“Well,” she said, “he has. He—”
The telephone rang again. Bertha Cool hesitated, then said, “What the hell, lover? I’ve got to answer it.”
She picked up the receiver, and said, “Hello,” cautiously. This time she didn’t give her name.
Her attitude relaxed somewhat as she listened. She picked up a pencil and made notes on a pad of paper. Then she said, “just a minute. Hold the line,” and cupped her hand over the mouthpiece:
She said, “Harbet left headquarters. The operative tailed him to an apartment hotel on Normandie. The name of the apartment hotel is the Key West. Harbet went in. It’s a swanky place with a night clerk on duty who announces callers. Harbet gave the name of Frank Barr. He told the clerk to ring apartment forty-three A. Forty-three A is occupied by an Amelia Lintig who registered as from Oakview, California. What do we do next?”
I said, “Keep him on the line. Let me think. It’s either a preliminary conference or else it’s an official visit. They’re getting ready to turn on the heat all along the line. Election is day after tomorrow. Tell your operative to stay on the job until we get there.”
Bertha Cool said, into the receiver, “Stay on the job until we get there... just a moment.”
She looked up at me and said, “Suppose Harbet comes out before we get there?”
“Let him go,” I said.
Bertha Cool said into the receiver, “Let him go,” and hung up.