She picked up the receiver, and said, “Hello,” cautiously. This time she didn’t give her name.
Her attitude relaxed somewhat as she listened. She picked up a pencil and made notes on a pad of paper. Then she said, “just a minute. Hold the line,” and cupped her hand over the mouthpiece:
She said, “Harbet left headquarters. The operative tailed him to an apartment hotel on Normandie. The name of the apartment hotel is the Key West. Harbet went in. It’s a swanky place with a night clerk on duty who announces callers. Harbet gave the name of Frank Barr. He told the clerk to ring apartment forty-three A. Forty-three A is occupied by an Amelia Lintig who registered as from Oakview, California. What do we do next?”
I said, “Keep him on the line. Let me think. It’s either a preliminary conference or else it’s an official visit. They’re getting ready to turn on the heat all along the line. Election is day after tomorrow. Tell your operative to stay on the job until we get there.”
Bertha Cool said, into the receiver, “Stay on the job until we get there... just a moment.”
She looked up at me and said, “Suppose Harbet comes out before we get there?”
“Let him go,” I said.
Bertha Cool said into the receiver, “Let him go,” and hung up.
I picked up my hat. Bertha Cool struggled into her coat, put on a hat, and then looked at the two glasses of cognac on the table. She picked up one of the glasses, and motioned me towards another.
I said, “It’s a crime to drink that stuff fast.”
Bertha said, “Well, it would be a greater crime to let it go to waste.”
We exchanged glances over the glasses, and drank the smooth, clear, amber liquid.
On the way down, in the elevator, Bertha Cool said, “Every step we take gets us in that much deeper, Donald. We’ve got our necks stuck out pretty damn far.”
“It’s too late now to pull them back in,” I said.
She said, “You’re a brainy little squirt, all right, but the trouble with you is you don’t know when to stop.”
I didn’t argue it. We got a taxi and drove over to where the agency car was parked. We went out to the Normandie address in the agency car. Bertha spotted the operative. He said, “The man I was tailing went out. I followed your instructions and let him go.”
I said, “All right. Stay on the job. If a woman about fifty-five with grey hair, black eyes, and weighing about a hundred and sixty pounds comes out, tail her. Station your partner in the alley. If he sees any woman who answers that description, leave the house, have him tail her.”
“Check,” he said.
His partner said, “I haven’t a car.”
“Take the agency car,” I said. “Park where you can watch the alley. She may come out that way.”
I said to Bertha, “Come on. We’ll go in and phone for a taxicab.”
Bertha looked at me for a moment, then heaved her bulk out of the agency car. I took her arm, and we walked across the street towards the apartment house.
I said, “You go in alone. Turn your grande dame manner on the clerk. Find out when the telephone operators come on duty at the switchboard, and get their names and addresses.”
“He’ll get suspicious,” she said.
“Not if you play it right. You’re trying to check up on your nephew. He has a crush on a girl who works on the switchboard at the Key West Apartments. You want to check up on her. If she’s a good egg, you’ll give him your blessing and not change your will. If she’s a fortune-hunter, you’ll get rough. Flash your diamonds in the clerk’s eyes. Be sure you get all the girls’ home addresses.”
“What’s the idea?” she asked.
I said, “It’s something I have to think over.”
Bertha Cool’s big diaphragm rippled as she heaved a sigh which seemed to come from her boot tops. “God, Donald,” she said, “before you started working for me, I used to get a decent night’s sleep once in a while. Now I couldn’t sleep even if I had the bed and the chance.”
I said, “Your only chance of getting out of this mess is to do what I tell you.”
“That’s what’s got me into it so far.”
I said, “Suit yourself,” and turned my back.
She stood there on the sidewalk, her eyes sparkling with anger. Then she turned without a word and sailed majestically into the lobby of the apartment house. I casually walked past the door and looked in after she’d been gone a minute or two. She was standing at the counter, her hands playing with a fountain pen, her diamonds sending out splashes of light. Bertha had an air of haughty condescension which seemed to be getting across. I hoped she’d remember not to pull any profanity.
After a while, a taxi drove up. Bertha stayed on inside, talking with the clerk. The cab driver went in. A few minutes later, Bertha Cool came out through the glass-panelled door to the sidewalk, walking in that smooth-flowing manner which was so characteristic of her.
The cab driver on one side and I on the other helped her get in the cab.
“Where to, ma’am?” the driver asked.
“Straight down the street,” I said. “Drive slow.”
I got in the cab. The driver pulled down the flag and started.
“Get them?” I asked.
“Yes, it’s easy.”
“Tell me about the day operator.”
“Her name’s Frieda Tarbing. She lives at 119 Cromwell Drive. She comes to work at seven o’clock in the morning and stays on until three in the afternoon. She’s a good scout with sex appeal. The afternoon operator’s a pill but highly efficient. Frieda Tarbing isn’t quite as skilful, but she’s easy on the eyes. The clerk is quite sure that she’s the one who is in love with my nephew, says the afternoon operator isn’t in love with anyone.”
“That,” I said, “makes it easier.”
I slid back the window in the partition and said to the cab driver, “119 Cromwell Drive.”
Bertha Cool settled back against the cushions and said, “I hope to God you know what you’re doing, lover.”
I said, “That makes two of us.”
She half turned her head, swung her eyes all the way around to look at me under half-closed lids. “You get me in any more jams, lover, and I’ll wring your damn neck.”
I didn’t say anything.
The cab made time through the deserted streets. The place we wanted was an apartment house with an individual bell signal on the front panel. I found the Tarbing name and held my finger against the button.
While I was ringing the bell, I said to Bertha Cool, “It’s up to you to get us in. Tell her you have to see her, that there’s money in it for her. She won’t let a man in at this hour of—” A speaking-tube next to Bertha’s ear shrilled into a whistle, and then a voice, which didn’t sound too annoyed, said, “What do you want?”
Bertha Cool said, “This is Mrs. Cool. I have to see you about a business matter — a chance for you to pick up some money. It’ll only take just a minute. I can run up and explain the situation to you and be out, all inside of five minutes.”
“What sort of a business proposition?”
“I can’t explain it to you here. It’s very personal, but there’s a chance for you to pick up a nice little piece of change.”
The voice through the speaking-tube said, “All right, I’ll bite. Come on up.”
The electric door-catch release buzzed into action. I pushed open the door, and held it for Bertha Cool.
Coming in from the fresh air of the night, the apartment-house corridor was thick with smell. We found an elevator, rattled up to the fourth floor, and walked back to Frieda Tarbing’s apartment. There was light showing over the transom, but the door was closed and locked.
Bertha Cool tapped on the panels.
“Who is it?” a voice asked.
“Mrs. Cool.”