Free Confidentially Yours by Charles Williams

a week going to a football game and a couple of concerts. Or even buying clothes—unless she was in Paris. And, also, what happened to the coat?”
    “Was it insured?”
    “Yes.”
    “Even so, it might have been lost or stolen and she was afraid to tell you. But with all the other money she seems to have got rid of, it seems more likely she sold it or hocked it. I’ll have a man hit the pawn shops and check back through the classified ads. But how did she get hold of $7000? You don’t carry that much in a checking account, do you?”
    I explained about the stocks she’d sold, and gave him the name of the broker.
    He nodded. “Then if it was hers, it’s not the money you’re interested in?”
    “No,” I said. “Only what she was doing with it.”
    “You believe it’s another man?”
    “Sure. I can’t think of any other reason she’d lie about where she was. And she must have given that money to somebody.”
    “This is professional,” he said, “so don’t take offense. Strictly off that photograph, she’d never have to buy any men, so there must be another answer. Has she ever, to your knowledge, been in any kind of trouble? Anything she could be blackmailed for?”
    “No,” I said. “She was no gangster or gun moll. Before we were married, she owned a dress shop in Carthage. And before that, she ran one in Miami.”
    “Does she have family connections of any kind in Carthage?”
    “No,” I said.
    “Friends? I mean, before she came there?”
    “No.”
    “Hmmm. Did she ever say why she gave up a business in a city the size of Miami to open one in a small town where she didn’t even know anybody?”
    “Sure. It was a divorce. She and her husband owned the place jointly, and when they split up they sold it and divided the proceeds.” I explained how she was on her way to the Coast when she stopped overnight in Carthage and became interested in its possibilities.
    “I see,” he said, though it was obvious he wasn’t completely satisfied, any more than I was now. “Where can I get in touch with you here?”
    “You can’t. I’m just in town for the day, and haven’t got a hotel room. But I’ll call you this afternoon, and after that you can reach me at my office in Carthage. The number’s on the card. If I’m not in, you can give the information to my secretary, Mrs. Barbara Ryan.”
    He gave a shake of the head. “We don’t like to pass confidential information to a third person.”
    “It’s all right in this case,” I said. “I authorize it.”
    “You’ll have to put that in writing. And there’s another thing—she’ll have to identify herself. Any woman on the phone could say her name was Barbara Ryan.”
    “Yes, I know. But you can give me a file number.”
    “All right,” he agreed reluctantly. He scribbled something on the pad. “The number is W-511.”
    “Right.” I made a note of it, scribbled the authorization on another sheet of his pad, and signed it. When I went out, he was already giving orders on the intercom.
    I stopped at a bank, got twenty dollars worth of quarters and dimes, and took a taxi to the telephone company office. In the battery of out-of-town directories, I looked up detective agencies in Houston and Miami. One of the big nationwide outfits could have handled all three jobs, but I had to keep them separate.
    Selecting an outfit called Crosby Investigations in Miami and a man named Howard Cates in Houston, I wrote down the addresses and phone numbers and headed for a booth. I put in the call to Miami first, person-to-person to Crosby himself. He was in. I introduced myself, and asked, “Can you handle a rush job that’ll take a couple of men?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Good. I’ll mail you a cashier’s check for a retainer within the next half hour, airmail special, and you should have it this afternoon. Is $200 all right?”
    “Sure thing, Mr. Warren. What is it you want?”
    “A confidential check on an employee who used to live in Miami.