I called up Bertha Cool from a booth in a restaurant a couple of doors down the street. No one answered at either the office or her apartment.
I had breakfast and smoked cigarettes over two cups of coffee. I got a newspaper, glanced through the headlines, and read the sporting news. I called Bertha Cool’s office again, and she was in.
“Anything new?” I asked.
“Where are you, Donald?”
“At a pay station.”
Her voice was cautious. “I understand the police are making headway in the Ringold murder.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. There are some recent developments they can’t figure out.”
“Such as what?”
“Someone got into the hotel room, apparently early this morning, and ripped it all to pieces. The upholstery was cut open, curtains were pulled down, carpets torn up, pictures taken out of the frames — a hell of a mess.”