Twice Bertha announced truculently she was going to the wash-room. Her bodyguard silently acquiesced, plodded along behind her, took up his station in the corridor from which he could watch the door of the ladies’ room, and waited until Bertha Cool emerged. Whereupon he escorted her back to the office.
Bertha did some office work, scribbled a few personal letters, and tried her best to appear that she wasn’t scared stiff.
About six o’clock the officer telephoned a restaurant in the neighbourhood, explained the circumstances, and the restaurant sent up sandwiches and coffee.
“One hell of a way to eat dinner,” Bertha growled belligerently as she pushed back the empty plate and drained the last of the lukewarm coffee from the pottery coffee-pot.
She couldn’t get an argument with her guard over that. He said, “Isn’t it? I don’t like it either.”
At seven o’clock the telephone rang.
“I’ll answer it,” the officer said. He picked up the receiver and said, “Hello... Yeah... Okay. Sarge, I get you... uh huh. How soon?... Okay, good-bye.”
He hung up the receiver.
Bertha tried to make her expression hopeful, but had to fight back panic in her eyes.
“No dice yet,” her bodyguard said. “The guy won’t confess. The Sarge says I’m to stay on here for an hour or so. If something doesn’t happen by that time, we’ll have to take you down to headquarters and book you. Sorry, we tried to give you the breaks.”