“Anyone trying to find out where she is?”
“I’m certain I couldn’t tell you that.”
The clerk looked past Bertha Cool, over her shoulder, to take in a middle-aged, broad-shouldered man wearing baggy tweeds, who carried in his left hand a sheaf of folded papers held together with an elastic.
“Good afternoon,” the clerk said in a voice that was even more distant than that he had used in greeting Bertha Cool.
The man didn’t even bother to return the salutation. He ran through the folded papers, moving them with thick, stubby fingers. Midway through the pile he folded back the top segment by clamping his thumb in position. The darkened fingernail on the index finger held down the bill. “Acme Piano Rental Company,” he said. “Dolly Cornish. Rent’s due on her piano. Want to pay the bill, or do I go up and get the dough?” The clerk, for the moment, seemed definitely embarrassed. He glanced at Bertha Cool, said to the piano man, “Mrs. Cornish will get in touch with you within the next day or two.”
“She’s moved,” Bertha said.
The piano man looked at her, said, “Huh? How’s that?”
“She’s moved — gone away.”
“She can’t move that piano without written consent.”
“Well, she’s done it. Ask him.” The man turned to the clerk. “She here?”