“Patriotism?” I asked.
“We’ve all got to do our part,” Bertha said unctuously.
I said, “All right, do you want to meet Hale with me?”
“Do you think I should?”
“Yes.”
“All right, lover, whatever you say.”
I stretched, yawned. “Well, I have a few odds and ends to do. I’ll meet you here at seven-forty-five on the dot.”
“I’ll be here,” Bertha promised. “I want to wait for the afternoon mail. I’m expecting a package. When it comes, I’ll show you something. You’ll see Bertha’s a smart buyer. Merchandise you can’t get any more, and I’m getting it cheap — real silk hosiery. You’ll be surprised.”
I went to the public library and put in the rest of the afternoon reading an old file of newspapers — the ones that dealt with all the activities of the petting-party stick-up man — and I paid particular attention to the Craig case.
I came out about 5:30 and started for the hotel, but stopped at a shoe-shine place on Fifth Street. I picked up an afternoon paper and settled down to read while my shoes were being shined.
I turned to the personals.
Rob. Am here in Los Angeles. Must talk with you at once. Regardless of what anyone has told you, I have your interests at heart. Telephone Helman 6-9544 and ask for me. Edna C.
The shoe shine was just about finished. I surprised him by jumping down off the stool, flipping him a quarter, and saving, “That’s all we need for now.”
A taxi rushed me to the hotel. I got my key and went up to the room.
The maid had been in. The rooms were made. Roberta wasn’t there. She had evidently gone shopping, because a very thin peach-colored nightgown lay on the bed, together with two pairs of stockings of about the same shade. There was a paper package on the foot of the bed, and a smart compact traveling-bag on a chair. The traveling-bag was empty. The price tag was still on it. A newspaper lay on the floor.
I went back to my room, picked up the receiver, and said to the girl at the switchboard, “My sister telephoned a friend and went out to meet her. She gave me the telephone number and I’ve lost it. Can you look at the records and tell me the last number that was called from this room?”
“Just a moment.”
I waited for about ten seconds; then she gave it to me: “Helman six — nine-five-four-four.”
I said, “That’s the number. Ring it back, will you, please?”
I waited on the line, heard the connection being made; then a voice said, “Palm View Hotel.”
“You have an Edna Cutler of New Orleans registered?” I asked.
“Just a moment.”
Another five seconds, and I had the information. Miss Cutler had checked out about twenty minutes earlier. She had left no forwarding address.
I hung up the telephone, took the elevator down to the lobby, went into a luggage store, bought a suitcase, went back upstairs, threw all of my belongings into the suitcase. I packed the paper parcel on Roberta’s bed without unwrapping it. I also put in her nightgown and stockings. The creams and toilet articles on the dresser I managed to get into the little bag she’d purchased.
I moistened a towel and went over the place for fingerprints, rubbing door handles, mirrors, dresser tops — anything I thought she might have touched. When I had finished I telephoned the office to send up someone for the baggage. I went down and checked out, telling the clerk that my mother had passed away very suddenly, and that my sister and I were going out to stay with another sister who lived in Venice and was completely broken up. We didn’t want to leave her alone.
I took a taxicab to the Union Depot, let it go, checked the baggage, put the checks in a stamped envelope, scribbled my office address on the outside, sealed the envelope, and dropped it into the mailbox. I looked at my watch and saw I had just time to go down to the office, pick up Bertha Cool, and get out to the airport.
Chapter Twenty-One
The plane came roaring down out of the sky, to soar along for a few feet, skimming the ground; then the wheels touched the cement runway, and the big transcontinental express glided slowly to a landing, then snarled into speed as it came up the runway and swung gracefully around in a wide pivot, stopping almost directly in front of the exit gate.
Emory G. Hale was the second one off. He was talking with a rather distinguished-looking individual who wore a close-cropped, gray mustache, half spectacles, and looked altogether too much like a banker to be a banker.
Hale seemed in a rare good humor as though he had had a wonderful trip. When he saw us he came toward us with outstretched hand, his face wreathed in his characteristic set smile.
His greeting for Bertha was hurried. Most of his attention was for me.
“Lam, I’m certainly glad to see you! I was hoping that you’d get down here to meet the plane. That’s splendid of you. Lam, I want you to meet — but pardon, me, I’m forgetting my manners. Mrs. Cool, may I present Lieutenant Pellingham of the New Orleans police force? And this is Donald Lam, Lieutenant.”
We all shook hands.
Hale seemed to be enjoying his role of master of ceremonies. “Lieutenant Pellingham is an expert on ballistics. He does most of the technical work for the New Orleans Police Department. He’s brought that gun with him, Lam. I told him that you were with me when we first discovered the weapon, that we debated whether we should call in the police at once, or wait until you had made an investigation in Los Angeles to get the exact status of the Craig murder case.”
Hale glanced significantly at me as though trying to impress upon me that this preliminary speech was my cue to follow along, and not make any contradictory statements.
I nodded at Lieutenant Pellingham, said, “I’ve already been in touch with Sergeant Rondler here in headquarters.”
“You didn’t tell him about the gun?” Hale asked.
I seemed surprised. “The gun! Why, no I understood I was simply to investigate the murder, and then if it appeared the crime had been committed with a thirty-eight caliber revolver which had never been found, I was to get in touch with you, and you were to notify the police.”
“That’s right,” Hale said, positively beaming at me. “That’s exactly the way I understood it. But,” he went on, “you were with me when I first discovered the gun there in the desk. That’s the point that Lieutenant Pellingham was interested in. He wants some corroborating evidence.”
I turned to the lieutenant. “Mr. Hale was looking through the desk. There were some papers which had evidently dropped down in a partition behind a desk drawer. When we started to get them out, we discovered a revolver.”
“You can identify that revolver, of course?” Lieutenant Pellingham asked.
I said, “It was a thirty-eight, blued-steel. I’m not certain of the make of the gun. It—”
Pellingham said, “That’s not the point. What I’m getting at is that you can identify the gun which you saw there.”
I looked at him blankly. “Why, I can tell you the general kind of a gun it was.”
“But you can’t tell me whether the gun I have is the same gun?”
“Of course it’s the same,” Hale said.
I hesitated; then after a moment I said, “Of course, neither one of us jotted down the serial numbers or any thing of that sort. We simply saw this gun there in the desk, but we put it back where we found it, and if Hale says it’s the same gun, that’s good enough for me.”
“Of course it’s the same gun,” Hale said. “I can assure you on that point.”
Pellingham said, “What we need is someone who can assure a jury.”
“Oh, we can do that all right,” Hale said confidently.