In San Bernardino she once more made certain that no one was following her before she parked the car in front of the hotel. She honked the horn to get the attention of a bellboy, handed him the suitcase, registered as B. Cool of Los Angeles, asked for a cheap, inside room, objected to 2.14 as not being exactly what she wanted, and finally compromised on 381. She explained to the clerk that she might have to check out by telephone, asking the hotel to store her suitcase until she would have an opportunity to pick it up, and stated that she preferred to pay for the room in advance. Having paid a day’s rent and secured a receipt signed by the clerk, she let the bellboy take her to her room.
The bellboy made a great show of opening the window, turning on the lights, raising shades, making certain there were towels on the racks.
Bertha stood by the bed watching his activities, and when he had finished, dropped a ten-cent piece into his palm, then after a moment’s hesitancy, added a nickel.
“Was there anything else?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Bertha said. “I’m going to take a bath and then sleep for a while. Please leave word that I am not to be disturbed on the telephone.”
Bertha hung a Please Do Not Disturb sign on the knob of the door, turned off the lights, locked the door, and, carrying her suitcase, found the stairway, climbed to the fourth floor, and located room 420. There was a Please Do Not Disturb on that doorknob.
She tapped gently on the door.
“Who is it?” Kosling’s voice asked.
“Mrs. Cool.”
She heard the tapping of his cane, then the sound of the bolt shooting back, and Kosling, looking old, bent, and worn, opened the door.