“It’s only fifteen bucks.”’
“Only fifteen bucks,” Bertha said, her voice rising. “You speak as if fifteen dollars were—”
I said in a low voice, “Hold it. People coming up the stairs.”
She said, “I think that’s the outfit on the second floor. There’s a man and woman who—”
The steps paused abruptly. Knuckles sounded on our door.
I said hurriedly, “Answer the door. It’s your apartment from now on.”
Bertha marched across the apartment, her heels pounding the floor. She put her hand on the doorknob, paused, and asked, “Who’s there?”
A man’s voice, cultured, well modulated, said, “We’re strangers. We’d like to ask you a question.”
“What about?”
“I think it would be better if you opened the door so we didn’t have to shout.”