“He wasn’t living with her. It was a business partnership.”
Bertha Cool snorted.
Arthur Whitewell’s eyes were narrowed. “Now that you have blurted out that you’ve found Corla, Philip, of course, will have to go to see her. Jannix is dead — murdered, very fortunately for her. She has no recollection of what happened. The poor girl was suffering from a nervous strain. Wouldn’t it be just fine if the sight of Philip should restore her memory? She’d then have no recollection of what had happened from the time she walked out of the office and would be all ready to go on with the wedding.”
I met his eyes. “I think that would make your son very happy.”
He folded his arms. “Perhaps,” he said, “I am more concerned with my son’s happiness one year or ten years from now than in helping him gratify a brief infatuation.”
“Quite possibly that’s true.”
“I don’t suppose you’d have any ideas about that?”
“You hired me to find Corla Burke. I’ve found her.” Bertha Cool said, “He’s right on that, Arthur. You should have taken us into your confidence. I told you Donald was very competent and a fast worker. He—”
“Shut up,” Whitewell said without taking his eyes from me.
Bertha Cool came up out of that chair as though she’d been a rubber ball dropped from a twenty-story window. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” she demanded. “Don’t you tell me to shut up. You — such a polished gentleman that butter won’t melt in your mouth, filled with all your goddamn flatteries — and telling a lady to shut up! You hired us to do a job, and we’ve done it. Now get out your checkbook and settle up.”