“I’m watching it.”
“Bertha couldn’t use you, you know, if you were sleeping in a room that had iron bars all over it.”
I pretended to be surprised and hurt. “You mean you’d stop my salary if I had to go to jail over trying to solve a company case?”
Bertha fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. She said, “You’re goddam right I’d stop your salary, you impudent little squirt,” and slammed up the telephone so hard it sounded as though she’d pulled the receiver hook out by the roots.
I went back and had another cup of coffee on the strength of that, then went over to Crumweather’s office.
Miss Sykes gave me one look, said, “Just a minute,” and dived into Crumweather’s private office. It was a good minute before she came out. I figured she’d had fifty seconds worth of instructions.
“Go on in, Mr. Lam.”
I went into the private office. Crumweather beamed all over his face. He pushed out a bony hand at me, and was as effusively cordial as an applicant for a loan greeting a bank appraiser who’s called to go over the physical assets.
“Well, well, Lam, my boy,” he said, “you certainly are an active little chap — damnably active! You certainly do get around. Yes, sir, you certainly do.”
I sat down.