It was Wednesday afternoon when Elsie Brand opened the door of Bertha Cool’s private office. “A gentleman outside; won’t give his name.”
“What’s he want?”
“Says you put an ad in the paper.”
“About what?”
“Automobile accident.”
“So what?” Bertha asked.
“He wants to collect two dollars.”
Bertha Cool’s eyes glittered. “Show him in.”
The man whom Elsie Brand escorted into Bertha Cool’s private office seemed to be trying to get through life by expending the least possible effort. He had a semi-pretzel posture as though neck, shoulders, hips, and legs all seemed afraid they would support more than their fair share of the weight, and even the cigarette which he held in his mouth drooped nonchalantly, bobbing up and down when he talked.
“Hello,” he said. “This the place that wanted information about the automobile accident?”
Bertha Cool beamed at him. “That’s right,” she said. “Won’t you sit down? Have that chair — no, not that one, it’s not so comfortable. Take this one over by the window. That’s it; it’s cooler there. What’s your name?”
The man grinned at her.
He was somewhere in the middle thirties, around five-foot-nine, slightly underweight; with an indolent motion, a sallow complexion, and eyes that were bright with impudence. “Don’t think for a minute,” he said, “that anybody’s going to slap a subpoena on me and say, ‘Now you’re a witness, and what are you going to do about it?’ There’s a lot of talk that has to take place before that happens.”
“What kind of talk?” Bertha asked, carefully fitting a cigarette into her long, carved ivory holder.
“The kind of talk that starts in with a discussion of what’s in it for me,” the man said.
Bertha smiled affably. “Well, now, perhaps I can fix things so there’ll be a good deal in it for you — if you saw what I am hoping you saw.”
“Make no mistake, sister. I saw it all. You know how it is; some people don’t want to be witnesses, and you can’t blame them. Somebody slaps them with a subpoena. They go up to court five times, and learn that the lawyers have continued the case. The sixth time there’s another trial going on, and they wait two days before their case comes up. Then a lot of lawyers throw questions at ’em and make monkeys of ’em. When the case is finished, the lawyer sticks his mitt out and tells ’em he’s much obliged, and coughs up a cheque for ten or fifteen bucks witness fees. The guy’s testimony gave him the break that resulted in a verdict of fifteen grand, but the lawyer soaks the client fifty per cent of it. It’s the witness that’s the sucker. My mother didn’t have any foolish children.”
“I can see she didn’t,” Bertha beamed at him. “You’re just exactly the type of man I like to deal with.”
“That’s swell. Go ahead and deal.”
Bertha said, “I’m particularly interested in finding out something about the identity of—”
“Wait a minute,” the man interrupted. “Don’t begin in the middle. Let’s go back to the beginning.”
“But I am beginning at the beginning.”
“Oh no, you’re not. Take it easy now, sister. The first thing that little Willie wants to know is what’s in it for him.”
“I’m trying to explain it to little Willie,” Bertha said, and smiled coyly.
“Then get your cheque book open, and we’ll have the proper background.”
Bertha said, “Perhaps you didn’t read the ad right.”
“Perhaps you didn’t write it right.”
Bertha said, with a burst of sudden inspiration, “Look here, I’m not representing either of the parties to the accident.”
Her visitor seemed crestfallen. “You’re not?”
“No.”
“Then what’s your angle?”
“I just want to find out where the girl is who was hurt.”
He grinned at her, and his grin was a leer filled with cynical understanding.
“Oh no,” Bertha said, “it isn’t like that. I don’t care anything at all about what happens after I find her. I’m not going to steer her to any lawyer. I don’t care whether she sues him for damages or whether she doesn’t, whether she recovers or whether she doesn’t. I just want to know where I can find her.”
“Why?”
“On another matter,” Bertha said.
“Oh, yeah?”
“That’s the truth.”
“Then I guess you’re not the party I want to talk with.”
“Have you,” Bertha said, “got the licence number of the car that hit her?”
“I told you I had everything. Listen, lady, when a piece of luck drops into my lap, I’m all ready with the little old pencil and the notebook. See? I’ve got it all down; how it happened, the licence number of the automobile — the whole works.” He pulled a notebook from his pocket, opened it, and showed Bertha a page scribbled with notes. “This ain’t the first accident I’ve seen,” he said, and then added ruefully, “I’ll say it ain’t! The first accident I stuck my neck out and told what happened. The insurance company paid the lawyer ten grand. I didn’t go to court. The lawyer thanked me, shook hands with me, told me I was a fine citizen. Get it? I was a fine citizen. The lawyer got the ten grand. He split with the client. I got a handshake. Well, handshakes don’t mean that much to me. After that, I got wise. I carry my little notebook, and I don’t testify anything until after we’ve had a little get-together talk. But don’t worry about my not having the information. Whenever I see anything, I have all the dope on it. That little notebook comes in handy. Get me?”
“I get you,” Bertha said, “but you’re at the wrong place. You’re talking to the wrong person.”
“How come?”
Bertha said, “A man wants me to locate this woman. He doesn’t even know her name. He was becoming attached to her, and then she was smashed out of his life.”
The man took the cigarette from his mouth, flicked the ashes off on to Bertha Cool’s carpet, threw back his head and laughed.
A slow flush of indignation began to colour Bertha’s beefy neck. “I’m glad you think it’s funny,” she snapped.
“Funny? It’s a scream! Boy, oh, boy, ha ha ha! He just wants to send the little lady a valentine, and doesn’t know where to send it. Won’t you please give me the licence number of the guy that struck her?”
“Don’t you see?” Bertha asked. “The man who struck her was going to take her to a hospital. My client wants to know what hospital she went to.”
The man in the big, comfortable, overstuffed chair by the window where it was cool writhed with laughter. He doubled up, slapped his leg, became red in the face. “Ha ha ha! Lady, you slay me! You’re a card. I mean you really are a card!”
He took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his perspiring forehead and his eyes. “Boy, oh, boy, that’s spreading it on. What I mean, it’s spreading it on with a trowel. Tell me, lady, do you find many of them that fall for that sort of stuff? I’m just interested, because when people get that easy, there’s always a chance for someone to make a little something out of it.”
Bertha pushed back her chair. “All right,” she said angrily. “Now listen to me, you little smart pipsqueak. You’re brainy, aren’t you? You’re mamma’s smart little boy. You were the bright one of the family. You’re the clever guy. All the rest of them are suckers. What’s it you got? Look at you. With a twenty-five-dollar, ready-made suit, a dollar necktie, a shirt that’s got holes in it where the edges of the collar rub against it, a pair of shoes that are run-down at the heels. Smart, eh? Wise guy! You’re half smart, just smart enough to stand in your own light and kick because there’s always a shadow tailing you. All right, Mr. Smartypants, now let me tell you something.”
Bertha was on her feet now, leaning across the desk.
“Since you’re so God-damn smart, my client is a blind man, a blind beggar who sits down on the corner and sells pencils and neckties. He’s got to the age where he’s sentimental, and this little wren stopped and passed the time of day with him, gave him a pat on the back and cheered him up. He’s worried about her because she didn’t come to work Monday, and she didn’t come to work Tuesday. He asked me to try and locate her for him; and because he’s just a sweet old codger, Bertha falls for his song and takes on the job at about the quarter the price I’d charge a regular client.
“I was going to try and give you a break. If you’d given me the information I wanted, I was going to steer things around so that if a lawyer picked it up, you could cash in. Now, you’re so damned smart, you just go ahead and find your own lawyer.”
The man in the chair had ceased laughing. He wasn’t even smiling. He looked at Bertha Cool with a puzzled, half-dazed expression in which there was some anger, some surprise.
“Go on,” Bertha said. “Get the hell out of here before I throw you out.”
She started marching around the desk.
“Now, wait a minute, lady. I—”
“Out!” Bertha shouted.
The man jumped up out of the chair as though he had been sitting on a cushion of pins. “Now, wait a minute, lady. Maybe you and me can really do business.”
“Not by a damn sight,” Bertha said, “I’m not going to soil my hands playing around with a cheap, two-bit, penny-ante, race-track tout. You’re so damn smart, go find yourself the lawyer that wants your information.”
“Well, perhaps—”
Bertha Cool came down on him like an avalanche. Her capable right hand caught a handful of slack cloth in the back of his coat, twisted it into a knot. Her arm shot out straight, and her sturdy legs started marching.
Elsie Brand looked up in surprise as they tore through the outer office.
The outer door slammed with a concussion that jarred the frosted glass. Bertha Cool glared at the door for a second or two, then turned to Elsie Brand’s desk. “All right, Elsie, after him. We’ll teach the chiseler!”
“I don’t get you,” Elsie said.
Bertha grabbed the back of the stenographic chair, sent it spinning and skidding halfway across the floor before Elsie Brand could get up.
“Follow him! Find out who he is and where he goes. If he has a car, get the licence number. On your way! Hurry!”
Elsie Brand started for the door.
“Wait until he gets in the elevator,” Bertha cautioned. “Don’t ride down in the same elevator with him. Pick him up on the street.”
Elsie Brand hurried through the door.
Bertha Cool pushed the typewriter chair back in front of Elsie’s stenographic desk, marched back into her own office, picked up the half-burned cigarette in the holder, fitted it to her lips, and dropped into the big swivel chair.
She was puffing slightly from her exertion.
“That little bastard,” she muttered to herself. “Joining the Navy! God, how I miss him! He’d have handled that without any fuss.”