She was silent for several seconds, then said, “I feel quite certain Bertha Cool is going to hate me from the minute she sees me.”
“She probably won’t shower any too much cordiality on you.”
We went to a hotel, registered. The clerk listened to my story about our dying mother, as I told him that I must hurry to a telephone. He pointed out the phone booth to me.
I called Bertha’s unlisted number. She didn’t answer.
I went up to my room, called Bertha once more. This time a colored maid answered.
“Mrs. Cool?” I asked.
“She ain’t here now.”
“When will she be in?”
“I can’t tell.”
“Where did she go?”