Bertha was out in about ten minutes. She crossed over to the humidor, filled up her case with cigarettes, looked at me suspiciously, and slammed closed the doors on the liquor cupboard. “Let’s go,” she said.
We got in her coupé.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Out to Ashbury’s.”
“Who’s the woman?”
“Alta Ashbury.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to get rough. Alta may try to interfere. Mrs. Ashbury’s having perpetual hysterics. Her husband’s announced that he’s through. He’s told her she can go to Reno. She’ll be running a blood pressure, with a doctor at her bedside and a couple of trained nurses in attendance. She figures her husband will probably show up sooner or later to pack some of his things and move out. She’s getting all ready for him when he comes.”
“Nice party you’re getting me into,” Bertha Cool said.
“Isn’t it?”