Bertha sat staring at the telegram, muttering under her breath, “Fry me for an oyster — the brainy little bastard!”
The door opened. Elsie Brand asked, “Is there any reply?”
“Yes,” Bertha said indignantly. “Send a letter to Donald Lam at that San Francisco address. Ask him what the hell he means by putting in all those extra words about regards and best wishes when he’s sending a telegram collect.”
Chapter XI
Bertha Cool pressed her thumb against the bell marked Josephine Dell, picked up the earpiece, and placed her lips near the mouthpiece of the telephone so as to be in a position to answer as soon as she heard a voice. After seconds had elapsed, Bertha pressed her thumb against the button once more. A worried look appeared on her face.
When the third pressure against the bell brought no response, Bertha rang the bell marked Manager.
After a few moments, a heavy-set woman whose flesh seemed to have no more consistency than jelly on a plate opened the door and smiled at Bertha. “We have some very nice vacancies,” she said in a high-pitched voice as though reciting a piece she had learned by heart. “There’s one very nice southern exposure, another apartment on the east. Both of these get plenty of sunlight and—”
“I don’t want an apartment,” Bertha Cool said. “I’m looking for Josephine Dell.”
The cordiality left the manager’s face as though she had reached up and lifted off a mask. “Well, there’s her bell,” she said irritably. “Ring it.”
“I have. She isn’t home.”