“There is the matter of a diary?” he asked — not of me, but of Whitney.
“So this man says.”
“Naturally,” I said, “Miss Strate considered that evening as the highlight of her life. She was flattered, excited and intoxicated. She came back home and confided to her diary.”
“Dear, dear,” Ruttling said deprecatingly, “such a naïve habit!”
“Isn’t it? You can, of course, get the picture of a young woman completely losing all perspective, thinking that Mr. Big was paying quite a bit of attention to her, and she might well have an opportunity some day to preside over the destinies of Mr. Big’s household if she just played her cards right. She wanted money for culture, for clothes — and for traveling expenses to San Francisco.”
“And so she dipped into company funds?” Ruttling asked.
“Exactly.”
“Hardly an auspicious way to advance her career,” Ruttling said. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t make a very convincing story, Sabin.”
“Expecting,” — I went on as though he hadn’t said anything — “to be able to pay it all back. Then, when sudden financial misfortune overtook her, and she realized she was trapped, her last forlorn expedient was to come to San Francisco and throw herself on the mercy of the man she had learned to really love.”
Ruttling frowned.
Whitney said virtuously, “One, of course, can’t be held responsible for the adolescent emotions of those with whom one comes in casual contact.”
“Which,” I said, “is precisely why much hinges on what is in the young woman’s diary. It depends so much on what you mean by a casual contact.”
That brought them up with a jerk.
“Precisely what is in the diary?” Whitney asked.
I smiled at him.
“What,” Ruttling asked, “is your proposition?”
“I want some information.”
They exchanged glances. “What information?”
I said, “Let’s suppose, for the moment, that Daphne Strate didn’t take the six thousand from the New Orleans company. Who did?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
I said, “Let’s concede, for the moment, that six thousand dollars has been taken from your New Orleans company. It just didn’t get up and walk out by itself, did it?”
“Naturally.”
“How do you know Daphne Strate took it?” I wanted to know.
“My New Orleans manager has charge of all such details. I wouldn’t know. I’d have to ask him.”
“Get him on the phone and ask him.”
He frowned, then said, “No, I don’t think I’d care to do that — not as yet, at any rate. You haven’t shown your hand, as yet.”
“You’ve seen all you’re entitled to see — the backs of the cards, my ante and the chips I’m putting in.”
“The backs of cards all look alike.”
“I’ll put them on the table when someone calls for a showdown.”
“I’m calling for a showdown now.”
“Oh, no, you aren’t. You haven’t called my bet yet.”
“What’s your bet?”
“I want this information.”
He thought for a moment, then said, “The manager of the New Orleans office is a very responsible individual. We have quite a large business out of Louisiana. He wouldn’t make such an accusation if it weren’t fully substantiated.”
“What’s his name?”
“Randolph Holaberry.”
“You do quite a business out of New Orleans?”
“Yes.”
“Foreign trade?”
“To South America, yes.”
“Fool around any in international politics?” I asked.
“Absolutely not.”
“Don’t care a hang about who runs those South American countries, about what party is in power?”
“Certainly not.”
I got to my feet. “When will you be able to get in touch with Holaberry?”
“I don’t know. I’ll... I’ll put through a call for him.”
“By the way,” I said, “would it make any difference to you who happened to be in power in Argentina, for instance?”
“Absolutely not,” he shot back, the words snappy as musket fire.
“Or,” I asked, “do you have any foreign competitors — perhaps the Japanese, for instance?”
He smiled. “No Japanese competition. The only Oriental competition we have is Chinese.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“The Bak Shui Wong Company,” he explained. “They undersell us on certain competitive lines in some foreign countries, but our products are worth the extra price.”
“And you don’t know anything about a Miss Betty Crofath?”
“I never heard of her.”
“You have agents in Argentina?”
“We do business through local distributors in the South American countries. Of course, we keep in close touch with those distributors, but... I think you have everything you are entitled to, Mr... er... er...”
“Sabin,” his secretary supplemented.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Sabin,” Ruttling said, smiling an affable smile of dismissal. “I’ll get in touch with my New Orleans manager, just to see what he can tell me about this girl, this Miss...” He looked at his secretary.
“Strate,” Whitney said.
“Oh, yes, Miss Strate. I want to find out about her. I don’t think I remember her, Mr. Sabin. And, as far as the diary is concerned, I don’t think I’m interested. You said some newspaper was interested? Well, I think I’ll let you deal with this newspaper.”
I frowned at him. “Yet when Whitney told you about me, you left a dinner party to see what I had to offer.”
“Perhaps that was merely curiosity.”
“And now you’re no longer curious.”
“Perhaps my curiosity has now been satisfied.”
I walked out of the room, down the stairs, the footsteps of the secretary pattering along behind me. The Filipino opened the door and I went out. For the life of me, I couldn’t tell where I had said the wrong thing, but I’d stubbed my toe somewhere.
Where had I missed my cue? Ruttling had been jarred enough and frightened enough to leave his dinner party and see me. Then he’d recovered his assurance. He didn’t give a damn what I did now. Where had I said the wrong thing — or failed to say the right thing?
I kept going over and over the conversation in my mind. Suddenly I got an idea. I walked down to a drugstore and called Genevieve Hotling.
“Don’t say anything that would tell anyone who might be listening who this is, but...”
“There’s no-one here,” she said. “I’m all alone.”
“How long since Daphne went out?” I asked.
“About twenty minutes. How did you come out in your interview?”
“I came out,” I said, “the same way I went in — through the front door.” And I hung up the receiver.
Chapter Nine
Soo Hoo Duck wore a wide-sleeved Chinese coat embroidered with fanciful dragons, crawling and squirming about the silk background, chasing always the elusive pearl of wisdom which is shown just in front of their gaping jaws. The long nails of his hands were incased in sheaths of wrought gold in which jade had been inset and cunningly carved. The sheaths protected his nails against breakage, but made a peculiar rasping sound as his hands trailed across the map of South America which lay spread on the table before him.
He looked across at Ngat T’oy and his right hand swept over Argentina in an inclusive motion which brought the gold and jade nail sheath on the right index finger against Buenos Aires.
He glanced up at Ngat T’oy.
Ngat T’oy turned to me. “He wants to know what you think, Ed.”
“I have told him the facts,” I said.