I put down the paper, looking up with a blank look, and said, “Mrs. Cool?”
She took a quick breath.
The man was about forty-five, tall, and fairly broad across the shoulders. He seemed a quiet, reserved chap, but there was something in his eyes I didn’t like, although I didn’t look at them.
Bertha said, “What do you want? Don’t tell me you’re selling anything. I’ve subscribed to all the magazines and made all the donations I’m going to.”
I smiled and said, “Whenever you’re at liberty,” and returned to my paper.
The man said, “Good morning, Mrs. Cool,” and walked across the office. Bertha Cool stood there until the outer office door had clicked shut, then she jerked her thumb, motioning me into the office.
I followed her in and closed the door. She lit a cigarette. Her hand was trembling. “My God, Donald,” she said, “how did you know?”
“What?”
“That he was a detective looking for you?”
“Something in the way his shoes were pointed toward me,” I said. “He acted like a bird dog.”