“How long have I got?” I asked.
He looked at his watch. “Thirty minutes.”
I walked out. He wanted to shake hands, but I managed not to see his paw.
I went down to the agency office. Bertha had rented another typewriter and desk and moved them in. The girls were getting more familiar with the work. Both of them were clacking merrily away at typewriters. I walked on across to the private office and opened the door.
Bertha Cool, reading the newspaper and holding a cigarette in a long, carved ivory holder between the fingers of her jewelled left hand, said, “God, Donald, you certainly do keep things stirred up.”
“What’s the matter now?”
“Telephone calls,” she said. “Lots of them. They won’t leave their names. People want to know when you’re coming in.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That I didn’t know.”
“Men or women?”