I could see Bertha thinking things over. There were two of them, whoever they were. Long training had made Bertha cautious. She sized me up as though wondering just how much help I’d be in a fight, then slowly opened the door.
The man who made a smiling bow was evidently the owner of the well-modulated voice. His companion, standing a pace or two behind, wouldn’t go with that type of voice.
The man in front held his hat in his hand. The man behind kept his hat on, his eyes studying Bertha Cool, taking in every detail of her appearance. Abruptly he saw me, and his eyes jumped to mine with a startled quickness which indicated apprehension.
The man who had been doing the talking said, “You’ll pardon me, I’m certain. I’m trying to get some information, and I think perhaps you might be able to help me.”
“More probably not,” Bertha said.
He wore a suit of clothes which had netted some tailor at least a hundred and fifty berries. The hat he was holding in his hand was a pearl-gray Homburg which had set him back around twenty bucks. Everything about the man spoke of quiet class. He seemed to have dressed with the scrupulous care he’d have taken in arraying himself for an Easter-morning parade. He was slender, graceful, suave.
The man who was standing behind him wore a suit which was in need of pressing. It was a ready-made, obviously tailored for a man of different build, and re-tailored in a haberdashery fitting room. He was in the fifties, barrel-chested, tall, tough, and watchful.
The man with the well-modulated voice was saying quite persuasively to Bertha, “If we could step inside for just a moment, we’d prefer that the other tenants in the building didn’t hear what we’re discussing.”
Bertha, blocking the door, said, “ You’re doing the talking. I don’t give a damn how many people hear me listen.”
He laughed at that, a cultured laugh which showed genuine amusement. His eyes took in Bertha’s gray-haired belligerency in a survey which showed awakening interest.