A. A. Fair
Cats Prowl at Night
1
A Devilish Predicament
Bertha Cool heaved her hundred and sixty-five pounds up out of the swivel chair and, walking round her desk, jerked open the door of her private office.
The sound of Elsie Brand’s typewriter came clattering through the door. Bertha Cool stood in the doorway waiting for Elsie to look up from her work.
Elsie Brand finished the letter with a crescendo of speed, ripped the paper off the platen, laid it to one side, swooped down to the lower drawer of the desk for an envelope to address, then saw Bertha Cool in the doorway.
“Was there something you wanted, Mrs. Cool?”
“What are you writing?”
“Those letters to the lawyers.”
“Quit it.”
“Do you mean no more letters?”
“That’s right. No more letters.”
“Why I–I thought—”
“I know you did,” Bertha Cool said, “and so did I. That’s where we made a mistake. Those lawyers are counsel of record in personal injury cases. I thought we could write to solicit business — that there might be a missing witness or something.” Elsie Brand said, “But why not? I think it’s a splendid idea. It gives you a chance to contact future clients who are in the big money, and—”
“That’s just it,” Bertha interrupted. “I’m tired of big money. Not the money,” she added hastily, “but the strain and excitement that goes with that high-pressure stuff.
“I never used to get those big cases. I ran a quiet, cosy little detective agency specializing in the type of work other agencies wouldn’t take. Mostly divorce stuff. Then Donald Lam walked into the office, got me to give him a job, and weaseled his way into a partnership... It wasn’t thirty minutes after he’d started working here before the whole business changed. My income went up and my blood-pressure went up with it. At the end of the year, the government is going to take away fifty per cent of the income, but nobody’s going to take away half of the blood-pressure... The hell with it. Now Donald’s in the Navy, I’m going to run the business my own way.”
Bertha glowered belligerently at Elsie Brand as though expecting an argument.
Elsie Brand silently opened a drawer in the desk, dropped the list of lawyers Bertha had culled from the court records into the drawer, scooped up a pile of letters some two inches thick, and said, “How about the letters I’ve already written? Do you want to send them?”
Bertha said, “Tear ’em up, throw ’em in the waste-basket... No, wait a minute. Damn it, it’s cost me money to have those letters written — stationery, time, wear-and-tear on the typewriter... All right, Elsie, we’ll use them. Bring ’em in and I’ll sign ‘em — but we won’t send out any more.”
Bertha turned, stalked back into her private office, plumped her heavily muscled, competent frame down into the swivel chair, and cleared away a place in front of her on the blotter so she could sign the letters Elsie Brand brought in.
Elsie laid the letters down on the desk, stood beside Mrs. Cool, blotting each letter as Bertha Cool signed it. Bending methodically back and forth, watching the open door, she said suddenly, “A man just came into the entrance-room.”
“What’s he like?” Bertha asked. “Damn it, I’ve spoiled that one. I can’t talk and write at the same time.”
Elsie said, “Shall I see what he wants?”
“Yes. Close the door.”
Elsie closed the door behind her as she entered the reception-room. Bertha Cool resumed signing the letters, blotting the signatures carefully, glancing up at intervals toward the door which opened into the reception-room.
Bertha was down to the last few letters when Elsie Brand re-entered, carefully closing the door behind her.
“What’s his name?” Bertha asked.
“Everett Belder.”
“What’s he want?”
“Donald Lam.”
“Tell him Donald was in the Navy?”
“Yes. I told him that you were Donald’s partner. I think if I tell him you’ll be able to see him right away, he’ll talk with you. But he’s disappointed about not finding Donald.”
“What’s he look like?” Bertha asked.
“Around thirty-five, tall, high cheek-bones, hair sort of reddish. He has nice eyes, only they look worried. He’s a sales engineer.”
“Money?”
“I’d say — some. He makes that sort of an impression.”
“Much?”
“Medium. He’s wearing a very fine overcoat.”
“All right,” Bertha said. “Get him in. I’ll find out what he wants. If he’s a friend of Donald Lam, he’s probably a wild-eyed gambler. He may be a— What are you standing there staring at me for?”
“I was waiting for you to finish.”
“The hell with that polite stuff. When a potential client who looks as if he had money is waiting in the office, don’t let politeness interfere with efficiency. Get him in here.”
Elsie quickly opened the door, said, “Mrs. Cool, the senior partner, will be able to give you a few minutes right away — if you’ll step in this way, please.”
Bertha once more devoted herself to signing letters. Not until she had finished and blotted the last signature did she look up, then her glance was for Elsie.
“Elsie, get this bunch of letters in the mail.”
“Yes, Mrs. Cool.”
“Be sure every one of those envelopes is marked ‘personal and confidential.’ ”
“Yes, Mrs. Cool.”
“See the envelopes are securely sealed.”
“Yes, Mrs. Cool.”
Bertha swivelled her eyes around to the tall man. “So your name’s Belder?”
He widened an expressive mouth into a smile. “That’s right, Mrs. Cool.” He extended his hand across the desk. “Everett G. Belder.”
Bertha gave him an unenthusiastic hand, said, “You wanted to see Donald. He’s in the Navy.”
“So your secretary told me. That’s indeed a shock.”
“Know Donald?”
“Only by reputation. A man for whom Lam once handled a case told me about him. Said he was the nerviest little guy he’d ever seen; that he was fast-thinking, quick-moving, and courageous. In fact, he summarized his feelings by a colloquialism which, while perhaps coarse, nevertheless conveyed a perfect picture.”
“What did he say?”
“It’s a bit on the coarse side, Mrs. Cool. I wasn’t going to repeat it. I—”
Bertha Cool said irritably, “Do you think you know any words I don’t? What did he say?”
“He said Donald was a combination of brains and guts.”
“Humph!” Bertha said, then after a moment added somewhat irritably, “Well, he isn’t here. Do you want to tell me what it’s all about?”
“You’re his partner?”
“Yes.”
Everett Belder studied her as he would a new automobile he contemplated buying.
Bertha said, “You don’t have to marry me, you know. If you have something on your mind, spill it; if you haven’t, get the hell out of here and let me get caught up on some of this work.”
“I had hardly contemplated hiring a female investigator.”
“All right then, don’t.”
Bertha Cool reached for the telephone.
“On the other hand, you impress me as being just the type to get results.”
“Make up your mind.”
“Mrs. Cool, do you ever take cases on a contingency basis?”
“No.”
Belder moved uneasily in the chair.
“Mrs. Cool, I’m a sales engineer. I’ve been under a lot of expense, and—”
“What’s a sales engineer?” Bertha interrupted.
He smiled then. “In my case, just a good salesman with a lot of nerve, and enough dough to see him through until pay-day without asking for an advance.”