Beware the Curves

“LOS ANGELES DETECTIVE INVESTIGATES LOCAL MURDER.”
    They could go on from there. “Donald Lam, Junior Partner of the firm of Cool and Lam, Private Investigators of Los Angeles, was in town this morning, consulting newspaper back files, checking on the murder of Karl Carver Endicott.
    “Lam refused to be interviewed, refused to give his name to a reporter, and quite plainly was interested in getting information rather than giving it. Nevertheless, the fact that this private detective agency is investigating... etc., etc., etc.”
    All right. So what? Damn it, if our client had put his cards on the table, I wouldn’t have led with my chin.
    The fact remained I was mad.
    I thought of how Bertha had described me as a brainy little bastard. I thought of how our phony client with the poetic features, the dreamy eyes and the long, sensitive fingers, was going to look at me when someone sent him a clipping from the Citrus Grove paper.
    I To hell with him! I’d have the thing all finished before the paper came out. He’d wanted information. I’d give it to him.
    I drove back to the city and telephoned Elsie Brand, my private secretary.
    “Hi, Elsie.Bertha in?”
    “Yes.”
    “Restless?”
    “Somewhat.”
    “Belligerent?”
    “No.”
    “Did you see a client we had yesterday, a man by the name of Ansel?”
    “No.”
    “He called yesterday afternoon about three o’clock. He’s to be back at the same time today. Now get this: At exactly a quarter to three I’ll be over at the bar across the street. The bartender knows me. Give me a ring there the minute this fellow comes in. Don’t tell Bertha that you’ve been in touch with me or that you know anything at all about me. Okay?”
    “Okay.”
    I hung up and went to the public library.
    There is a master index published, giving the names of all authors who have appeared during each year in any of the major periodicals published in the United States.
    Thirty minutes after I arrived at the library I knew that our client John Dittmar Ansel had never had anything published in any of the first-string magazines in the United States, either under the name of John Ansel or the name of John Dittmar. I also knew that he had never published any book either of fiction or nonfiction.
    I had a friend in the morgue of one of the Los Angeles papers. I went there and got the envelope containing clippings dealing with the murder of Karl Carver Endicott. The Los Angeles papers had given it a pretty good play, setting forth the facts as well as they were known, which wasn’t too well.
    I got to the bar in time to watch a couple of innings in a baseball game before Elsie’s call came through letting me know that Ansel was at the office and that Bertha had been tearing her hair trying to locate me. I waited until one more batter had fanned out.

CHAPTER 3 …

    As I WALKED through the office door, the switchboard operator said, “Bertha’s frantically trying to get you.” I looked at my watch, raised my eyebrows and said, “I’ll go on in.”
    I walked across the reception office and opened the door of Bertha’s private office before the girl at the switchboard had had time to plug in the phone and ring.
    Ansel was sitting very erect in the chair, his long legs crossed at the knees. There was a look of reproachful martyrdom on his face.
    Bertha Cool batted her eyes at me. Her face was about two shades darker than usual.
    “Where the hell have you been?” she asked.
    I nodded toward Ansel and said, “Working on our client's case. Why?”
    “I couldn’t locate you.”
    “I was out.”
    “So it seems. You were to have a report for Mr. Ansel.”
    “I have it.”
    Ansel raised his dark eyebrows. “Indeed,” he murmured.
    I went over and shook hands with him. I slid one hip over on the corner of Bertha’s desk and said, “I have everything you wanted.”
    “Well, that’s fine,” he said. “You mean you’ve got him located?”
    “I know his name,” I said. “The man you want is Karl Carver Endicott. He lives at Citrus Grove. He married Elizabeth Flanders six years ago.”
    I quit talking.
    He sat forward on the edge of the chair waiting for me to go on.
    I lit a cigarette.
    The seconds of silence became significant. Bertha started to say something, then realized the silence on my part was deliberate and clamped her lips shut in a thin, straight line. Ansel shifted his position, looked up at me, looked down at the carpet, looked up at me again.
    I kept on