“And you don’t think Helen Framley wrote that letter?”
“I know she didn’t.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, she told me so. For another thing, it wasn’t the sort of letter she’d have written to a woman in Corla Burke’s position. Someone must have written that letter — and it was someone who was close to Helen Framley.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he told Corla to send the reply to Helen Framley at General Delivery.”
“Why not send it to her at her apartment?”
“Because Helen Framley wasn’t to get it. When she first went to Las Vegas, she’d been getting mail at General Delivery. Jannix had been picking it up occasionally, and probably held her written authorization to deliver any mail addressed to her.”
“I get you now,” Bertha said.
“The post-office authorities were too obliging. That was something the conspirators hadn’t anticipated.”
“I see, I see,” Bertha said. “Go on from there. They delivered the letter directly to Helen Framley. It didn’t make sense to her. But why did Jannix get killed?”
“Because Jannix was in on it, but he didn’t think it up by himself. Someone was back of him, someone who wanted—”
“To cut in on the blackmail?” Bertha asked
“No,” I said. “That was the bait they held out to Jannix. But whoever did it was someone who knew Corla Burke well enough to know she’d never go through with the wedding under those circumstances. Therefore, it was someone who wanted to stop the wedding. It wasn’t done for the purpose of blackmail.”
“Who did it? Who was back of it all?”
“Any number of people, Arthur Whitewell, any one of the Dearbornes — or all three of them. It might have been Endicott, and it might have been Philip himself.” ‘
“Go ahead.”
“It was a nice scheme. It worked perfectly. The only trouble with it was that after it worked, Jannix realized he’d been played for a sucker. He didn’t like it. So Jannix threatened to talk.”
“And got a dose of lead as a consequence?” Bertha asked. “That’s right.”
Bertha said, “Arthur Whitewell wouldn’t do anything like that.”
“He hasn’t any alibi.”
“How about the Dearbornes?” Bertha pointed out. “They’re a lean, hungry bunch of crusaders. I wouldn’t trust any one of them as far as I could throw a bull by the tail up a forty-five-degree slope.”
“That’s okay with me.”
The cab swung down the lighted expanse of Reno’s main gambling street, jolted across the tracks, and headed out past the tree-lined residential district. Bertha said, “So you’re going to go see Helen Framley and try to get the information out of her?”
“I’m going to leave her out of it. All I’m doing is making certain that the other person leaves her out of it.”
“I don’t get you.”
“When I left you in Las Vegas, I was very careful to leave under such circumstances that you’d make a loud squawk. I wanted you to tell everyone who had any connection with the case just what a heel I’d turned out to be, that I’d run away with Helen Framley. That information wouldn’t have meant much except to one person.”
“Who?”
“The murderer.”
“Fiddlesticks. I don’t think there’s anything to that. You’re in love with that girl, Donald Lam, and because you are, you’re worrying about her. But in case you’re right, I’m going to be in on the finish.”
I said, “You can wait in the cab if you want to.”
“But no one could possibly get out there for a long while.”
“I’m not so certain about that. Remember that Endicott stayed behind at the Reno airport; that Arthur Whitewell didn’t go up to the room with his son; that Ogden Dearborne is a pilot and has a quarter interest in an airplane. He didn’t say anything about placing that at Philip’s disposal. Why?”
“Perhaps because he only owned a one-quarter interest.”
“That may be, and then again he may have wanted to go somewhere in a hurry himself.”
“Or with his ‘sister?” Bertha asked.
“Or his mother.”
Bertha Cool said, “Well, of all the saps! That’s what comes of having a detective get lovesick. I’d have been more comfortable waiting in the hospital. I think you’re nuts.”
“You don’t have to come with me. I told you the cab would take you back.”
Bertha Cool said, “That’s just it. If I stay out here and shiver and freeze, not a damn thing will turn up. If I bawl you out for being lovesick, take the cab and go back to Reno, you’ll trap the murderer within thirty minutes, make a big grandstand and have the laugh on me. Nuts to you, Donald Lam. I’m going to stay with the show.”
“All right,” I said, “suit yourself.”
“You should know me well enough by this time to know that I always do,” she snapped.
I cupped my hands up against the windowpane of the taxicab, and looked out, trying to get landmarks. We climbed a little hill, made the curve, started down on the other side. The gasoline station with the lone cabin a hundred-odd feet in the rear showed briefly as black splotches against the sky. Then they had swept on behind us.
I slid open the window. “Stop the car right here, will you?”
He swung the car over to the side of the road. “Don’t race the engine, just cut it off, and switch out your lights.”
“I don’t get you.”
“I want you to wait here.”
He put on his brakes, shut off motor and lights, and said, “I think you got your distances wrong. There ain’t a thing near here.”
“It’s all right,” I told him. “I’ll get out and look around.”
Bertha got out with me. In the eastern sky there was a streak of dim light which as yet had no color. The desert chill seemed intensified after the warmth of the taxicab.
We started walking. The cab driver looked after us for a few moments, then turned back, settled down in his car, and huddled into his overcoat.
Bertha asked, “How much of this?”
“Half or three-quarters of a mile.”
She turned abruptly. “I’m going back to the car. To hell with it.”
“All right, take the cab back to town. I have a car that’s good enough to get me where I want to go. I’ll run back to the hospital as soon as I’m satisfied everything’s all right.”
Bertha turned without a word, started back to the cab. I had covered about fifty yards before I saw the lights flash on again oh the cab. I swung to one side of the road as the cab swept into a turn, waited until the red taillight had become a ruby blot in the distance, and then started trudging along the pavement.
The streak of light in the east became more noticeable. There was enough light now to see objects as black blotches against a grayish background. Ahead of me I could see the gasoline station with the little house behind it, and then a hundred yards back from the road, the cabin. I slid into the shadows and waited.
The light in the east was growing stronger. A watcher concealed in the shadows could have seen me approaching along the road — not plainly enough to recognize me, but still I’d been too visible. It was cold. The air was as still as the reflection in a placid mountain lake. I could feel the tips of my ears tingling with the cold. My nose felt cold. I wanted to stamp my feet, yet dared not move. The sound of a car on the highway — remarkable how far you can hear a car snarling along the pavement. I tingled with anticipation. This would be my man. Now that I was here, I wondered just what would happen. Suppose Louie had been drinking again? Suppose the man who was coming had a gun and didn’t waste time in argument? Suppose— The car swung around the corner. The headlights gleamed along the road. It didn’t even slow down, but swept on past and into the distance. The sound of the car diminished into the frosty silence.