A. Fair: Owls Don't Blink

“What did you tell him?” I asked, grinning.

“I told him to go to hell.”

“Did he?”

“He did not. He hovered around the table, sputtering and telling me what I should eat. I wanted some tomato catsup on my steak, and what do you think he told me? He told me that he wasn’t allowed to bring tomato catsup for steaks. I asked him why not, and he said because it would hurt the chef’s feelings. The chef made such a marvelous sauce; it was world-famous. Putting catsup on steaks was only done by the very crude persons who had no palate.”

“And then?”

“Then,” Bertha said, “I pushed back my chair and told him if the chef was so damned solicitous about the steak, he could eat it. And to present the check to his chef along with the steak.”

“And you walked out?”

“Well,” Bertha said, “they stopped me before I got to the door. There was quite a fuss. I finally compromised by paying for the part of the dinner I’d eaten. But I was damned if I’d pay for the steak. I told them that belonged to the chef.”

“Then what?”

“That was all. I started back here, but stopped in at a little restaurant up on the corner, and really enjoyed myself.”

“The Bourbon House?”

“That’s it. Damn these places where they try to put the customer on the defensive.”

“They want you to realize you’re eating in a world-famous place. They cater only to the élite,” I pointed out.

“The hell they do! The place was jammed with tourists. They’re the ones the place caters to. Phooey! Telling me what I’m going to eat and what I’m not going to eat, and then expecting me to pay the bill. Famous eating place, eh? Well, if you ask me—”

I settled down on the studio couch, reached for a cigarette, said, “Can you reach Hale by telephone in New York?”

“Yes.”

”At night?”

“Yes. I’ve got his residence number, as well as his office number. Why?”

I said, “Let’s go back to the hotel and call him.”

“What do you want to call him about?”

“To tell him we’ve found Roberta Fenn.”

Bertha jerked her feet down off the cushion. “I don’t suppose this is one of your attempts at being funny?”

“It isn’t.”

“Where is she?”

“In an apartment house down on St. Charles Avenue, the Gulfpride.”

“Under what name?”

“Her own.”

Bertha said softly, “Fry me for an oyster! How did you do it, lover?”

“Just leg work.”

“There’s no question it’s this same girl?”

“She matches her photographs.”

Bertha heaved herself up out of the chair. “Donald,” she said, “you’re wonderful! You certainly do have brains! You’re marvelous! How did you do it?”

“Just running down a lot of clues.”

She said, with genuine fondness in her voice, “I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re marvelous, lover! I mean you really are! You — why, dammit to hell!”

“What’s the matter?”

Her eyes glittered. “This damned apartment. You said you rented it by the week?”

“Yes.”

“We can’t get any money back if we move out.”

“I guess not.”

“Well, of all the damn fools! I might have known you’d do something like that. Honestly, Donald, I sometimes think you’re crazy when it comes to money matters. We’ll probably be leaving here tomorrow, and here we are stuck with this apartment for a whole week.”

“It’s only fifteen bucks.”’

“Only fifteen bucks,” Bertha said, her voice rising. “You speak as if fifteen dollars were—”

I said in a low voice, “Hold it. People coming up the stairs.”

She said, “I think that’s the outfit on the second floor. There’s a man and woman who—”

The steps paused abruptly. Knuckles sounded on our door.

I said hurriedly, “Answer the door. It’s your apartment from now on.”

Bertha marched across the apartment, her heels pounding the floor. She put her hand on the doorknob, paused, and asked, “Who’s there?”

A man’s voice, cultured, well modulated, said, “We’re strangers. We’d like to ask you a question.”

“What about?”

“I think it would be better if you opened the door so we didn’t have to shout.”

I could see Bertha thinking things over. There were two of them, whoever they were. Long training had made Bertha cautious. She sized me up as though wondering just how much help I’d be in a fight, then slowly opened the door.

The man who made a smiling bow was evidently the owner of the well-modulated voice. His companion, standing a pace or two behind, wouldn’t go with that type of voice.

The man in front held his hat in his hand. The man behind kept his hat on, his eyes studying Bertha Cool, taking in every detail of her appearance. Abruptly he saw me, and his eyes jumped to mine with a startled quickness which indicated apprehension.

The man who had been doing the talking said, “You’ll pardon me, I’m certain. I’m trying to get some information, and I think perhaps you might be able to help me.”

“More probably not,” Bertha said.

He wore a suit of clothes which had netted some tailor at least a hundred and fifty berries. The hat he was holding in his hand was a pearl-gray Homburg which had set him back around twenty bucks. Everything about the man spoke of quiet class. He seemed to have dressed with the scrupulous care he’d have taken in arraying himself for an Easter-morning parade. He was slender, graceful, suave.

The man who was standing behind him wore a suit which was in need of pressing. It was a ready-made, obviously tailored for a man of different build, and re-tailored in a haberdashery fitting room. He was in the fifties, barrel-chested, tall, tough, and watchful.

The man with the well-modulated voice was saying quite persuasively to Bertha, “If we could step inside for just a moment, we’d prefer that the other tenants in the building didn’t hear what we’re discussing.”

Bertha, blocking the door, said, “ You’re doing the talking. I don’t give a damn how many people hear me listen.”

He laughed at that, a cultured laugh which showed genuine amusement. His eyes took in Bertha’s gray-haired belligerency in a survey which showed awakening interest.

“Go ahead,” Bertha said, irritated at his appraisal. “Either drop a nickel or hang up.”

He took a card case from his pocket with something of a flourish, jerked a card halfway out as though intending to give it to Bertha Cool, then let it stay there. “I’m from Los Angeles. My name is Cutler, Marco Cutler.”

I looked at Bertha’s face to see if she got it. From all I could see, she hadn’t.

Cutler said, “I am trying to get information concerning my wife.”

“What about her?”’ Bertha asked.

“She lived here.”

“When?”

“As nearly as I can tell, it must have been around three years ago.”

Bertha, caught off guard, said, “Oh, you mean she — that is—”

“Exactly. Right here in this apartment ,” Cutler said.

I moved forward. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance. I’m subletting the apartment to this lady. She’s just moving in. Do I understand that you were living here also?”

“No. I was in Los Angeles, carrying on my work. My wife came on here and had this address. As I understand it, she lived in this very apartment.”

He whipped some folded papers from his inside pocket, unfolded them, looked at something, nodded, and said, “That’s right.”

The big man standing behind him seemed to feel called upon to say something.

“Dat’s right,” he agreed.

Cutler turned to him quickly. “This is the place, Goldring?”