Short But Not Sweet
George K. Nunnely’s secretary had the unsure attitude which characterizes a new employee who is afraid of making a mistake.
“You have an appointment with Mr. Nunnely?” she asked. Bertha Cool glared just long enough for the other woman’s gnawing uncertainty to put her on the defensive. Then she said, “Tell Mr. Nunnely Mrs. Cool wants to see him about turning dubious assets into cold, hard cash. Hand him my card. Tell him I don’t work unless I’m paid, but I don’t ask pay unless I produce results. Think you’ve got that?”
The girl looked at the card. “You’re — you’re Mrs. Cool?”
“That’s right.”
“A private detective?”
“Yes.”
“Just a moment.”
The secretary was back within a matter of seconds. “Mr. Nunnely will see you.”
Bertha sailed through the door which the secretary held open. The man at the desk didn’t even look up. He signed a letter, blotted it, opened a drawer in the desk, dropped the letter into the drawer, took out a day-book, opened it, picked up a desk-pen, made a notation. Every motion was calm and unhurried, yet there was no hesitation between separate acts. Each thing that he did flowed into a part of a perfect pattern of continuous work.
Bertha Cool watched him curiously.
It was nearly a minute before he methodically blotted the entry he had made in the day-book, closed it, carefully returned it to the drawer in the desk, closed the drawer with the same tempo which had characterized everything he had done since Bertha had entered the office, then raised his eyes and confronted Mrs. Cool with a perfectly calm expression of poker-faced politeness. “Good morning, Mrs. Cool. The message you gave my secretary was rather unusual. May I ask for an explanation?”
Under the cool, almost impersonal inspection of pale green eyes, Bertha Cool found it, for a moment, a little difficult to carry out her plan of campaign. Then she twitched angrily as though shaking off the man’s influence, and said, “I understand you need money.”
“Don’t we all?”
“You in particular.”
“May I ask the source of your information?”
“A little bird.”
“Am I expected to show interest or indignation?”
Bertha Cool’s personality broke from its shell to rise superior to the man’s cool detachment. “I don’t give a damn what you do. I’m a sharpshooter. When business gets quiet with me, I go out and make business.”
“Very interesting.”
“I’ll put my cards on the table. You’ve got a judgment against a man by the name of Belder. You haven’t collected. You can’t collect. You’ve had attorneys bleeding you white. They can’t get to first base. I can’t afford to split my take with a lawyer. I’m not going out and grab the gravy and then hand a percentage on a silver platter to some lawyer. I can’t afford to. And when you do business with me, you can’t afford to either. Fire your lawyers, put yourself in a position where you can deal with me without anybody else butting in, and I can make you some money.”
“What’s your proposition?”
“You’ve got a judgment for twenty thousand. You can’t collect it. You never will collect it.”
“That’s a matter that is open to argument.”
“Certainly it’s open to argument. You and your lawyers argue one way, and the other man and his lawyers argue the other. You keep paying your lawyers, he keeps paying his lawyers. What he pays isn’t deducted from the twenty thousand he owes you and what you pay is water down the rat hole. You think you have a twenty-thousand-dollar asset, but so far it’s simply been an opportunity to pay out lawyer’s fees.”
“A very interesting way of looking at the situation, Mrs. Cool. May I ask specifically what is your proposition?”
“You can’t get the whole twenty thousand. But you could get some of it. I could settle that case if I had a free hand. You’ll have to knock off some.”
“How much?”
“A lot — and then I’ll take my cut.”
“I think not, Mrs. Cool.”
“Think it over. As it is, it’s costing you money. I can make Belder pay a sizeable chunk of money. You get yours and the thing’s all finished.”
“How much can you get?”
“Five thousand.”
Nunnely’s eyes remained steadily fixed on Bertha Cool, but he slowly lowered and raised his eyelids. There was no other trace of emotion or expression on his face. “Net to me?” he asked.
“Gross,” Bertha said.
“Your cut?”
“Fifty per cent.”
“Leaving me twenty-five hundred net?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not interested.”
Bertha Cool heaved herself up out of the chair. “You’ve got my card,” she said. “Any time you change your mind, ring me up.”
Nunnely said, “Wait a moment, Mrs. Cool. I should like to talk with you.”
Bertha waded on past the deep-carpeted luxury of the office to the door, turned in the doorway and delivered her parting shot. “I’ve said all I have to say. You could have said either of two things. You said no. There’s nothing more to talk about. If you change your mind and want to say yes, call me.”
“I want to ask one question, Mrs. Cool. Did Mr. Belder send you to me? Are you representing him?”
“He wants to ask one question of twenty-five hundred bucks, cash!” Bertha said, and slammed the door behind her.
She sailed across the outer office, conscious of the curious eyes of the new secretary, jerked open the door in the corridor, tried to slam it behind her, and frowned with irritation as her pull on the knob was slowed down by an automatic door check.