“What address in Las Vegas?”
“She doesn’t remember.”
“Remember the first name, whether it was a man or a woman?”
“No, only that it was from Framley, Las Vegas. That, of course, is a very slender clue, but it’s the only clue we have. There’s nothing in the facts surrounding her disappearance to help us.”
“How about her notebook?” I asked. “The shorthand notebook with the notes on the important and confidential—”
“Lying right there on her desk,” he said. “If that had been missing, I could have got some action from the F.B.I., but there’s absolutely nothing to indicate that her position had anything whatever to do with her disappearance. Apparently it’s purely a private matter.”
“And you think there’s a person named Framley in Las Vegas who knows something about her disappearance?” Bertha asked.
Whitewell said, “Yes, Mrs. Cool. There’s a Helen Framley who lives here in Las Vegas. That is, she’s been here for the last few weeks.”
“You’ve been to her?” I asked.
“What makes you think I’ve been to her?” he inquired cautiously.