“Women,” she said, “young women, from the sound of their voices. God, lover, I don’t know what it is you do to them — I could understand it if you were one of these indifferent heartbreakers, but you certainly aren’t a matinee idol. And you fall for them just as hard as they do for you — not in the same way. You’re not on the make, Donald. You put women up on a pedestal and worship them. You think just because they have skirts wrapped around their waists they’re something different, noble, and exalted. Donald, you’ll never make a good detective until you learn that woman is nothing more or less than the female of the species.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
She glared at me and said, “None of your impudence, Donald. After all, you’re working for me.”
“And making a hundred bucks a day for you.”
That registered. “Sit down, lover,” she invited. “Don’t mind Bertha. Bertha’s cross this morning because she didn’t get much sleep last night.”
I sat down in the client’s chair.
The telephone rang.
Bertha said, “This is another one of those women calling for you.”
“Find out who it is,” I said. “If it’s Esther Clarde or Alta Ashbury, I’m in. If it’s anyone else, I’m out.”
“Those two women,” Bertha said, “falling for them both at the same time! That Clarde woman is just a common little strumpet, and Alta Ashbury is a rich girl who considers you a new toy. She’ll play with you until she breaks you, and then she’ll throw you on the junk heap without so much as—”