Bertha started to give him the name of the hotel, but I beat her to it, and said, “Union Depot. No hurry. Take it easy.”
We settled back against the cushions. Bertha wanted to talk. I jabbed my elbow into her ribs every time she started to say anything. Finally she gave it up, and sat glowering at me in seething, impotent rage.
We paid off the cab at the depot. I piloted Bertha through one entrance, swung her around, and out another. “Monteleone Hotel,” I told the driver.
Once more I held Bertha to silence. I felt as though I were holding down the safety valve on a steam boiler. I didn’t know at what moment an explosion might occur.
We arrived at the Monteleone Hotel. I escorted Bertha over to a row of comfortable chairs, settled her in the deep cushions, sat down beside her, and said quite affably, “Go ahead and talk. Talk about anything in the world you want to — except anything that’s happened in the last hour.”
Bertha glared at me. “Who the hell are you to tell me what to talk about and what not—?”
I said, “Every move we’ve made up to this point will be traced. It’s what we do from here on that really counts.”
Bertha snapped, “If they trace us here, they’ll trace us the rest of the way.”
I waited until the clerk’s eye drifted our way; then I got up, walked over to the desk, smiled affably, and said, “I believe the bus comes here to pick up passengers for the plane north, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. It will be here in about thirty minutes.”