A. Fair - Owls Don't Blink

Once more we were off. Great snow-capped mountains appeared ahead, guarding the edge of the desert like gray-haired sentinels. The plane jumped and twisted like something alive in the narrow confines of a pass between two big mountains, and then, so abruptly that it seemed there was no appreciable period of transition, the desert fell behind, and we were skimming over a citrus country in which orange and lemon groves, laid out in checkerboard squares, marched by in an endless procession. The red roofs of white stucco houses showed in startling contrast to the vivid green of the citrus trees. Dozens of cities, constantly growing larger and crowding closer together as we neared Los Angeles, spoke of the prosperity of the country below.

Then they shrouded the plane. I looked across at Roberta. “Won’t be long now,” I told her.

She smiled somewhat wistfully. “I think it’s the best honeymoon trip I ever had,” she said.

Then, almost without warning, the plane was swooping down out of the sky, gliding toward a long cement runway. The wheels dipped smoothly to the earth, and we were in Los Angeles.

I said, “Okay. Here we are. We go to a hotel, and I’ll get in touch with my partner.”

“The Bertha Cool you’ve been talking about?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think she’ll like me?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“She doesn’t like good-looking young women — particularly when she thinks I do.”

“Why? Afraid she’s going to lose you?”

“Just on principle,” I said. “She probably doesn’t have any reason.”

“Do we — that is, register under our own names?”

“No.”

“But, Donald, you — I mean I—”

“You register as Roberta Lam,” I said. “I register under my own name. From now on we’re brother and sister. Our mother is very low. We hurried to be at her side.”

“And I’m Roberta Lam?”

“Yes.”

“Donald, aren’t you putting yourself in a dangerous position?”

“Why?”

“Giving me the protection of your name, when you know I’m wanted by the police.”

“I didn’t know you were wanted by the police. Why didn’t you tell me?”

She smiled. “It’s a nice alibi, Donald, but it won’t work. They’ll ask you why it was you spirited me around, using an assumed name and an assumed relationship if you didn’t realize that police were looking for me under my own name.”

“The answer to that is very simple,” I said. “You’re a material witness. I think I can use you to solve a murder. I’m keeping you with me. In place of reporting to Bertha Cool by letter, I’m taking you with me so she can hear your entire story.”

She was silent for several seconds, then said, “I feel quite certain Bertha Cool is going to hate me from the minute she sees me.”

“She probably won’t shower any too much cordiality on you.”

We went to a hotel, registered. The clerk listened to my story about our dying mother, as I told him that I must hurry to a telephone. He pointed out the phone booth to me.

I called Bertha’s unlisted number. She didn’t answer.

I went up to my room, called Bertha once more. This time a colored maid answered.

“Mrs. Cool?” I asked.

“She ain’t here now.”

“When will she be in?”

“I can’t tell.”

“Where did she go?”

“Fishing.”

“When she comes in, tell her to call — no, tell her that Mr. Donald Lam called, and that he’ll call every hour until he gets her.”

“Yes sir. I think the fishin’ was early this morning. I think the tide was goin’ to be just right at seven-thirty. I rather ’spect her back pretty soon.”

“I’ll call every hour. Tell her that I said that. Be sure she gets that message — that I’ll call every hour.”

I climbed into the luxury of a hot bath, lay soaking for ten or fifteen minutes, then got up and turned on the cold shower. I rubbed myself into a glow, dressed, shaved, and stretched out for forty winks.

I was awakened by Roberta gently opening and closing the door of the connecting room.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Time for you to call Mrs. Cool again.”

I groaned, picked up the telephone, gave the number to the operator, and waited.

This time Bertha was home — evidently, by the sound of things, just coming into the apartment as the telephone rang. I heard the maid call her, and could hear her hurried steps thudding across the floor, then the sound of her voice rasping at me through the receiver. “For God’s sake, why don’t you stay put? What do you think this agency’s made of? Money? When you want a conference, why don’t you use the telephone? I’ve tried to educate you to that a dozen different times.”

“All through?” I asked.

“Hell, no!” she said belligerently. “I haven’t even started.”

“All right, I’ll call you back when you’re through. One doesn’t argue with a lady.”

I dropped the phone gently back on the hook, abruptly cutting off Bertha’s rage-shrilled voice.

Roberta’s eyes were big. I could see she was frightened.

“Donald, are you going to fight over me?”

“Probably.”

“Please don’t.”

“We have to fight over something.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bertha. You have to massage her with a club in order to keep her from beating your brains out. She doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s just the way she’s made. She can’t help it. When you see she’s getting her fist cocked, you beat her to the punch. That’s all. I’m going to sleep again. Don’t bother to waken me. You go ahead and get some sleep.”

“Aren’t you going to call her again?”

“After a while.”

Roberta smiled somewhat wistfully and said, “You’re a funny boy.”

“Why?” I asked, settling myself back on the bed.

“Nothing,” she said, and walked back to her room.

It took me ten or fifteen minutes to get back to sleep. I must have slept for a couple of hours. When I wakened, I rang Bertha Cool again.

“Hello, Bertha. This is Donald.”

“You damn little whippersnapper! You dirty little upstart! What the hell do you mean by pulling a stunt like that. I’ll teach you to hang up on me! Why, dammit, I’ll—”

“I’ll call you back in a couple of hours,” I said, and hung up.

Roberta came in in about an hour. “I didn’t hear you get up.”

“You were sleeping. Guess you’re pretty tired.”

“I was.”

She sat on the arm of my chair, her hand on my shoulder, looking down at the paper.

“Did you call Mrs. Cool again?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“Same thing.”

“What did you do. Donald?”

“Same thing.”

“I thought you were anxious to talk with her.”

“I am.”

She laughed. “You’ve taken planes and dashed across the country in order to have this conference, and now you’re sitting around doing nothing.”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t understand it.”

“I’m waiting for Bertha to cool off.”

“Do you think she will? Don’t you think she’ll get more angry than ever?”

“She’s so mad right now she could eat a dish of ten-penny nails without cream or sugar. She’s also curious. Curiosity persists until it’s satisfied. Rage dies down after a while. That’s the secret of dealing with Bertha. Want the funny paper?”

Her laugh was low and nervous. “Not now,” she said. “What’s this?”

She bent forward to read a paragraph in the paper I was holding. I could feel her hair brush against mine.

I held the paper steady until she had finished; then I dropped it to the floor, turned my body sideways. She slid down into my lap.