“Don’t tell me that B. Cool is a woman.”
Bertha said, “I run the agency under the name of B. Cool because it saves a lot of explanation.”
Whitewell said, “Let’s go upstairs and talk. Your room, Mrs. Cool?”
“Yes,” she said, “in ten minutes.”
His room was a floor below our rooms. After he’d left the elevator, Bertha said, “He’s nice.”
“Uh huh.”
“Refined — sort of distinguished looking.”
“Uh huh. Aren’t you going to eat that chocolate bar?”
“Not now, lover. I have a little headache. I’ll save it. Run along to your room, but be sure you’re back in ten minutes. I don’t want to keep Mr. Whitewell waiting.”
“I’ll be there.”