Sinful Woman

“No, Gans is right. She—”

“Sylvia Shoreham? Kill somebody? For a measly hundred thousand bucks? Why I bet she makes that on one picture. And besides what for? She had her divorce. She—”

“We’re entitled to an investigation.”

“You’re entitled to plenty of trouble if you go around accusing her of murder. Just because he sees an easy way to get out of paying her, that don’t say you’ve got to go and put your foot in it. You’ve got to live in this town, he hasn’t. And besides, who says you’re a claim agent? The last I heard of it you were a salesman, and—”

“I’m head of this agency.”

He said this with a certain amount of importance, but in fact it was the crux of the situation that now involved him. It was just a small, one-man agency, having no claim adjusters or special functionaries. As in this city it dealt mainly in life insurance, claims had usually been a simple matter, with Mr. Layton calling personally on the relict, bringing check and often coming away with an application for annuity. That he now, in connection with policies he had never even seen, as a result of a case that had broken with the unexpectedness of a cloudburst, should have to discharge duties that he had never once thought about, appealed somewhat to his vanity, but at the same time left a vacant feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Within an hour, the vacant feeling had grown to a dreadful, vacuumlike ache. Treading wholly unfamiliar ground, carefully maintaining an outer show of on-the-job-ness, make-it-short-ism, and close-the-deal-ation, he called first at police headquarters and was shown into the office of Inspector Britten, who was immersed in a detective story and didn’t look up at his inquiry as to the status of the Shoreham case. “Why, we’re not handling it except for routine help, lab work and stuff like that. It’s a county case, so it’s in the hands of the sheriff.”

“You don’t know what they’ve turned up?”

“I don’t know a thing, buddy.”

Walking over to the courthouse, he entered the sheriff’s office, only to find that the Sheriff was out, and that the chief deputy “wouldn’t be in a position to make a statement about the case, as it’s entirely in Sheriff Lucas’s hands.”

At the State’s Attorney’s office, he fared, at first anyway, a little better. As he had information, he was admitted to see Mr. Pease, the county prosecutor. That gentleman listened to the news of the three big policies, nodded, made a note. “Thanks very much, Mr. Layton. If we want further information from you, we’ll let you know.”

“What do I do about an autopsy?”

“I suppose the police are doing an autopsy, and if you’ll show them your credentials they’ll let you see their report.”

“I mean a special autopsy.”

“Have to get a court order for that.”

Mr. Layton, who had no idea how to get a court order, or even a very clear idea what a court order was, said quickly: “I see.” Then, drawing a deep breath, he said: “Oh, and one other thing, Mr. Pease. We’re greatly concerned that she be held, and that the body be held, until the arrival of our representative from Los Angeles, Mr. Gans, and—”

“That who be held?”

“The beneficiary under these policies, Miss Shoreham.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Well, I was instructed to—”

“You ever been on a case like this before?”

“No sir, not exactly, but—”

“Then you’d better understand that neither you, nor Mr. Gans, nor the Southwest General, or any other corporation, insurance or otherwise, is telling this state whom to hold or whom not to hold or when to release a body. It would be very convenient for your company, no doubt, to escape payment under its policies by hanging something on Miss Shoreham, as anything they hung on her would probably relieve them of liability. But we’re not holding her, or the body, or anybody simply to accommodate you, or help your company beat a hundred-thousand-dollar rap. My suggestion to you and your special representative, Mr. Gans, is that you go a little slow in this case. A hundred thousand dollars probably looks pretty important to you, and I suppose to Mr. Gans. But I doubt if it does to her. Her reputation, though, might be a different matter, and you may find yourself in very serious trouble if you go around making wild charges against her.”

“I wasn’t making charges. I just—”

“You want her held?”

“Well yes sir, but only—”

“To be held she’s got to be charged.”

Shriveled, Mr. Layton went out to a drugstore and called his office, only to find that Mr. Gans had left on the three o’clock plane and directed that hotel reservation be made for him. Mr. Layton didn’t walk over to the hotel. He slunk there. At the desk he made a reservation for C. C. Gans, Los Angeles, for one night and possibly two, single room and bath, and O. K.’d the price: $6. But before he could do this he had to wait, while the clerk held colloquy with a girl. She was a rather pretty girl, with bright black eyes, round chubby face, and trim little figure. She was pleasantly dressed, in a little spring suit, and might have been a secretary, except that she had some slight touch of the gangster’s moll about her that secretaries don’t commonly have. The clerk was quite annoyed by her. “For the tenth time, Miss, Miss Shoreham is not seeing visitors. I can’t ring her phone. She’s taking no calls except from the Sheriff’s office in case they find her sister, or from the sister herself, in case she calls. Now do I make this clear? You don’t seem to get it through your head that a terrible thing happened to her today. Every picture critic, movie reporter, fan magazine, City editor, and just plain fool in five states is trying to get through to her; they’ve already begun arriving in town hoping to see her in person, and she simply can’t see every fan that shows up here and wants to be sent up.”

“I’m not a fan. I got business with her.”

“Your business will have to wait.”

“She might not think so.”

“I only go by her instructions.”

The girl went off, but didn’t leave the hotel. She went to a far corner of the lobby and sat down, to the clerk’s obvious annoyance. Mr. Layton finished his business and started to leave, but something in the girl’s voice lingered in his ear. It seemed to him that in that “She might not think so” there was some hint of a threat. He turned, crossed to where she sat in a mulish sulk, and said: “I couldn’t help hearing what was said to you just now. I wonder if there’s something I could do for you? I sometimes transact business for Miss Shoreham.”

Insurance was certainly some sort of business, and if he wasn’t doing much transacting he was at least trying to. She looked him over suspiciously and said: “You a friend of hers?”

“Well — more like an agent.”

Smiling, as though it had all been settled now, he said: “Let’s go have some coffee. In the dining room we won’t be overheard.”

They went into the dining room, ordered coffee and canapes, lit cigarettes. He said: “Nice girl Sylvia. Very nice girl indeed. But she’s in one bad mess now.”

“What do you mean, bad mess?”

“Don’t believe everything you see in the papers.”

This cryptic fly, cast at random in the direction of something that might be water and might be a whirl of gnats in Mr. Gans’ fevered imagination, brought a flash of fins and a spurt of foam. She said: “So you was in on the dirty work too, hey?”