He crossed the room, picked up the telephone, and said to us, “I’m calling police headquarters.”
I pulled out the letter I’d taken from Corla Burke’s Reno apartment.
Whitewell took one look at that envelope and dropped the telephone as though it had been hot. I said, “I inquired for mail at Reno. I thought there might be a letter for her. There was.”
He became very still.
“That was a breach of the postal laws. They can raise hell with you for that.”
I went on calmly, “I notice Paul Endicott seemed very anxious to mail your letter about the option. It’s fortunate you accepted it. Evidently he’s quite familiar with your business.”
Bertha said, “Donald, what the hell are you talking about?”
I said, “Suppose Philip takes it right on the chin and still loves her, regardless of how many times she’s been married? You’re a man who likes your family, Mr. Whitewell. You’re going to be pretty lonesome without Philip, and it’s going to be quite a blow to you to be estranged from your own grandchildren.”
If I’d given him Louie Hazen’s one-two shift in the solar plexus, I couldn’t have given him more of a jolt.
“If I were in your shoes,” I went on, “I’d have considered the amnesia as just about the best break I’d had in ten years.”