Kleinsmidt took my arm. “Let’s go quietly,” he said.
We went quietly. Bertha Cool was standing in the doorway, saying uncomplimentary things to Kleinsmidt. He didn’t pay any attention to her.
As we walked through the lobby, Kleinsmidt said, “I’m sorry, Lam. I hate to do this, but that story just doesn’t hold water. Why don’t you think up a good one?”
“Okay by me. Don’t overlook Bertha, though. She won’t take this lying down. Later on, when you have a chance to think things over, Lieutenant, this is going to be your embarrassing moment. You can write a prize-winning letter on it.”
“I know,” he said, “you’re a plausible cuss, but if you talked me out of this, I’d never hear the last of it.”
He took me down to headquarters. He didn’t put me in a cell, but left me in an office with an officer standing guard. Around noon, Chief Laster came in.
The chief said, “Bill Kleinsmidt has been talking with me.”
“That’s good.”
“And Mrs. Cool is waiting in the other room with a lawyer and a writ of habeas corpus.”
“Bertha’s a two-fisted individual. She makes her compromise with a club.”