. F. Morgan, care of Western Union. I waited around until the telegram came in, signed for it, and wrote in lead pencil on the envelope, beside the address, ‘Try Perkins Hotel.’ Then I got a notebook, forged a few signatures in it, went up to the hotel, and found the party in a hell of a stew because Morgan Birks had come in shortly after I’d left. I changed to the bellboy’s uniform, went out and knocked on the door of 618. When they wanted to know what it was, I said it was a telegram. They told me to shove it under the door. I shoved it far enough under the door so they could see the address, and that it was a telegram, but it was in the notebook, and the notebook was too big to go all the way under the door. I told them they had to sign a receipt. They fell for it and opened the door. I walked in, and Morgan Birks was lying on the bed. I served the papers on him. While I was doing that, Sandra got excited and came in. There was conversation back and forth. There was no question but what it was Morgan Birks.”
The fat man glanced for confirmation at Bertha Cool.
“That’s right,” she said. “I saw him, and I’ve seen his pictures in the newspaper. It was the same man.”
The fat man started rocking violently back and forth in the chair. Bertha Cool said, “The next time I have any information you want, don’t try to get it by beating up one of my operatives. You get better service this way.”
Cunweather said, “We didn’t think Mr. Lam was going to be so difficult.”
“My operatives are all tough,” Mrs. Cool said. “I pick ’em that way.”
Cunweather said, “Let me talk to my wife, Mrs. Cool. I think we can make you a proposition. How about it, m’love? Would you like to step in the other room for a minute?”
“Go ahead,” Mrs. Cunweather said. “You’re doing fine.”
The chief turned back to Mrs. Cool. “We’re interested in hiring your agency for one particular purpose,” he said. “We want to get in touch with Morgan Birks’ sweetie. We want to find out how many safety deposit boxes she rented in her name. We want to find out where they are. We want that information fast.”
“How much is it worth?” Mrs. Cool asked.
“Suppose we say two hundred and fifty dollars for each box you tell us about.”
“How many are there?” she asked.
“I don’t know, Mrs. Cool, and that’s a fact. Frankly, I’m not certain there are any, but I have my suspicions. I do indeed.”
“No soap,” she said. “I don’t think I could make any money at it.”
Cunweather said, “Now let’s be reasonable about this, Mrs. Cool. You know where this woman is. You won’t have to waste any time. Morgan Birks is pretty well hidden, and is going to stay pretty well hidden. He’s just a little too smart for the police. He had his sweetie rent some safety deposit boxes. There may be five. There may be two.”
“And there may not be any,” Bertha Cool said.
“There you go again,” Cunweather chuckled. “There’s that unique personality of yours coming to the front. It’s refreshing, but we aren’t getting anywhere, and seconds are slipping through our fingers. Now there’s Lam, a clever boy. He could go to this girl and have the information in no time.”
I said, “Count me out.”
Cunweather said, “Now, Lam, don’t be like that. You’re a nice boy. You should be more forgiving. After all, what happened tonight was just a matter of business.”
“Forget Donald,” Mrs. Cool said. “You make terms with me. I’ll take care of Donald.”
“We might make it three hundred dollars a box,” Cunweather said.
“No.”
“That’s our limit.”
Bertha Cool said, “I’ll give you a ring and let you know—after I’ve talked with Sandra.”
“We’d want your answer now.”
“You have it.”
Cunweather started rocking back and forth in his chair. Mrs. Cunweather said, “Ask her where Morgan Birks is now.”
Cunweather said, “Come, come, Mrs. Cool. You’ve received a hundred and sixty-five dollars of my money. You know where Morgan Birks is. I think you should tell us.”
She pursed her lips thoughtfully, and said, “That information might not do you any good. Again it might be worth money. I’m not one to give something for nothing.”
The telephone rang while Cunweather was rocking back and forth thinking the thing out. “Would you answer it, m’love?”
“Answer it yourself,” she said, sitting perfectly still.
He sighed, tightened his fingers around the arms of the rocking chair, heaved himself to his feet, and waddled out into the other room. He took the receiver off the hook, and said, in a cautious voice, “Yes, what is it?” After that, he was silent for eight or ten seconds. Then he said, “You’re sure?—well, come on out here, and I’ll give you some instructions. There’s a new angle on the case.”
He dropped the receiver into place without saying “good-by,” came waddling back, and beamed at Mrs. Cool. “I can well appreciate how you feel, Mrs. Cool,” he said. Then he turned to his wife and said, “Morgan Birks is dead, m’love. A girl named Alma Hunter shot him in Sandra Birks’ apartment early this morning. She shot him in the back, just as he was trying to run from the apartment.”
“Dead?” Mrs. Cunweather asked.
“Like a doornail,” Cunweather assured her.
“That,” she said, “makes it different.”
Mrs. Cool said, “Come on, Donald.”
I got to my feet. She closed her purse, slid her legs back so that her feet were as far in under the chair as she could get them, pushed her hands down against the arms of the chair, and got to her feet.
We started for the door. Cunweather and his wife were whispering. After a second or two, and before we were out of the hallway, Cunweather called, “Just a minute, Mrs. Cool. I want to ask you a question.” He came waddling out into the hallway, and said, “Do you know whether Morgan Birks was in room 618 all the time? In other words, was he in there when this mistress of his registered?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “How about it, Donald?”
“No chance,” I said, “unless she was standing in with the bellboy, and Morgan Birks had been planted there. The clerk rented her 618 as a vacant room. She’d telephoned and asked for two rooms with a connecting bath. She’d been assigned 618 and 20. When she registered, she gave up 620, saying the other party hadn’t—” I broke off as something came to my mind.
“Hadn’t what?” Cunweather asked, interested.
“Hadn’t shown up. The bellboy took her up to 618. The captain got me the information, and I rented 620.”
“Who had the bath?”
“I did.”
“Then 618 had been rented without the bath?” Cunweather asked me.
I said, “I guess so—unless there was another bathroom between 618 and 616.”
Mrs. Cunweather called from the other room, “Let her go, William. We’ve got enough information to handle it ourselves.”
The chief said, “Well, Mrs. Cool, it’s been most delightful having you drop in. Do come again some time. I’ll remember you. I will for a fact—and don’t hold a grudge, Lam. After all, my boy, you were splendid, and your nose doesn’t look at all bad. I can see from the way you’re walking, your ribs are a bit sore, but you’ll get over it in another twenty-four hours. You—”
He waddled over and held the door open for us.
I walked past him out into the night. He followed me out to the porch. “Come, come, Lam,” he said. “Let’s shake hands.”
“Shake hands with him, Donald,” she said.
He pushed out his hand. It was like picking a chunk of cold oatmeal out of a pot. He looked in my eyes, and said, “You’re still sore, Lam.”
He dropped my hand. “Have it your own way,” he said, and waddled back into the house, slamming the door behind him.
Bertha Cool said, “He’s a customer, Donald. We can’t quarrel with customers.”
I didn’t say anything.