Write me a Letter

have a line on the perpetrators.”
    ”Ask, ask,” said Mrs. Rubin. ”Anything. We’d given up hope, after all this time. So who was it, the butler?”
    ”Not quite,” I said, with a chuckle in my voice. ”We think it’s possible that one of the perps at least had some previous knowledge of your collectables, your Revere silver, your faience”—whatever the hell that was, old coins, maybe— ”and so on.”
    ”And so on is right,” she said with some heat.
    ”In the months preceding the burglary,” I said, ”did you happen to have any large social functions in your home? The sort of affair that would require you to hire extra help? Valet parkers, for example, or extra serving staff?”
    ”Oh my goodness,” she said. ”We did. We had a party for our daughter Ramona who’d just graduated from USC, half of Beverly Hills showed up.”
    ”Ah-ha,” I said. ”A catered affair, no doubt?”
    ”Are you kidding?” she said. ”What else?”
    ”Then it was dancing ’til the wee small hours, I suppose?”
    ”The kids danced ’til breakfast,” Mrs. Rubin said. ”Us old fogies called it quits about three.”
    I had a thought. A potential money-making thought, one of the best kind. The thought was about insurance and the sensible practice of many insurance companies to reward with a percentage of the value of the recovered items anyone who aids in their recovery. Mrs. Rubin kindly provided me with the name of her insurers. I thanked her warmly for all her help and rang off.
    I then had an almost identical conversation with a member of the Gowan family, a Mrs. Sybil George, sister of Thomas L., only in the Gowan case it had been a birthday party complete with caterers and dancing until the wee small ones. And she knew the name of her brother’s insurance company, also, as she’d been in the house when their agent dropped by to verify the losses.
    All right so far.
    True, neither woman had actually come right out and said that the music their guests had been swinging and swaying to was provided by the rhythm king and his minions, but it did look odds on. I rubbed my hands with satisfaction. I noticed that although Momma hadn’t stopped punching away at her keyboard for an instant, she had been listening with undisguised interest to every word I said.
    Then I got on to Sun Life and Realty, the Gowans’ insurers, fought my way past two secretaries and ultimately found myself communicating with an A. Prescott, Claims. Yes, he was familiar with the Gowan affair. Yes, his company was prepared to pay a reward in certain circumstances.
    ”Such as?” I said, arching my eyebrows in Momma’s direction.
    ”Such as,” A. Prescott said in a slightly pompous manner, ”the claimant of the said reward shall be proven to have had no connection with the criminals involved in the theft and also that he or she’s contribution to the recovery of the stolen items shall be proven to have been substantial and this fact so attested by either the arresting officer or, in case of a recovery of stolen property unaccompanied by an arrest, by the head of the department involved.”
    I said I thought I got it, thanked A. Prescott, Claims, and rang off. A Bill Lendon, Claims, at the Rubins’ insurers, said much the same thing only in fewer words and in a friendlier manner.
    When I hung up after that last call, I discovered Momma gazing my way inquiringly. I filled her in on the parts of the conversations she hadn’t overheard.
    ”No problem,” she said, waving away a cloud of cigarette smoke. ”I’m the head of department. I might even be the arresting officer, too, that might be fun, I could use a little exercise.”
    ”Why don’t we take Jasper?” I said. ”He’s always complaining he’s stuck to his desk.”
    Momma laughed.
    ”He wouldn’t go if you paid him,” she said. ”It’s just a number he does, he’s been doing it for years. He hates it on the streets. He’s about as comfortable out there as a cat at a dog show.”
    ”Oh,” I said.
    ”Why don’t you call up D. Gresham the Third and see if he’s in, dear?”
    I did. After a couple of rings, a man’s voice said, ”Good afternoon.”
    ”Good afternoon,” I said. ”Flo in?”
    ”I’m afraid you have the wrong number,” the voice said politely.
    ”Ever so sorry,” I said, breaking the connection. ”Well, someone’s home, but he doesn’t sound like a musician to me, he didn’t say ‘man,’ or ‘dig’ or ‘bebop’