Beware the Curves

council. I have no further comment to make.”
    I hung up.
    I waited ten minutes and called Homer Garfield, President of the Citrus Grove Chamber of Commerce.
    “I understand another councilman has admitted a two-thousand-dollar campaign contribution from Nickerson,” I said.
    His voice was cautious now. “Yes,” he said, “that is true.”
    “Have you interviewed Nickerson?”
    “As I have said earlier, Nickerson is not available.“
    “Are you,” I asked, “going to let them continue to get away with that? Why should he make campaign contributions?”
    He said dryly, “Contributions of two thousand dollars are rather large for the office of city councilman.“
    “That’s true,” I said. “You might also ask Nickerson what other campaign contributions have been made. It would be interesting to know if the four thousand dollars represent the only campaign contributions he’s made.”
    “May I ask what is your interest in the matter, Mr. Lam?”
    “An interest in pure government,” I said. “An interest in upholding the ideals of our country. An interest in seeing that the merchants in your community don’t look on you as a weak sister who lets Nickerson hide behind the district attorney’s skirts simply because he’s a witness in a murder case.”
    “The district attorney tells me that you are vitally interested in that murder case.”
    “He’s telling you the truth.”
    “That you would like to see Nickerson discredited.“
    “I’d like to find out the facts,” I said.
    “He says that he refuses to permit his office to be jockeyed into the position of pulling chestnuts out of the fire for you.”
    “That means that you can’t interview Nickerson?“
    “He says it does.”
    “And that the grand jury won’t be able to interview him?”
    “I haven’t questioned him about that.”
    “May I ask what your occupation is, Mr. Garfield?“
    “I run a hardware store here.”
    “Any property in Santa Ana?”
    “No.”
    “No vacant lots?”
    “Well, I... I have some income producing property in Santa Ana.”
    “I see,” I said.
    “Just what do you mean by that?”
    “I was just asking. You’re in quite a spot. I wouldn’t want your job. If Citrus Grove gets the plant, you don’t get any credit. If Santa Ana gets it, everyone says you sold out. It’s a tough spot to be in.”
    He ducked that question. “The only automobile company that has any reason to make such a move denies that it is interested in any such development.”
    I said, “Remember the British officials who denied unequivocally that Britain was going off the gold standard?”
    He thought that over.
    I said, “If no company is planning to put in a big plant of that nature, how does it happen that at least two, and probably all of your Trustees got two thousand dollars payable toward their campaign expenses?“
    “That,” he blurted, “is the point that worries me.“
    “It should,” I told him. “Let me ask you something else. Would any questions you might ask Nickerson about these campaign contributions have any effect whatever on his testimony in that Endicott murder case?”
    “I don’t see any reason why it should.”
    “Neither do I,” I told him. "So why should the D. A. keep him out of circulation? I’ll have to hang up now, Mr. Garfield, I have a dinner date. Good-by.”

CHAPTER 13 …

    HELEN MANNING had dolled herself up for the occasion. She had taste in selecting her garments. She’d been to the beauty parlor, and she had that indefinable something which enables some women to wear clothes so they look like Parisian gowns.
    We had a couple of cocktails. She went through the motions of counting calories when it came to ordering dinner, but she surrendered easily to the waiter, the menu and my suggestions. She had a lobster cocktail, avocado-and-grapefruit salad, cream of tomato soup, filet mignon, a baked potato and mince pie à la mode.
    We went to her apartment, and she brought out a bottle of crème de menthe. She turned the lights down because her eyes hurt after a long day in the office.
    She crossed her knees. She had good legs. In the subdued fights of the apartment she looked about twenty- two, and she had class.
    When I’d seen her by daylight banging away at the typewriter, in the office where she was working, she looked thirty-five and tired.
    “What is it you want to know?” she asked.
    I said, "You worked for Karl Carver Endicott?“
    “Yes.”
    “In what