Crestways, Foothill Boulevard, Orchid City. May 15th, 1948. Will you please make it convenient to see me at the above address at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon? I am anxious to obtain evidence against someone who is blackmailing my sister. I understand you undertake such work. Please treat this letter as confidential and urgent. I enclose five hundred dollars as a retainer. Janet Crosby.
There was a long and painful silence. Even Jack Kerman hadn’t anything to say. We relied on recommendations to bring in the business, and keeping five hundred dollars belonging to a prospective client for fourteen months without even acknowledging it is no way to get a recommendation.
“Urgent and confidential,” Paula murmured. “After keeping it to himself for fourteen months he hands it to the janitor to show to all his little playmates. Wonderful!”
“You shut up!” I snarled. “Why didn’t she call up and ask for an explanation? She must have guessed the letter had gone astray. But wait a minute. She’s dead, isn’t she? One of the Crosby girls died. Was it Janet?”
“I think it was,” Paula said. “I’ll soon find out.”
“And dig up everything we’ve got on Crosby, too.”
When she had gone into the outer office, I said: “I’m sure she’s dead. I guess we’ll have to return this money to her estate.”
“If we do that,” Kerman said, always reluctant to part with money, “the press may get wind of it. A story like this will make a swell advertisement for the way we run our business. We’ll have to watch our step, Vic. It might be smarter to hang on to the swag and say nothing about it.”
“We can’t do that. We may be inefficient, but at least let’s be honest.”
Kerman folded himself down in the armchair again.