It occurred to me that those people could rest more easily because they had confidence in me. Even Bertha Cool was able to shift part of her responsibilities to my shoulders. I had no one to whom I could pass even a part of the load.
I thought of Marian Dunton and wondered if she was getting along all right. I didn’t dare to call her — not with Bertha Cool in the room, and I knew Bertha Cool well enough to know I couldn’t make a sneak and put in a surreptitious telephone call. I thought of what a loyal friend Marian was, of how she’d realized I was playing a game and using her as a pawn, but, like the good scout she was, she’d drifted along — laughing brown eyes — the shape of her lips — the smile that seemed to come so easily — her white teeth—
The ringing of the telephone brought me up out of a sound sleep. I rolled off the bed and staggered as I tried to stand up. My eyes, drugged with slumber, refused to focus. A telephone was ringing — that telephone bell was the most important thing in my life— Why? — Who was calling? — Where was the telephone? — What time was it? — Where was I?—
I heard Bertha Cool’s calmly competent voice saying, “Yes. This is Mrs. Cool,” and then, after a moment, “All bets are off? We’ll be right over.”
She hung up the telephone and stood looking at me with her forehead puckered into a frown. “Frieda Tarbing,” she said. “She goes off duty in an hour. She wanted to remind me. She said that it looked as though all bets were off.”
Having something definite to work on steadied me. I went over to the wash stand and splashed cold water on my face and into my eyes. I said, “Ring Elsie Brand at the office and see if one of those operatives has made a report. There must have been a slip-up some place. She’s gone out.”
Bertha rang the agency office, said, “Hello, Elsie. Spill me the dope,” listened for a while, and then said, “You didn’t hear from those operatives?... All right. Thanks. I’ll call you back after a while.”
She hung up and said, “More cops looking for you, lover. Some looking for me. Nothing, from the operatives.”
I smoothed my hair back with my pocket comb, looked at my soiled and wilted shirt collar, and said, “My God, Bertha, I can’t be wrong! We exploded that bombshell under her. She must have communicated with Harbet. She had to—”
“She didn’t,” Bertha said.