A. Fair - Cats Prowl at Night

Bertha raised her eyes over bifocal glasses to regard Everett Belder’s startled countenance. “Who,” she asked, “was the girl?”

“Good heavens! No one knows about her.”

“Who was she?”

“Dolly Cornish.”

“And who’s Dolly Cornish?”

“An old flame. I almost married her. We had a fight and well, I got married. I guess perhaps to show her that I could be independent; and very shortly afterwards she got married.”

“Where is she now?”

“She’s — somewhere in the city.”

“Got her address?”

“I — er—”

“Yes or no.”

“Yes, I have it.”

“Where?”

“The Locklear Apartments, apartment 15B.”

“What happened Monday?”

“She came to call on me.”

“Does she do that often?”

“Don’t be silly. It was the first time I’d seen her since my marriage.”

“She’s been living here in Los Angeles?”

“No, New York.”

“And what happened?”

“She came to Los Angeles and wondered about me. She’d found her marriage was unhappy, and gone ahead and secured a divorce. She didn’t know whether I was still living with Mabel. She wanted to find out. She looked up my office and simply walked in.”

“Did you put on the clinch in front of your secretary?”

“No. I was so surprised I was all but speechless. Then Miss Dearborne closed the door and Dolly — well, Dolly was glad to see me.”

“That was after the door to the outer office had been closed?”

“Yes.”

“And you tried to turn back the clock a little?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Did a little necking?”

“No, no! Not that! Heavens no!”

“Seen her since?”

“Well—”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

“Twice.”

“Been out with her?”

“Dinner once, yes.”

“What did you tell your wife?”

“That I was working at the office.”

“Well,” Bertha said, “don’t be so goddamned apologetic about it. The way I see it, you’re just an average husband.”

Bertha folded the letter, slipped it into her purse, picked up the circular from the furrier and carefully fitted it into the envelope, added a bit of adhesive to the flap of the envelope, pasted it shut, and tossed it over to Belder. “All right,” she said, “watch for your opportunity. Put this back on the table with the other mail.”

Belder’s face showed relief. “Mrs. Cool, you’re a veritable lifesaver. I—”

A quick, nervous knock sounded at the door of the outer office.

“What is it?” Bertha asked.

“May I come in, Mrs. Cool?” Elsie Brand asked.

Bertha moved toward the door. “What is it, Elsie?”

Elsie slid the door open a few inches, slipped through the opening, pulled the door tightly closed behind her.

“Nunnely’s out there,” she said in a low voice.

Belder twisted the fingers of his hands nervously. “Oh, my God!”

Bertha pushed back her chair. “You leave this baby to me,” she said to Belder. “He’s my meat.”

“Don’t let him know I’m here,” Belder said in a half whisper. “If he thinks we’re working together he—”

“I tell you to leave it to me,” Bertha said. She turned to Elsie Brand. “Tell him I’m busy, that I can’t see him at all today. If he wants to see me, he’ll have to make an appointment, and the earliest available moment I have open is at ten-thirty tomorrow morning.”

Elsie nodded, slipped quietly out through the door.

Bertha turned to Belder. “Now, you,” she charged, “get the hell out of here as soon as he leaves the office, and go give that mother-in-law of yours something to think about.”

Bertha Cool made a habit of stretching out in bed when she wakened in the morning, flexing her muscles, stretching her arms, reaching as far as she could with her extended fingers, pushing her feet down against the foot of the bed. Following which, she would reach for the packet of cigarettes which was always on the stand by the side of the bed, light up, and relax in the enjoyment of the first smoke of the morning.

The alarm clock said eight-ten as Bertha awakened and began her muscle-stretching exercises.

She had her first cigarette, then lay back against the doubled pillows, her eyes half closed, relaxing in the warmth of the bed.

Outside, the morning was drab and cold, with a low, thin fog obscuring surroundings. A faint damp wind billowed the curtains back from the open window. The screen was glistening with particles of fog moisture.

Bertha knew it would be clammy cold in the apartment. She was glad she had individual gas heat and didn’t need to rely on a central heating plant... Eight-thirty — the buildings that had steam heat would have turned on the heat just enough to break the chill, and would have been turning the steam off by this time.

Bertha stretched her shoulder muscles, yawned, kicked back the covers, and found it was even colder than she had anticipated. She pulled down the windows, lit the gas, and then popped back into bed, snuggling down into the warmth of the covers.

The clock seemed to tick more loudly in garrulous accusation.

Bertha reached for another cigarette. Her eyes, glittering with malevolence, regarded the fact of the clock. “You’re a damned liar,” she snapped angrily. “It isn’t eight-forty-five. It’s only seven-forty-five. You can’t move the sun ahead an hour just by saying so, so shut up your damned tick-tick-ticking and quit leering at me or I’ll throw you out of the window.”

Bertha scraped a match into flame and lit her second cigarette.

The telephone rang. She started to reach for the instrument, then thought better of it and said, “Go ahead. Ring, and be damned. I’m not going to get up until it’s warm.”

The telephone rang intermittently for almost two minutes, then quit. Bertha finished her cigarette, tried the temperature of the floor once more with her bare toes, wriggled them into bedroom slippers, and went across to the apartment door. She opened it, took in a quart of milk, a half-pint of coffee-cream, and the rolled-up morning newspaper. She slammed the door shut and retired to bed with the morning paper.

She glanced through the paper, keeping up a running fire of devastating comments. “Baloney... Sugar coated... The hell it is! Oh, bunk!.. You’d think we were a—” Her last comment was interrupted by the insistent buzzing of the front-door bell.

“Hell of a time for callers,” she grumbled to herself. “Thought all the salesmen were in the Army by this time.”

The metallic ticking of the alarm clock advised her that it was ten minutes past nine, Pacific War Time.

The apartment was getting warm. Bertha threw back most of the covers.

The buzzing signal from the lower front door continued at intermittent intervals. Bertha calmly ignored it. She put on a robe, went to the bathroom and turned on the shower. She was in the middle of her shower when peremptory knuckles sounded on the door of her apartment.

Bertha grunted annoyance and stepped out of the shower. She dried her legs and feet, wrapped a big bath-towel around her torso, thrust her head out of the bathroom door and yelled, “Who is it?”

A man’s voice said, “Is that Bertha Cool?”

“Who did you think it was?” Bertha demanded truculently.

“This is Sergeant Sellers. Let me in.” Bertha stood for a few seconds blinking angrily at the door, then she said, “I’m taking a shower. I’ll see you at the office at” — she glanced hastily at the clock — “at quarter past ten.”

“I’m sorry,” Sergeant Sellers said, “but you’ll see me now.”