“Because he’s an overzealous cop in an isolated community,” Whitewell said. “We can’t expect metropolitan brains — and you’re going to miss connections if you don’t get started.”
Endicott got to his feet, bowed to Bertha Cool, shook hands with me, flashed a quick smile at Whitewell, said, “Carry on,” and hustled his big frame through the door. I could hear his heels pounding heavily on the corridor. Whitewell crossed over to the door and the sound of the clicking bolt in the lock made me realize that his approach toward me held some definite purpose.
“Now then, Lam, what can you do?”
Bertha said, “Arthur, you can trust the agency to—”
He didn’t even turn toward her, merely motioned for silence with the palm of his hand.
“If you’ll tell us—”
“Shut up,” Whitewell said.
The command was so crisply authoritative that Bertha Cool mechanically lapsed into an uncomfortable and surprised silence.
“What about it, Lam? What do you want and what can you do?”
“Tell me what I’m up against first. Kleinsmidt knows about Corla now. That means some of the Clutmers’ eavesdropping.”