She said, “Tell me about the lead.”
I took out my notebook and gave her a summary of the information.
Bertha Cool said, “It’s a bum steer on Mrs. Lintig. She never did sail through the Canal — not in 1919, nor the early part of 1920 — not under her own name anyway, and if she used an assumed name, we’re licked. It’s too far back to trace anyone by a description, and we can’t pay twenty-five bucks for information. They pay us for getting that, and we keep the dough for salaries, office expense, and profit. Don’t ever waste words in a wire asking a question like that again.”
“It was a night letter,” I said. “I had fifty words coming. It didn’t cost you anything extra.”
She said, “I know. I counted the words to make sure — but don’t do it again. Who gave you this information?”
“A girl. I don’t feel so generous towards her now. The guy who ran me out of town might have been Charlie.”
“Who’s Charlie?”
“I don’t know. It’s a nickname. What did you find out about the trunk?”
“An Evaline D. Harris made a claim for seventy-five dollars’ damage to a trunk and wearing apparel.”
“What happened to the claim?”