She smiled. “Bertha will have kittens.”
“That’s fine. In about an hour Mr. Rich will call to tell me that he’s managed to get my proposition through for immediate action, but that he can’t hold it open longer than two or three o’clock this afternoon, that I’ll have to get the money and have it ready in the office, and he’ll be here with contracts to sign. Make an appointment for whatever time he says, and call me at Bertha Cool’s office to let me know.”
“Anything else?” she asked.
“If a Mr. Ashbury should call or come in, tell him Mr. Fischler is busy and you don’t know just when he’ll be back.”
Chapter eight
I’d become so accustomed to hearing the rapid fire of Elsie Brand’s typewriter when I opened the door of the agency office that the ragged tempo of click — clack — clack — clack — click — clack — clack sounded strange to me as I walked down the corridor, and made me pause to convince myself that I had the right office.
I pushed open the door.
A rather good-looking girl sat over at Elsie Brand’s desk with her arms wrapped around the typewriter, digging away at the paper with a circular rubber eraser.
She looked up with a perfectly blank face.
I jerked my thumb toward the inner office. “Anybody in there?”