“Go ahead,” Bertha said, irritated at his appraisal. “Either drop a nickel or hang up.”
He took a card case from his pocket with something of a flourish, jerked a card halfway out as though intending to give it to Bertha Cool, then let it stay there. “I’m from Los Angeles. My name is Cutler, Marco Cutler.”
I looked at Bertha’s face to see if she got it. From all I could see, she hadn’t.
Cutler said, “I am trying to get information concerning my wife.”
“What about her?”’ Bertha asked.
“She lived here.”
“When?”
“As nearly as I can tell, it must have been around three years ago.”
Bertha, caught off guard, said, “Oh, you mean she — that is—”
“Exactly. Right here in this apartment,” Cutler said.