Beware the Curves

flush crept up on her face.
    “Where can we reach you?” I asked Ansel.
    “How long will it take?” he wanted to know.
    “Probably not over a day.”
    “You can’t reach me,” he said. “I’ll be in at this same time tomorrow afternoon.” He gave me his hand, a light, sensitive grip of long fingers.
    He bowed to Bertha Cool and dissolved out of the door.
    Bertha could hardly wait until the door had clicked shut. “Well, of all the namby-pamby, diffident, weak-kneed bastards!” she said.
    “Him?” I asked.
    “You!” she yelled.
    “Why?” I wanted to know.
    “No retainer!” Bertha screamed at me. “Nothing down even for expenses! No address! A lousy fee of fifty dollars for finding a guy by the name of Karl who was in Paris six years ago. And you’re going to find him for a flat fifty bucks and not a damn cent down. You let that guy ease out of the office without so much as a red cent by way of retainer to cover expenses. You fix a flat fee of fifty bucks for doing something that may cost us a thousand.”
    I said, “Calm down, Bertha. The guy is a writer. Someone gave him an idea for a plot in Paris six years ago. He doesn’t make much money. It was a factual story the man gave him, but he’s going to turn it into fiction and make a novel out of it. So he wants to find the guy, and quite naturally he employs a detective agency to locate this bird. It’s just routine.”
    Bertha shook her head as the full implications of what I was saying dawned on her.
    “Fry me for an oyster!” she exclaimed.
    “Exactly,” I told her.
    “I never thought of it that way,” Bertha said.
    “Start thinking of it that way now,” I told her.
    “Well, what the hell does he really want?” she asked.
    “Perhaps we can find out by tomorrow afternoon. It could be that he’s writing an article on detective agencies, exposing the manner in which they try to stick their customers exorbitant fees for simple jobs.
    “You know the way some of those newspapers do. They send a person with a perfect radio around to the different radio repair shops and see how many of the shops hook the guy for new tubes, elaborate repairs, and things of that sort.”
    “Pickle me for a goddam beet!” Bertha said.
    I walked out.

CHAPTER 2 …

    THE NEWSPAPER OFFICE opened at eight-thirty. I was there at eight-thirty-five. I said I wanted to see the back files of six years ago.
    No one even asked me who I was. I was given the back files all nicely bound together.
    On the assumption that a honeymoon in Paris in July of six years ago probably meant a June wedding, I concentrated on the June issues, and by eight-forty- seven was looking at a picture of Karl Carver Endicott, flanked by a picture of Elizabeth Flanders. The bride had been employed as a secretary in a local law office. Karl Carver Endicott was the town big shot, orange groves, oil wells—“popular young businessman... far- flung oil empire.”
    I made my notes, handed the papers back to the girl at the desk. The girl thanked me and smiled. She put her toe on a concealed buzzer button. I could see her weight shift. She wanted to be damn certain the alarm sounded.
    I heard the buzzer in the inner office. A door opened and a young chap with long hair and sharp eyes came out of the inner office. He pretended to be looking for
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    something, then his eyes came to focus on me. “Oh, hello,” he said, “anything I can do for you?”
    “Thanks, I’m all taken care of.”
    “Nothing I can help you with?”
    “Nothing.”
    It was okay by me. It just showed they were on the job. A man shows up from outside of town, wants to go through the files of the paper of six years ago. It might be nothing. It might be a story. If it was a story, naturally they wanted it. They didn’t want a competitive paper to get it. If it was nothing, they didn’t want to waste time.
    I decided to let them know it was nothing.
    The girl behind the counter said, “He was just looking over some of the back files.”
    The reporter said, “Oh, yes,” and looked at me inquiringly.
    I laughed. “Doing a little research work on increase in property values. Attractive land was advertised as being for sale six years ago, and I wanted to find the price it sold for.”
    “Did you?” he asked.
    I shook my head. “Just found that the property was for sale. I’ve got to hunt up the realtor now and try to find out what I can about price. It may not be too easy.”
    “It may not,” the young man