“Aren’t we all?”
I smiled and said, “Some of us are.”
“I suppose that’s a dirty dig.”
I kept quiet.
Bertha said, “Open that suitcase, lover, and look in the zipper compartment. His letter’s in there.”
I got out his letter, held it up to the light. It was Scribcar Bond. I held the two sheets side by, side. Corla Burke’s letter had been written on his stationery. The upper part of the letterhead had been folded over and cut off with a sharp knife.
Bertha Cool said, “Well, fry me for an oyster!”
I folded Corla Burke’s letter and put it in my pocket. “What do we do next, lover?” Bertha asked.
“I want to check up on the Los Angeles end. How long’s Whitewell going to stay here?”
“I think for a day or two.”