“Donald, could you settle a case like that without compounding a felony?”
I brushed the question aside and said, “I told her that I knew a person who liked to buy up claims such as hers; that sometimes he bought them up and was able to find the culprit and settle for a very large sum and make a handsome profit; and sometimes he couldn’t find the persons responsible and, as a result, had to let the whole thing drop. And, of course, in cases of that sort, he lost out.”
She thought that over for a moment, then her eyes looked at me with a new-found respect.
“I’m to buy out the claim?” she asked.
I shrugged my shoulders and said, “If you think it’s worth it; it’s touch and go. The probabilities are we’ll never find the person who drove the car.”
“But if we do?”
“Then you’d have an assignment of the claim.”
“Wouldn’t a document of assignment of that sort be considered... well, incriminating?”
“The assignment would be to me,” I said. “I’d act as intermediary in case anything came up.”
“Wouldn’t that be a little risky in case anyone should ask questions?”
“People ask me questions all the time. Sometimes I don’t have to give them complete answers.”
“You do when the police ask.”
“I don’t have to tell the names of my clients.”
“Donald,” she said, “I think you’re wonderfully competent.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you want to know what all this means to me?”
“Hell, no!” I told her.
For a moment she flushed, then she laughed and said, “I guess I understand. What you don’t know, won’t hurt you.”
“What I don’t know, won’t hurt you,” I said.
“And you don’t want to hurt me, do you Donald?”
“You’re a client,” I said.
She said, “You sit right there.”
She walked into the back bedroom. Once I thought I heard hoarse whispering.
She came back carrying one hundred hundred-dollar bills, nice crisp currency.
She counted them out on my lap, her fingers from time to time brushing against my leg as she put the bills down.
“There you are, Donald, one hundred hundred-dollar bills. That’s a total of ten thousand dollars. Now, tell me, what’ll happen if the police do finally trace the car that hit this woman?”
“They’d ask her to prosecute.”
“And if they prosecuted?”
“They might get a conviction, depending on the evidence they had; but if she didn’t prosecute, they might have a little trouble.”
“And, so far, they have no evidence?”
“They have a dress, from which a piece of cloth was torn; and they probably have glass from the headlight. They usually have something like that.”
“One has to take chances these days, doesn’t one?” she said, smiling.
“One does,” I said.
I put down the empty glass and got up to go.
She watched me speculatively. “Donald,” she said, “I think you’re wonderful just absolutely wonderful!”
I grinned at her and said, “If I started disagreeing with you it would make too long an argument. Good-bye, Phyllis.”
“Goodbye, Donald.”
Chapter 4
I again parked the agency car two blocks from the home of Mrs. Chester, walked back around the big house to the little bungalow in the rear, and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” she called, dispiritedly.
I opened the door and went in.
Mrs. Chester was sitting up in bed with big, dark circles under her eyes.
“I’ve had a terrible night,” she said.
“Don’t you have anyone staying with you?”
“Can’t afford it. I wish I could go to my daughter’s place; but she can’t come here, and I don’t have the money to go there.”
“Where does she live?”
“Denver.”
“You’re feeling pretty bad?”
“I think some of those nerves must have got bruised,” she said. “The nerve sheaths, or whatever it is, got injured and they just ache, ache, ache all the time... You ever have a toothache?”
“Yes.”
“Well, this is just like a thousand toothaches all up and down your leg; and every time I take a deep breath, I hurt.”
“The doctors didn’t find any broken bones?”
“No, that’s what they said, but I don’t know how you’re going to depend on a doctor.”
“You have to depend on somebody.”
“Yes, I suppose you do.”
“Don’t they give you anything to make you sleep?”
She said, “I’ve got some sleeping medicine but it doesn’t do me much good.”
I said, “I’ve been in touch with the man who sometimes makes settlements in advance. He’s willing to take a chance on being able to collect.”
She looked at me and her eyes narrowed in speculation. “I’ve been thinking over the proposition you made,” she said. “I’d want twelve thousand five hundred dollars in cold, hard cash.”
I shook my head.
“Well, that’s what I want.”
I took out the hundred-dollar bills and spread them on a table. “I’m prepared to give you this much,” I said. “Ten thousand dollars. In return for that, you’ll guarantee that if at any time we want you to sign papers assigning the claim, you’ll sign those papers. If we want you to sign a complaint, you’ll sign a complaint; and any money that is recovered as the result of that litigation will go to us. We will, of course, pay all the expenses.”
“I can’t do it,” she said. “It just isn’t in the cards. I’ve been suffering a lot since you left here. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll make it eleven thousand.”
“I’m sorry,” I told her, “eleven won’t do. I have ten and that’s it.”
She shook her head obstinately. “Well, you can tell your friend to go jump in the lake. I’m not going to settle for any ten thousand.”
“Okay,” I said. I gathered up the money.
She sat there watching me.
Her face looked like death.
I put the money in a neat stack, slapped a rubber band around it, put it in my pocket and said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Chester.”
“Who is this man you’re working for?” she asked.
“I told you,” I said, “he’s a sharpshooter. He’s a big-shot gambler on cases of this sort. Sometimes he’ll make a killing; sometimes he won’t.”
“The pain is terrible,” she said. “I need someone to take care of me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“How would it be if we made some kind of a time deal? If you gave me a thousand dollars down and then we could go fifty-fifty, or something like that, on what I collected. What I need is money enough to go to my daughter’s in Denver.”
I shook my head. “I’m only an agent, myself,” I said, “and I did this just to accommodate you.”
“What do you do for a living?” she asked.
“Suppose we say that I sell magazines?”
“Phooey,” she said, and started laughing, a harsh, metallic laugh.
“Well,” I told her, “we’re not getting anywhere here.” And I started for the door.
She waited until I had the door half closed, then she said, “Wait!”
The word was like the crack of a whip.
I kept on closing the door.
I heard her get out of bed.
She came to the door, a pathetic sight, holding herself against the doorknob with one hand and against the jamb with the other.
“Help me!” she said, “I’m going to faint. I got out of bed.”
I turned and retraced my steps.
She collapsed as I reached the door.
“Oh, help me!” she said. “Help me! I’m so weak and frail and helpless.”