“Aren’t you funny?”
“Am I?”
“No, but you’re trying to be.”
“Now, when you went out to Kosling’s house, you didn’t by any chance have an appointment to meet Kosling and Bollman out there, did you? You didn’t find Kosling gibbering with fright, telling you Bollman had been killed, and you didn’t tell Kosling to go through the back and wait for you at some appointed place, did you?”
“Heavens no!”
Sellers put his big palms on the arms of the chair, pushed himself to his feet, looked down at Mrs. Cool, and said, “It wouldn’t be nice if you were to try slipping something over. I don’t know yet just what’s at stake. I’ll find out later. When I find out I’ll know a lot more than I do know. You understand how annoyed I’d be if it turned out you were standing between me and the solution of the murder case.”
“Naturally,” Bertha said.
“I guess that covers it,” Sergeant Sellers announced.
“Very thoroughly,” Bertha told him, and saw him as far as the door.
Bertha waited at the door of the entrance office until she heard the clang of the elevator door; then she dashed back and said to Elsie Brand, “Get me the garage where I keep my car, Elsie. Quick!”
Elsie Brand’s nimble fingers flew around the dial of the telephone. “Here you are, Mrs. Cool!”
Bertha Cool took the telephone “This is Mrs. Cool,” she said. “I’m confronted with an emergency. Do you have a boy on duty who can deliver my car?”
“Why, yes, Mrs. Cool. It’s only a block from your office, you know.”
“I know,” Bertha said impatiently, “but I don’t want to pick up the car at my office.”
“I see.”
Bertha said, “I’m going to walk down to Seventh Street and take a streetcar west on Seventh. I’m leaving the office immediately. I want you to have a boy pick up my car and drive slowly along West Seventh. I’ll get off the streetcar somewhere between Grand Avenue and Figueroa Street. I’ll be waiting in a safety zone, and I’ll be watching for the car. As soon as I see it come along I’ll jump into the back seat. The boy can drive me for two or three blocks until we get out of traffic, and then I’ll let him out of the car and he can take a streetcar back. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mrs. Cool.”
“That,” Bertha announced, “is the kind of service I like. I’m leaving at once.”
“The car will leave here in just about three minutes.”
“Take five,” Bertha said. “I want to be certain we don’t miss connections.”
Bertha hung up, grabbed her hat, pushed it down on her head, and said to Elsie Brand, “Close up the office at five o’clock. If anyone asks where I am, you don’t know. I went out to see a witness.” She didn’t even wait to make sure of Elsie Brand’s nod of understanding, but hurried to the elevator, emerged into the glare of the sun-swept street, walked briskly over to Seventh Street, caught a streetcar as far as Grand Avenue, then got out and stood in the safety zone, waiting, watching traffic.
Apparently no one gave her more than a casual glance, nor did she notice any suspicious looking automobiles discharge passengers, pull in to the curb, or do anything to arouse her suspicions.
She had been waiting less than two minutes when she saw a garage attendant driving her automobile, slipping along in the stream of traffic.
She signalled him, and, as he stopped, whipped the rear door open, scrambled inside, and said, “Step on it.”
The lurch of the starting car threw her back against the seat cushions.
“Turn to the right on Figueroa,” Bertha said. “Make a left turn on Wilshire, run four or five blocks, turn to the left, and stop in the middle of the block.”
While the boy from the garage was doing this, Bertha opened her purse and started powdering her nose. She held the little mirror concealed in her hand in such a way that she could look through the rear window of the car and see the traffic behind her.
When the boy had made the left-hand turn off Wilshire, Bertha got out of the car, said, “All right, I’ll take it now. You call go over to Seventh Street and get a car back. Here’s carfare.”
She handed him a dime; then at the expression on his face, impulsively added twenty-five cents to it.
“Thank you, Mrs. Cool.”
Bertha’s answer was an inarticulate grunt. She settled herself behind the steering wheel, pulled up her skirts so that her knees were free, adjusted the rear-view mirror, and waited for a good five minutes. Then she swung the car in a U-turn in the middle of the block and went back to Wilshire. She turned right to Figueroa, made a left turn, made a figure eight around two blocks, then drove to the Union Station. She parked the car, walked into the station, looked around, came back, got in her car, and drove down Macy Street.
By the time she lined out for San Bernardino Bertha Cool was morally certain that no one was following her.
She reached Pomona just before the stores closed and stopped long enough to purchase a cheap but substantial suitcase, a dress which would fit a tall, thin woman, a broad-brimmed hat, and a light tan, loose-fitting coat. She fitted her purchases into the suitcase, paid for them, and carried the suitcase out to the automobile.
In San Bernardino she once more made certain that no one was following her before she parked the car in front of the hotel. She honked the horn to get the attention of a bellboy, handed him the suitcase, registered as B. Cool of Los Angeles, asked for a cheap, inside room, objected to 2.14 as not being exactly what she wanted, and finally compromised on 381. She explained to the clerk that she might have to check out by telephone, asking the hotel to store her suitcase until she would have an opportunity to pick it up, and stated that she preferred to pay for the room in advance. Having paid a day’s rent and secured a receipt signed by the clerk, she let the bellboy take her to her room.
The bellboy made a great show of opening the window, turning on the lights, raising shades, making certain there were towels on the racks.
Bertha stood by the bed watching his activities, and when he had finished, dropped a ten-cent piece into his palm, then after a moment’s hesitancy, added a nickel.
“Was there anything else?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Bertha said. “I’m going to take a bath and then sleep for a while. Please leave word that I am not to be disturbed on the telephone.”
Bertha hung a Please Do Not Disturb sign on the knob of the door, turned off the lights, locked the door, and, carrying her suitcase, found the stairway, climbed to the fourth floor, and located room 420. There was a Please Do Not Disturb on that doorknob.
She tapped gently on the door.
“Who is it?” Kosling’s voice asked.
“Mrs. Cool.”
She heard the tapping of his cane, then the sound of the bolt shooting back, and Kosling, looking old, bent, and worn, opened the door.
“Come in.”
Bertha entered the room, which was close with the smell of human occupancy. Kosling closed the door after her and locked it.
Bertha said: “Good heavens, it’s stuffy in here. You’ve got the windows down, the shades drawn, and—”
“I know, but I was afraid someone would see in.”
Bertha Cool went over to the window, pulled the shade to one side, then jerked the shade up, raised the windows, and said, “No one can see in. You have an outside room.”
“I’m sorry,” Kosling said in a patient voice. “That’s one of the disadvantages of being blind. You can never tell whether you have an inside room, and there’s another room right across the court from you.”
“Yes,” Bertha said, “I can understand that. How did you know what happened?”
“The radio,” he said, indicating a section of the room with a vague wave of his hand. “I stumbled on the radio, rather a luxury for me. They apparently have some meter arrangement by which they can charge you for the amount of time it’s played.”