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.”