She signalled him, and, as he stopped, whipped the rear door open, scrambled inside, and said, “Step on it.”
The lurch of the starting car threw her back against the seat cushions.
“Turn to the right on Figueroa,” Bertha said. “Make a left turn on Wilshire, run four or five blocks, turn to the left, and stop in the middle of the block.”
While the boy from the garage was doing this, Bertha opened her purse and started powdering her nose. She held the little mirror concealed in her hand in such a way that she could look through the rear window of the car and see the traffic behind her.
When the boy had made the left-hand turn off Wilshire, Bertha got out of the car, said, “All right, I’ll take it now. You call go over to Seventh Street and get a car back. Here’s carfare.”
She handed him a dime; then at the expression on his face, impulsively added twenty-five cents to it.
“Thank you, Mrs. Cool.”
Bertha’s answer was an inarticulate grunt. She settled herself behind the steering wheel, pulled up her skirts so that her knees were free, adjusted the rear-view mirror, and waited for a good five minutes. Then she swung the car in a U-turn in the middle of the block and went back to Wilshire. She turned right to Figueroa, made a left turn, made a figure eight around two blocks, then drove to the Union Station. She parked the car, walked into the station, looked around, came back, got in her car, and drove down Macy Street.
By the time she lined out for San Bernardino Bertha Cool was morally certain that no one was following her.
She reached Pomona just before the stores closed and stopped long enough to purchase a cheap but substantial suitcase, a dress which would fit a tall, thin woman, a broad-brimmed hat, and a light tan, loose-fitting coat. She fitted her purchases into the suitcase, paid for them, and carried the suitcase out to the automobile.