“Get out your checkbook, Mr. Milton Calhoun. I’m going to hit you between the eyes.”
“You agreed to a certain per diem,” Calhoun said weakly. “I will boost that, of course, but after all...”
Bertha came forward in her chair with a thump, leaned her elbows on the desk, glittered at Calhoun. And what happened?” she said. “You lied to us. You threw us off on a false track. You put Donald in terrific danger. You...”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” Calhoun said, “I’m prepared to pay something extra.”
“How much?” Bertha Cool asked.
“Bearing in mind that Donald Lam gave me the best legal advice I ever had,” Calhoun said, “I had intended to add a gratuity to the amount of the bill.”
“How much?”
Calhoun took a deep breath. “I want your complete silence,” he said. “No word of what I wanted must ever come out of this. I must have complete secrecy.”
“How much?” Bertha Cool asked.
Calhoun reached in his pocket and pulled out a check book. “I have made out a check for ten thousand dollars,” he said, “which I hope will cover the per diem expenses and the gratuity.”
Bertha’s jaw sagged open for a minute. She blinked her eyes a couple of times.
“Fry me for an oyster,” she said.
And then there was a flash of light as her jeweled hand reached for the check.
“And, for your confidential information,” Calhoun went on, “I am completely changing my life. I am sick and tired of the artificial existence I have been living thinking only of money, money, money.
“From now on I am going to try to develop m creative energy. In short, I am going to take up writing and I have a new address. It is Eight-seventeen Billinger Street. I am moving into the apartment vacated by Colburn Hale.”
And the guy positively beamed at us.
Bertha Cool folded the check and said, “Fry me for an oyster — no, damn it, poach me for an egg!”
Calhoun grinned. “Without breaking the yolk — sunny side up,” he said.
I reached across and shook the guy’s hand.