I didn’t say anything.
She picked up the newspaper and checked through it before she found the address. “Murdered within a couple of blocks of the place where she parked her car — you tailing along behind — officers out at the house at three o’clock in the morning. She knows you’re a detective — and we still have the job.”
Bertha Cool threw back her head and laughed — hard, mirthless laughter.
I said, “I’m going to need three hundred dollars.”
“Well, you can’t have it.”
I shrugged my shoulders, got up, and started for the door.
“Donald, wait.”
I stood at the door looking at her.
“Don’t you understand, Donald? Bertha doesn’t want in be harsh with you, but—”
“Do you,” I asked, “want me to tell you all about it?”