“I would,” I promised.
She said, “Come on. Let’s go steal a trunk.”
“You send yourself a telegram first,” I said.
We went around to the Mapleleaf Hotel. The clerk said, “Good evening, Mrs. Cool,” and looked at me suspiciously.
Bertha beamed at him and said, “My son — from military academy.”
The clerk said, “Oh.”
We went up to Bertha Cool’s room and sat around for about fifteen minutes, then the telegram which Bertha Cool had sent herself was delivered. We went down to talk with the night clerk. “Very bad news,” Bertha Cool said. “I have to take an early-morning plane east. I’ll have to get my trunk sent up to my room and pack.”
The clerk said, “The porter isn’t on duty now, but I think we can get it up for you.”
I said, “I can get it into the elevator if you can find a hand truck.”
“There’s one down in the basement,” he said.