Beware the Curves

investigation.
    We had breakfast and drove back to Los Angeles. I went to a barber shop, had a shave, a massage and a lot of hot towels.
    When I reached the office, Elsie Brand, my secretary, handed me a note with a number I was to call.
    “Any name?” I asked.
    “No name, just a seductive voice. She said she had met you in Reno, and would you care to call?”
    I called.
    Stella Karis said, “I wondered if you’d like to have breakfast with me?”
    “I’m a working man,” I told her. “I had breakfast a long time ago.”
    “How long?”
    “Hours.”
    “Then you could have a second breakfast.”
    “Where are you?”
    “In my apartment.”
    “How did you get back?” I asked.
    “I drove.”
    “When did you get in?”
    “About eleven o’clock last night.”
    “Read the papers?”
    “No.”
    “Some news in connection with Citrus Grove,” I said. “You might like to take a look.”
    “I’ll read them. The point is, do you come for breakfast?”
    “When?”
    “Now.“
    “Where?”
    “The Monaster Apartments.”
    “I’ll be up,” I told her.
    Elsie Brand, who had been listening to the conversation, had a poker face. “Do you want to dictate this correspondence now, Donald?” she asked.
    “Not now,” I said. “I’m busy.”
    “So I gathered.”
    “Now look, Elsie, if Bertha wants me, I’ve been in and now I’ve gone out again. You don’t know where. You know Bertha well enough so you can tell whether it’s something important or whether she’s just checking up.
    “If it’s something really important, call me at this number, but don’t let anyone have that number, and don’t call unless it’s something really important. Understand?”
    She nodded.
    “Good girl,” I told her and patted her shoulders as I went out.
    The Monaster apartment house was a swank little place and Stella Karis had a nice apartment with sunlight pouring in eastern windows.
    She had on some sort of a fluffy creation which kept popping open around the throat, and long bell-shaped sleeves that would have trailed in the coffee, across the fried eggs and into the toast if she hadn’t been some kind of an indoor acrobat and managed to grab the trailing cloth just in time.
    I watched her with fascination.
    It was a nice breakfast. I didn’t particularly need it, but it tasted good.
    “Donald,” she said after I had cleaned up my plate. *You know something?”
    “What?”
    I told you about this Nickerson.“
    “Uh-huh.”
    “He isn’t dead.”
    “I told you to read the papers.”
    “I didn’t need to. He called me at seven o’clock this morning.”
    “Surprised to hear his voice?”
    “I was terribly shocked. I—well, I had hoped I wasn’t going to have anything more to do with him.”
    “You hate to come out and say you hoped he was dead, don’t you?”
    “All right, I hoped he was dead.”
    “That’s better.”
    “He called and told me that he needed ten thousand dollars more. He said that the members of the city council had been a little more obstinate than he had expected, that there were five of them and it was going to take five thousand apiece. He said at that price it wouldn’t leave a cent for him, that he was embarrassed because he hadn’t been able to deliver the goods as promised, so he’d simply act as middleman and go- between. He said he’d make me a present of his services and he wouldn’t take a cent.”
    “Philanthropist, eh?” I asked.
    “That’s what he said.”
    “What did you do?”
    “I told him I’d have to think it over.”
    I grinned. “So then you cooked breakfast and baited me over here?”
    She waited for a moment, then smiled and said, “All right, then I cooked breakfast and baited you over here.“
    “I’m a professional man,” I said. “I have a partner. We have to sell our services.”
    “I’m willing to buy your services.”
    “I can’t sell them in this case. I can’t have you for a client.”
    “Why not?“
    “There might be a conflict in interests.”
    “And I can’t become your client—no matter what I pay?”
    “Not in regard to Nickerson.”
    “As a friend, could you make a suggestion?”
    “As a friend, yes.”
    “What?”
    “Tell him to go to hell,” I said. “Tell him you want your fifteen grand back.”
    “That I want money back from a man like Nickerson?” she asked. “Are you crazy?”
    “I’m not telling you you’re going to get anything back,” I said. “Tell him you want your money