Bertha snorted. “He dragged out his red herring within ten minutes of the time you trailed him to the hotel.”
“Not ten — twenty.”
“Okay, twenty. Just time enough for him to get on the phone, call some frail that he knew had plenty of this and that and these and those, and turn her loose on you. I tell you, the guy could take one look at you and tell you’d be a pushover for a bit of fluff — and then she had to stop the car in front of an auto court and tell you she was feeling ill! My God!”
I didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say.
Bertha drove down Seventh Street, pulled the car to a stop in front of the Westchester Arms Hotel.
“Don’t stay right here,” I said. “Drive on half a block down the street and park. I’ll catch you when I’m ready.”
“The hell you will!” Bertha said angrily. “I’m going home and get some shut-eye. This is your job. I went out and picked you up, when you couldn’t get a taxi, but all you have to do here is step out and grab yourself a cab whenever you’re ready to go. And be sure you itemise it on the expense account so I can collect it from the client as necessary travelling expense.”
I closed the door. Bertha slammed the car in gear and took off, leaving behind her a trail of exhaust gas.
I went into the Westchester Arms.
There were a few people around the lobby. I looked the place over and made certain Durham wasn’t there. I looked in the cocktail lounge. He wasn’t there. I went over to the house telephones and said, “I’m looking for a man by the name of Jerome K. Durham from Massachusetts. Is he registered here?”