Chapter One
I opened the door marked Bertha Cool — Confidential Investigations — Entrance. Elsie Brand looked up from her shorthand notes, and, without missing a beat on the keyboard, said, “Go on in. She’s waiting.” The staccato rhythm of her typing followed me across the office and through the door marked Bertha Cool — Private.
Bertha Cool, profane, massive, belligerent, and bulldog, sat back of her desk, her diamonds flashing in the morning sunlight as she moved her hand over a pile of papers, sorting and re-arranging. The thin man in the middle forties seated in the client’s chair looked up at me with anxious, apprehensive eyes.
Bertha Cool said, “You were long enough getting here, Donald.”
I said nothing to her, but sized up the client, a slender man with greyish hair, a grey, close-clipped moustache, and a mouth which seemed more decisive than the general anxiety of his appearance would indicate. He wore blue glasses so dark that it was impossible to distinguish the colour of his eyes.
Bertha Cool said, “Mr. Smith, this is Donald Lam, the man I told you about. Donald, Mr. Smith.”
I bowed.
Smith said, in the voice of a man who has disciplined himself to subordinate general impressions to exact accuracy, “Good morning, Mr. Lam.” He didn’t offer to shake hands. He seemed disappointed.
Bertha Cool said, “Now, don’t make any mistakes about Donald. He’s a go-getter. God knows he hasn’t any brawn, but he has brains. He’s a half-pint runt and a good beating raises hell with him, but he knows his way around. Don’t mind my cussing, Mr. Smith.”
Smith nodded. I thought the nod was somewhat dubious, but I couldn’t see his eyes.