Bertha said impatiently, “Let’s do nothing of the sort. Let’s talk about this Burke matter.”
“I think we can find out more about it by looking at Whitewell’s letter.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at the letter,” I said. “It’s written on a fine grade all-rag bond. The watermark is Scribcar Bond. Notice the dimensions of the sheet. Notice the way it’s folded. See what I mean? That sheet of paper is part of a business letterhead. Someone cut off the top of the letterhead with a sharp knife.”
Bertha blinked her eyes. After a moment, she said, “I think I’m beginning to get it, but keep right on telling me.”
“Whitewell didn’t like the idea of his son marrying Corla Burke. He got Corla into his office. He made her some proposition that she accepted. She agreed to get out, but she wanted to save her face. She was to get out under circumstances that would make it appear she might have been forcibly removed, or been running away from something she was afraid of.”
“Then why the letter?” Bertha asked.
“The letter,” I said, “clinches it. It’s the pay-off, so far as we’re concerned. Corla Burke didn’t know any Helen Framley. Helen Framley didn’t know any Corla Burke. But Arthur Whitewell had friends here in Las Vegas. Those friends were in a position to look around and find some girl who would make a good plant. Whitewell had this letter written as a second string to his bow, a safety anchor out to windward.”
“That’s something I don’t get.”
“Remember, he’s Philip’s father. After all, he has Philip’s best interests at heart. That’s why he interfered in the first place.”