A. Fair - Gold Comes in Bricks

“You understand,” he said, “that includes everything: light, heat, maid service, and a complete change of linen once a week, fresh towels every day if desired.”

I thanked him, said good night, and went out. Two blocks down the street, I found a restaurant with a public phone. I went in and looked in the directory under the C’s, found Crumweather, C. Layton, attorney, office Fidelity Building. Down below that was the number of a residence telephone. It was Orange nine-six-four-three-two.

That was all I wanted to know.

Bertha Cool, clad in gaudy striped silk pyjamas and a robe, was sprawled out in a big easy chair, listening to the radio. She said, “For Heaven’s sake, Donald, why don’t you go to bed and get some sleep? — and let me get some.”

I said, “I think I’ve found out something.”

“What?”

“I want you to get dressed and come with me.”

She looked at me in contemplative appraisal. “What is it this time?”

I said, “I’m going to put on a show. I may get into an argument with a woman. You know the way women work me. I won’t be tough enough. I want you along for moral support.”

Bertha heaved a tremendous sigh that I could see rippling all the way up from her diaphragm. “At last,” she said, “you’re getting some sense. That’s about the only excuse you could have made that would have dragged me up and out after I’ve got ready for bed. What is it, that blonde?”

“I’ll tell you about it after we get started.”

She heaved herself up out of the hugh reclining chair and said acidly, “If you’re going to keep on giving the orders, you’d better raise my salary.”

“Let me have the income, and I will.”

She walked past me into the bedroom, the floor boards creaking under her weight as she walked. She flung back over her shoulder, “You’re getting delusions of grandeur,” and slammed the bedroom door.

I switched off the radio, dropped into a chair, stretched my feet out, and tried to relax. I knew there was a tough job ahead.

Bertha’s sitting-room was a clutter of odds and ends, tables, bric-a-brac, books, ash trays, bottles, dirty glasses, matches, magazines, and an assortment of odds and ends piled around in such confusion that I didn’t see how it was ever possible to get things dusted. There was only one clear place in the whole room, and that was where Bertha had her big chair stretched out, a magazine rack on one side, a smoking stand on the other. The radio was within easy reaching distance, and the doors of a little cabinet were open, showing an assortment of bottles.

When Bertha made herself comfortable, she settled down to make a good job of it, and thoroughly relaxed. She didn’t believe in halfway measures in anything that affected her personal comfort and convenience.

Bertha was out in about ten minutes. She crossed over to the humidor, filled up her case with cigarettes, looked at me suspiciously, and slammed closed the doors on the liquor cupboard. “Let’s go,” she said.

We got in her coupé.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Out to Ashbury’s.”

“Who’s the woman?”

“Alta Ashbury.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to get rough. Alta may try to interfere. Mrs. Ashbury’s having perpetual hysterics. Her husband’s announced that he’s through. He’s told her she can go to Reno. She’ll be running a blood pressure, with a doctor at her bedside and a couple of trained nurses in attendance. She figures her husband will probably show up sooner or later to pack some of his things and move out. She’s getting all ready for him when he comes.”

“Nice party you’re getting me into,” Bertha Cool said.

“Isn’t it?”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“If the women keep out of things, it’s all right,” I said, “but if they start horning in on the party, I want you to horn ’em out. Alta may try to work a sympathy gag. Mrs. Ashbury may get tough.”

Bertha lit a cigarette. “It isn’t such a good idea quarrelling with a customer’s wife.”

“They’re going to get a divorce.”

“You mean he wants one.”

“Yes.”

“That’s a hell of a long way from getting one,” Bertha said, and then added significantly, “when a man has the dough he’s got.”

“He can always buy his way out.”

“Through the nose,” Bertha said, and relaxed to enjoy her smoking.

Halfway out there, Bertha ground out her cigarette and looked at me. “Don’t think you’re getting away with all this stuff, Donald. I’d ask you some questions if I weren’t so damned afraid of the answers.” Then she lit another cigarette, and settled back to dogged silence.

We pulled up in front of Ashbury’s residence. There were three cars parked at the kerb. Lights were on all over the house. Ashbury had given me a key, but because of Bertha, I rang the bell and waited for the butler to let us in. He was up, all right. He looked at me with mild disapproval, and at Bertha with curiosity.

“Has Mr. Ashbury returned yet?”

“No, sir. Mr. Ashbury is not here.”

“Nor Miss Alta?”

“No, sir.”

“Robert?”

“Yes, sir. Robert is here. Mrs. Ashbury is very ill. The doctor and two nurses are in attendance. Robert is at her bedside. Her condition is critical.” He looked at Bertha and said, “And if you’ll pardon the suggestion, sir, there are no visitors.”

I said, “That’s all right. We’re waiting for Mr. Ashbury,” and we walked on in.

“Mrs. Cool will wait in my room,” I said. “When Mr. Ashbury comes, tell him that I’m up, and that Mrs. Cool is with me.”

“Mrs. Cool?”

“That’s right,” Bertha said, turning to stick a bulldog jaw out at him. “The name’s Bertha Cool. Which way do we go, Donald?”

I led the way up to my room.

Bertha looked it over and said, “You seem to rate.”

“I do.”

“A nice place, Donald. He must have some dough tied up here.”

“I suppose he has.”

“It must be hell to be rich — not that I wouldn’t mind taking a fling at it. That reminds me, I’ve got some letters to write in connection with a couple of stocks. When’s Elsie coming back?”

“Two or three days,” I said.

“I’ve got two girls up there now,” Bertha said, “and neither one of them is worth a damn.”

“What’s the matter? Can’t they take shorthand?”

“Sure, they can, and they can type, too, but it takes the two of them to do the same amount of work in a day that Elsie did.”

“They’re pretty good girls then,” I said.

She glowered at me. “Donald, don’t tell me you’re going to start falling for Elsie. My God, but you’re susceptible to women! All a woman has to do is to put her head down on your shoulder and cry, and you start oozing sympathy. I suppose she’s been beefing about what a tough job she has.”

“She hasn’t said anything. I’m the one who did the talking.”

“What did you say?”

“Told her to take it easy up in that new office, and have a rest.”

Bertha made a sound of indignation. It was half sniff and half snort. “Paying a girl,” she said, “to sit around and look at her finger-nails while I’m slaving my fingers to the bone trying to make both ends meet.” The humor of her remark struck her as soon as she made it, and she added, with a half smile, “Well, perhaps not clean to the bone. Donald, what the hell did we come here for?”

“Sit tight,” I said. “We’re getting ready to go into action.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Wait here.”

“You’re going some place?”

“Yes, down the hall to look in on Mrs. Ashbury. If you hear her voice raised in an argument, come on down. Otherwise, stay here until the party gets rough.”