When I threw the paper down and went to stand at the window again, she said, “For Pete’s sake, quit fidgeting. It doesn’t get you anywhere. You’re too nervous, too intense. Sit down and relax. Rest while you can. You’ve been working on this case day and night. You’re nervous. There’s no percentage in getting nervous.”
I went back to the bed, punched the pillows into shape, stretched myself out, and said, “I’m going to try and get forty winks. I don’t think I can, but there’s a lot of work ahead of us. Lord knows when I’ll have a chance to sleep again.”
Bertha Cool said, “It’s a good idea. Hand me the financial section, lover — not that it means a damn thing. Those financial writers diagnose history with a condescending attitude that makes you think they knew what was going to happen all along, but try and pin them down to anything definite in their predictions. Listen to this. ‘In the event the European situation remains static, it is the consensus of opinion that the market has a healthy tone and securities are due for a steady, persistent advance. The domestic political situation, while still far from reassuring, shows evidences of a trend towards the better, at least the swing of the pendulum to the left has been checked. However, it is to be remembered that business generally is far from optimistic, and the attempts of various parties to gain political power or perpetuate the powers already enjoyed will doubtless exert a retarding influence upon any recovery which might be expected.’ ”
She said, “Bah,” and dashed the paper to the floor.
I made myself comfortable as I could on the bed, but knew I couldn’t sleep. My brain was racing as though I’d had an overdose of coffee. My mind picked up a dozen different possibilities of the situation, carried them through to disastrous conclusions, and then dropped them to pick up some other possible development. I tried lying on my left side for a while, then rolled over to my right side. Bertha Cool said, “For Pete’s sake, stay in one position. You can’t sleep rolling around that way.”
I tried staying in one position. I looked at my watch. It was almost eleven.
Bertha Cool said, “Perhaps we’d better ring the Key West again.”
I said, “I don’t think so. We don’t want to make the clerk suspicious. Remember, he’s in love with Frieda Tarbing, and inclined to be jealous. Probably they don’t allow her to make personal calls while she’s on duty.”
Bertha said, “For Pete’s sake, shut up and go to sleep.”
I lay there thinking. I’d turned the heat on Harbet, and Harbet had turned the heat on me. Taken by and large, there was a lot of fire, and someone was due to get his fingers burned. I thought of Dr. Alftmont sitting up in Santa Carlotta on the eve of election with a sword hanging over his head. I thought of the woman who was posing as Mrs. Alftmont, the wife of an eye, ear, nose, and throat specialist who had built up a good practice, who had achieved some social recognition in the inner circle of a snobbish city, wondered what she was thinking as she waited — waiting without knowing what was going on.