A. Fair - Cats Prowl at Night

“Portable?”

“Yes.”

Bertha Cool smiled. “Thank you very much.” Imogene Dearborne was watching her with steady, expressionless eyes as Bertha Cool pulled open the door and marched out of the office.

About three-fifteen Belder rang Bertha in her office.

“Everything all set?” Bertha asked when she heard his voice on the line.

“Mrs. Cool, I’m afraid this is more complicated than I’d suspected.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Mrs. Goldring is down here for some specific purpose. I’m afraid that letter did more damage than I had anticipated. Sally seems to have left, and my wife may have decided to leave also. She may have met the person who wrote those letters, and— I can’t explain in detail—”

“And your mother-in-law doesn’t know where Mabel is?”

“No. And she’s sticking with me every minute of the time so that I can’t do a thing. My hands are completely tied.”

“Where are you now?”

“Out at my house.”

“Your mother-in-law there?”

“Is she here! She’s been with me every blessed minute.”

“Why didn’t you stay in your office and kick her out?”

“You can’t kick her out — not when she’s determined not to let you out of her sight.”

“Bosh,” Bertha snorted. “ I think she knows where your wife is, and is giving you a run-around. Kick her down the front steps and then go find your wife.”

“You don’t understand, Mrs. Cool. Suppose Mabel met the writer of that letter and heard some more lies. Suppose she decided to leave me. Can’t you see? I had to come to the house to wait. If she did decide to do something drastic, she’d have to come back here to get her clothes... Now you’ve simply got to get Nunnely to give us a little more time. This thing is one of those processions of unfortunate coincidences that have been hounding me lately... Ring up Nunnely, or better yet, go to his office, tell him that you simply have to have another twenty-four hours. He probably won’t give you that — may not give you anything — but you can try for—”

Abruptly Belder’s voice changed. Bertha heard him say in the unctuous tones he reserved for his mother-in-law, “Oh, there you are, Theresa! I was wondering where you were... Just telephoning the office, that’s all... No, she hasn’t communicated with the office. They haven’t heard anything from her... Don’t be so worked up about it. Nothing’s happened to her. She’s gone to lunch and a bridge party or something—”

Then Belder’s voice became louder and crisp with authority. “Put all the mail in the box. If anyone rings up, tell him I may not be back to the office this afternoon. If Mrs. Belder should call, ask her if she’s forgotten about her mother coming, and tell her we’re all waiting here at the house... Good-by, Imogene.”

The phone slammed in Bertha’s ear.

Bertha pressed the button which brought Elsie Brand in on the line.

“Get me George K. Nunnely on the phone, Elsie.”

Bertha sat back in her chair thinking, until the bell rang and she heard Nunnely’s cold, well-modulated voice saying, “Hello, Mrs. Cool. What is it, please?”

Bertha said, “You’re rushing me a little.”

“Just what do you mean by that, Mrs. Cool?”

“I mean that I’m not certain I can get the money ready by four o’clock this afternoon. I may need another twenty-four hours.”

“Impossible.”

“I’m putting an outside limit on it,” Bertha said encouragingly. “I’m hoping to get the cash before four o’clock this afternoon, but I may need another twenty-four hours.”

“Mrs. Cool, your proposition was spot cash.”

“It still is.”

“That’s not my definition of spot cash.”

“It’s mine.”

Nunnely said coldly, “I’m going to expect you to have the money here by four o’clock this afternoon; otherwise the deal’s off.”

Bertha started to make some answer, but the click of the receiver at the other end of the line stilled the words on her lips.

She glowered at the telephone. “Hang up on me, will you?” she stormed. “Wait until we get this deal cleaned up, my fine friend, and I’ll give you a piece of my mind.”

Bertha stamped out to her reception office to deliver a message to Elsie Brand personally. “If that man rings up again, I don’t want to talk with him.”

“Nunnely?”

“Yes.”

“Do I tell him in those words?”

“No. Tell him I’m busy and left word I wasn’t to be disturbed. Then, if he insists I’ll want to talk with him, ask him if he is the Mr. Nunnely who hung up on me the last time we talked. Keep your voice very sweet, as though you were asking merely as a way of identifying him.”

Elsie made a few rapid strokes of her pen in a note-book, nodded her head.

“I have an idea that’s going to be the best way to handle him,” Bertha went on. “If he didn’t need the money damn badly, he’d have told me to go to hell long ago. This way, he’ll start sweating, and a little sweat will crack that hard-boiled exterior. I’m going to do some work, and I don’t want to be disturbed.”

Bertha returned to her office, locked the door, cleared her desk, took out the letter Belder had given her and went to work on it, studying each separate character with a magnifying glass, making notes of various characteristics, breaking off from time to time to consult a chart showing the different type faces of all makes and models of typewriters.

It took Bertha something over an hour to decide that the message had been written on an early model Remington portable typewriter. It had taken her only a few minutes to convince herself that the memo she had found attached to the letters in Belder’s office had been written on the same typewriter that wrote the letter.

Bertha went down to the lunch counter on the ground floor of the building for a quick cup of coffee and a sandwich, was back within a matter of ten minutes.

“Anything new, Elsie”

“Mr. Nunnely called up.”

An expression of serene satisfaction settled on Bertha’s countenance. “What did you tell him?”

“Exactly what you told me to.”

“Did you tell him I was out?”

“No. Just told him that you had left word you were busy and didn’t want to talk with anyone. He said he thought you’d want to make an exception in his case. I asked him if he was the Mr. Nunnely who had hung up on you earlier in the day.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, he sort of cleared his throat and finally said, ‘Oh, wasn’t she finished? I’m sorry.’ ”

“Then what? Did he start begging?”

“No. He just said thank you, and hung up.”

Bertha scowled. “That doesn’t fit,” she said. “He should be getting anxious.”

“But he called up,” Elsie Brand pointed out. “That means something.”

“I mean damned anxious,” Bertha said. “How was his voice — did he sound worried?”

“No. Just the same well-modulated voice.”

“Oh, well, the hell with him. I—”

The door of the office pushed open and Everett Belder, rushing in, said, “My God, Mrs. Cool, I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

“Keep your shirt on,” Bertha said. “Has something else happened?”

“Has something else happened! Great heavens, there’s been a procession of things. Do you know what the latest is? My wife’s left me — and she’s got every cent I have in the world. Every dime, every receivable contract. She even owns the office furniture!”

Bertha studied him for a moment, then turned toward her private office. “Well, I suppose I’ve got to hear the lurid details. Come in.”