Bertha Cool looked as though she were seeing ghosts. “What happened?”
“Well, the man seemed like very much of a gentleman, but I hadn’t been riding with him very long before I realized he had been drinking. Then I saw he was quite intoxicated, and then the veneer of being a gentleman wore through. He started making offensive remarks, and finally started pawing. I slapped his face, got out of the car, and took a streetcar home.”
“You hadn’t told him where you lived?”
“No, just the direction to start driving.”
“And he didn’t have your name?”
“I gave it to him, but he was too drunk to remember it. I’m absolutely certain of that.”
Bertha did everything but rub her eyes. “Now,” she said, “all you need to do to make the thing completely cockeyed is to tell me that you were living in the Bluebonnet Apartments.”
“But I was — I still am. The Bluebonnet Apartments out on Figueroa. How did you know?”
Bertha Cool put her hand to her head.
“What’s the matter?” Josephine Dell asked.