“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.”