“To tell him we’ve found Roberta Fenn.”

Bertha jerked her feet down off the cushion. “I don’t suppose this is one of your attempts at being funny?”

“It isn’t.”

“Where is she?”

“In an apartment house down on St. Charles Avenue, the Gulfpride.”

“Under what name?”

“Her own.”

Bertha said softly, “Fry me for an oyster! How did you do it, lover?”

“Just leg work.”

“There’s no question it’s this same girl?”