“You certainly do play a wicked tune on that keyboard,” Bertha said.
“Thank you.”
“Do a lot of practicing?”
“I’m kept fairly busy.”
“Have a typewriter at home, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“Portable?”
“Yes.”
Bertha Cool smiled. “Thank you very much.” Imogene Dearborne was watching her with steady, expressionless eyes as Bertha Cool pulled open the door and marched out of the office.