“Fishing.”
“When she comes in, tell her to call — no, tell her that Mr. Donald Lam called, and that he’ll call every hour until he gets her.”
“Yes sir. I think the fishin’ was early this morning. I think the tide was goin’ to be just right at seven-thirty. I rather ’spect her back pretty soon.”
“I’ll call every hour. Tell her that I said that. Be sure she gets that message — that I’ll call every hour.”
I climbed into the luxury of a hot bath, lay soaking for ten or fifteen minutes, then got up and turned on the cold shower. I rubbed myself into a glow, dressed, shaved, and stretched out for forty winks.
I was awakened by Roberta gently opening and closing the door of the connecting room.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Time for you to call Mrs. Cool again.”
I groaned, picked up the telephone, gave the number to the operator, and waited.
This time Bertha was home — evidently, by the sound of things, just coming into the apartment as the telephone rang. I heard the maid call her, and could hear her hurried steps thudding across the floor, then the sound of her voice rasping at me through the receiver. “For God’s sake, why don’t you stay put? What do you think this agency’s made of? Money? When you want a conference, why don’t you use the telephone? I’ve tried to educate you to that a dozen different times.”