Bertha Cool gave a low whistle.
“Therefore,” I said, “you can play things in either one of two ways. You can turn her loose on her own, in which event the police will sooner or later get a lead to Smith, put him in a line-up, and ask Marian Dunton to identify him, in which event the fat will be in the fire and you won’t have any client; or you can keep Marian out of circulation as much as possible, tell Smith what we know, make him give us his side of the story, tell him we’re standing between him and a murder rap, get unlimited funds with which to work, and try to clean the thing up.”
“Won’t that be suppressing evidence, lover?”
“Yes.”
“That’s serious, you know, for a private detective agency. They’d hook me for my licence on that.”
“If you hadn’t known anything at all about it, they couldn’t have held you responsible.”
“Well,” she said, “I know about it now.”
“Yes,” I said. “You’ve cut yourself in on the deal. Marian’s on her way up here. It’s your play. You know what the cards are now.
Bertha Cool pushed back her chair. “Forgive me, Donald,” she said. “I’m going to get the hell out of here.”
“No; you aren’t,” I said. “You answered the phone, and told her to come. I wouldn’t have done that. I’d have told her to go to the Union Depot or some place like that, and I’d have met her there. She’s probably under surveillance.”