While I was ringing the bell, I said to Bertha Cool, “It’s up to you to get us in. Tell her you have to see her, that there’s money in it for her. She won’t let a man in at this hour of—” A speaking-tube next to Bertha’s ear shrilled into a whistle, and then a voice, which didn’t sound too annoyed, said, “What do you want?”
Bertha Cool said, “This is Mrs. Cool. I have to see you about a business matter — a chance for you to pick up some money. It’ll only take just a minute. I can run up and explain the situation to you and be out, all inside of five minutes.”
“What sort of a business proposition?”
“I can’t explain it to you here. It’s very personal, but there’s a chance for you to pick up a nice little piece of change.”
The voice through the speaking-tube said, “All right, I’ll bite. Come on up.”
The electric door-catch release buzzed into action. I pushed open the door, and held it for Bertha Cool.
Coming in from the fresh air of the night, the apartment-house corridor was thick with smell. We found an elevator, rattled up to the fourth floor, and walked back to Frieda Tarbing’s apartment. There was light showing over the transom, but the door was closed and locked.
Bertha Cool tapped on the panels.
“Who is it?” a voice asked.
“Mrs. Cool.”