“Yes, it’s easy.”
“Tell me about the day operator.”
“Her name’s Frieda Tarbing. She lives at 119 Cromwell Drive. She comes to work at seven o’clock in the morning and stays on until three in the afternoon. She’s a good scout with sex appeal. The afternoon operator’s a pill but highly efficient. Frieda Tarbing isn’t quite as skilful, but she’s easy on the eyes. The clerk is quite sure that she’s the one who is in love with my nephew, says the afternoon operator isn’t in love with anyone.”
“That,” I said, “makes it easier.”
I slid back the window in the partition and said to the cab driver, “119 Cromwell Drive.”
Bertha Cool settled back against the cushions and said, “I hope to God you know what you’re doing, lover.”
I said, “That makes two of us.”
She half turned her head, swung her eyes all the way around to look at me under half-closed lids. “You get me in any more jams, lover, and I’ll wring your damn neck.”
I didn’t say anything.
The cab made time through the deserted streets. The place we wanted was an apartment house with an individual bell signal on the front panel. I found the Tarbing name and held my finger against the button.