He looked nervous. “You won’t need a receipt,” he said. “It’s all right.”
“I want one.”
He hesitated a moment, then scribbled out a receipt. I looked at it, folded it, put it in my pocket. “Thanks,” I said. “I just wanted your signature. You may hear from me some day. That’s all.”
I got back in the car and rattled out of town, taking good care to keep the speedometer needle under fifteen miles an hour until after I’d passed the city limits.
Bertha Cool was in the office when I reached Los Angeles. She said, “Well for Pete’s sake, where have you been?”
“Working.”
“Don’t ever do that again.”
“What?”
“Get away where I can’t reach you.”
“I was busy. I didn’t want to be reached. What’s the matter?”