“We can get away with it. Send yourself a telegram before we go over. When the telegram is delivered, it’ll give you an excuse to pack your trunk and beat it.”
Bertha Cool took a cigarette from the humidor on the table, carefully fitted it into the ivory holder, and said, “I’m not going any further blind, Donald.”
“The light,” I said, “might hurt your eyes.”
“And if Bertha doesn’t know where the fire is,” she said, “she might get her fingers burned. Bertha wants a showdown, lover.”
I said, “Wait until we get that trunk, and then I’ll know whether I’m right.”
“No. If you’re right, it doesn’t make any difference. If you’re wrong, Bertha wants to know where to find a cyclone cellar. And remember, if you’re wrong, Bertha is going to toss you overboard. You’re taking the responsibility, and it’s your party.”
I nodded absently.
“Come on,” Bertha said. “Sit down and quit frowning. Give me the low-down. Otherwise—”
“Otherwise what?” I asked.
Bertha thought for a minute, then grinned and said, “Damned if I know, Donald — unless I pasted you on your sore nose. We’re in this together, but Bertha wants to know what she’s in and how deep.”