Beware the Curves

meantime, give us fifty bucks.”
    “But... but...” Ansel said, sputtering like a cold motorcycle motor, “you’re jumping at conclusions.”
    “Detectives sometimes do that,” I told him.
    He squirmed around in the chair. “I’m sorry,” he said, at length.
    “Well,” I said, “we’ve done our job. We got you the information you said you wanted. Were not mind readers. Give my partner the fifty bucks you owe us.”
    I started for the door.
    “Hey, wait a minute!” Bertha said. “Where are you going?”
    “Out!” I told her.
    Ansel sat there looking very much nonplused.
    I walked out of the office, went down to the parking lot, got in the agency heap, started the motor and waited.
    It was nearly fifteen minutes before Ansel came out. He looked over his shoulder apprehensively a couple of times, but seemed reassured when he found no one appeared to be taking any interest in him.
    As it turned out he had his car parked in the same parking lot where we kept ours. I had a good look as he drove out. It was a serviceable, nondescript Chevy, four years old, and the license number was AWY 421.
    I followed him for a ways. He played it about half-smart. After he got out to where there wasn’t so much traffic, he started cutting figure eights around four- block squares, obviously losing in his rear view mirror to see if anyone was taking an interest in what he was doing.
    I quit following him, drove on down the main boulevard half a mile, parked on a side street and waited.
    He must have gone through a lot of complicated maneuvers to shake off any pursuit, because it was a good twenty minutes before I saw his car sailing along down the main boulevard.
    By that time he had convinced himself no one was following him, and it was a cinch to drop in behind him.
    I trailed him to a bungalow out on Betward Drive.
    He parked the car and I curbed the agency heap half a block down the street.
    I saw him get out and enter the bungalow.
    When he hadn’t come out after thirty minutes, I drove back to the office.
    The girls had gone home. Bertha was sitting there alone waiting.
    “Where the hell have you been?”
    “Out.”
    “What’s the idea of getting up and leaving a client in the middle of a conference?”
    “We found out everything we agreed to find out for him.”
    “So what?” Bertha said. “If you were half as brainy as you’re supposed to be, you’d have realized that merely because we’d finished one job is no sign he wouldn’t give us another.”
    “I felt certain he was going to offer us another,” I said.
    “What do you mean by that?” she asked.
    “He wants us to find out if it’s safe for him to come back.”
    “What do you mean, safe for him to come back?”
    I said, “A cabdriver by the name of Nickerson took a fare out to Endicott’s house the night of the murder. Nickerson described the fare as being a tall, slender man with dark eyes, a man in his late twenties, who was carrying a brief case. Shortly before he got to the Endicott house, he opened the brief case, took out a gun and put it in his hip pocket. The taxi driver thought it was a stick-up. He was watching in the rearview mirror. It wasn’t a stick-up. The fare kept on going to the Endicott ranch, paid off the cab, gave the driver a dollar tip and walked up to the front door. The cabdriver went on about his business. Next day he told the police.”
    “Nickerson, eh?” Bertha asked.
    I nodded.
    “The only witness?”
    “He’s the only one the police ever said anything about. There was a banker in the living room, a chap named Hale. He had a business appointment with Endicott.”
    “What happened?” Bertha asked.
    “It was a night when the servants were all gone. Endicott had gone through a marital crisis with his wife a short time before and his wife had packed up a suitcase, taken her car and driven away. Fortunately for her the wife stopped at a gasoline station in Citrus Grove. It was a station where she had a charge account and she had the car filled up with gas and checked for oil. The attendant remembers the time because he was just closing up the place when she drove in.
    “Hale said the doorbell rang. Endicott excused himself and went to the door. Hale heard some man engage in a brief conversation with Endicott, then he heard steps in the hallway, heard voices, and after a minute or so the sound of a shot from upstairs.
    “Hale ran upstairs and it took him a moment to locate Endicott who was in an