She had just started to hang up the receiver when Elsie Brand, who was also on the line, said, “I understand it’s a Mr. Kosling calling Mrs. Cool.”
Bertha had the telephone receiver almost an inch from her ear. She wondered if Sergeant Sellers had heard. He gave no sign of having done so.
Bertha said, “Well, under the circumstances, it’s okay. Put your party on.”
She heard a click, and almost immediately the peculiar, unmistakable voice of the blind man saying, “Hello, is this Mrs. Cool?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t let anyone know where I am. Don’t mention any names over the telephone, understand?”
“Yes.”
“I understand the police are looking for me.”
“Yes.”
“Bad?”
“I think so.”
“Could you come out and get me without letting anyone know anything about it?”
“That would be rather difficult.”
“It’s very important.”
“Give me the address.”
“The Sequoia Hotel in San Bernardino.”
“What name?”
“I don’t know. You see, I can’t read. I didn’t have a chance to see the register. I may be registered under my own name.”
“That,” Bertha said, “is bad.”
“I can give you the room number.”
“What?”
“Four-twenty.”
“That’s all I need. Wait there until you hear from me.”
“I’d like to see you just as soon as I can.”
“All right, just wait there.”
Bertha hung up.
“You sound like a busy woman,” Sergeant Sellers announced.
“Busy, hell!” Bertha said with disgust. “When people start calling you collect, that’s the kind of business that enables the red-ink manufacturers to declare dividends.”
“It is for a fact,” Sellers agreed, smiling. “Well, here’s the point, Mrs. Cool. We have reason to believe Jerry Bollman may have been with Rodney Kosling last night. Now can you help us on that?”
“I can’t do a thing. My hands are tied.”
“You mean you don’t have the information, or do you mean that you can’t ethically betray the confidences of a client?”
Bertha hesitated for a moment and said, “I think I’ve answered your questions truthfully, according to the best in- 1 formation I have at the time, and I think they’ve covered this thing thoroughly.”
The sergeant nodded but made no move toward leaving. He simply sat there, looking at her.
“Was Bollman driving a car?” Bertha Cool asked abruptly. “Yes. He parked it two blocks way. We didn’t find it until morning. It’s registered in his name.”
“Suppose Bollman drove Kosling home. Suppose your theory is correct, and because Bollman was dealing with a blind man he took his arm, led him up the walk, opened the door, stepped inside, and pulled the thread which fired the gun? What happened to Kosling? How could he get anywhere?”
“There are some men in the department who think perhaps you took him somewhere, Mrs. Cool.”
“Think that I did!” Bertha exclaimed incredulously. “That’s right.”
“Well, they’re cockeyed. Tell them I said so.”
“You do say so?”
“Emphatically, yes.”
“You didn’t drive him away?”
“No.”
“That trip you made by taxicab to the Kosling bungalow wasn’t your second trip?”
“Certainly not.”
“Kosling is a client of yours. He’d have called you if there been trouble. You wouldn’t be trying to protect him, would you?”
“Aren’t you funny?”
“Am I?”
“No, but you’re trying to be.”
“Now, when you went out to Kosling’s house, you didn’t by any chance have an appointment to meet Kosling and Bollman out there, did you? You didn’t find Kosling gibbering with fright, telling you Bollman had been killed, and you didn’t tell Kosling to go through the back and wait for you at some appointed place, did you?”
“Heavens no!”
Sellers put his big palms on the arms of the chair, pushed himself to his feet, looked down at Mrs. Cool, and said, “It wouldn’t be nice if you were to try slipping something over. I don’t know yet just what’s at stake. I’ll find out later. When I find out I’ll know a lot more than I do know. You understand how annoyed I’d be if it turned out you were standing between me and the solution of the murder case.”
“Naturally,” Bertha said.
“I guess that covers it,” Sergeant Sellers announced.
“Very thoroughly,” Bertha told him, and saw him as far as the door.
Bertha waited at the door of the entrance office until she heard the clang of the elevator door; then she dashed back and said to Elsie Brand, “Get me the garage where I keep my car, Elsie. Quick!”
Elsie Brand’s nimble fingers flew around the dial of the telephone. “Here you are, Mrs. Cool!”
Bertha Cool took the telephone “This is Mrs. Cool,” she said. “I’m confronted with an emergency. Do you have a boy on duty who can deliver my car?”
“Why, yes, Mrs. Cool. It’s only a block from your office, you know.”
“I know,” Bertha said impatiently, “but I don’t want to pick up the car at my office.”
“I see.”
Bertha said, “I’m going to walk down to Seventh Street and take a streetcar west ,on Seventh. I’m leaving the office immediately. I want you to have a boy pick up my car and drive slowly along West Seventh. I’ll get off the streetcar somewhere , between Grand Avenue and Figueroa Street. I’ll be waiting in a safety zone. and I’ll be watching for the car. As soon as I see it come along I’ll jump into the back seat. The boy can drive me for two or three blocks until we get out of traffic, and then I’ll let him out of the car and he can take a streetcar back. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mrs. Cool.”
“That,” Bertha announced, “is the kind of service I like. I’m leaving at once.”
“The car will leave here in just about three minutes.”
“Take five,” Bertha said. “I want to be certain we don’t miss connections.”
Bertha hung up, grabbed her hat, pushed it down on her head, and said to Elsie Brand, “Close up the office at five o’clock. If anyone asks where I am, you don’t know. I went out to see a witness.” She didn’t even wait to make sure of Elsie Brand’s nod of understanding, but hurried to the elevator, emerged into the glare of the sun-swept street, walked briskly over to Seventh Street, caught a streetcar as far as Grand Avenue, then got out and stood in the safety zone, waiting, watching traffic.
Apparently no one gave her more than a casual glance, nor did she notice any suspicious looking automobiles discharge passengers, pull in to the curb, or do anything to arouse her suspicions.
She had been waiting less than two minutes when she saw a garage attendant driving her automobile, slipping along in the stream of traffic.
She signalled him, and, as he stopped, whipped the rear door open, scrambled inside, and said, “Step on it.”
The lurch of the starting car threw her back against the seat cushions.
“Turn to the right on Figueroa,” Bertha said. “Make a left turn on Wilshire, run four or five blocks, turn to the left, and stop in the middle of the block.”
While the boy from the garage was doing this, Bertha opened her purse and started powdering her nose. She heldthe little mirror concealed in her hand in such a way that she could look through the rear window of the car and see the traffic behind her.
When the boy had made the left-hand turn off Wilshire, Bertha got out of the car, said, “All right, I’ll take it now. You call go over to Seventh Street and get a car back. Here’s carfare.”
She handed him a dime; then at the expression on his face, impulsively added twenty-five cents to it.
“Thank
you, Mrs. Cool.”
Bertha’s answer was an inarticulate grunt. She settled herself behind the steering wheel, pulled up her skirts so that her knees were free, adjusted the rear-view mirror, and waited for a good five minutes. Then she swung the car in a U-turn in the middle of the block and went back to Wilshire. She turned right to Figueroa, made a left turn, made a figure eight around two blocks, then drove to the Union Station. She parked the car, walked into the station, looked around, came back, got in her car, and drove down Macy Street.
By the time she lined out for San Bernardino Bertha Cool was morally certain that no one was following her.
She reached Pomona just before the stores closed and stopped long enough to purchase a cheap but substantial suitcase, a dress which would fit a tall, thin woman, a broad-brimmed hat, and a light tan, loose-fitting coat. She fitted her purchases into the suitcase, paid for them, and carried the suitcase out to the automobile.
In San Bernardino she once more made certain that no one was following her before she parked the car in front of the hotel. She honked the horn to get the attention of a bellboy, handed him the suitcase, registered as B. Cool of Los Angeles, asked for a cheap, inside room, objected to 2.14 as not being exactly what she wanted, and finally compromised on 381. She explained to the clerk that she might have to check out by telephone, asking the hotel to store her suitcase until she would have an opportunity to pick it up, and stated that she preferred to pay for the room in advance. Having paid a day’s rent and secured a receipt signed by the clerk, she let the bellboy take her to her room.
The bellboy made a great show of opening the window, turning on the lights, raising shades, making certain there were towels on the racks.
Bertha stood by the bed watching his activities, and when he had finished, dropped a ten-cent piece into his palm, then after a moment’s hesitancy, added a nickel.
“Was there anything else?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Bertha said. “I’m going to take a bath and then sleep for a while. Please leave word that I am not to be disturbed on the telephone.”
Bertha hung a PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB sign on the knob of the door, turned off the lights, locked the door, and, carrying her suitcase, found the stairway, climbed to the fourth floor, and located room 420. There was a PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB on that doorknob.
She tapped gently on the door.
“Who is it?” Kosling’s voice asked.
“Mrs. Cool.”
She heard the tapping of his cane, then the sound of the bolt shooting back, and Kosling, looking old, bent, and worn, opened the door.
“Come in.”
Bertha entered the room, which was close with the smell of human occupancy. Kosling closed the door after her and locked it.
Bertha said: “Good heavens, it’s stuffy in here. You’ve got the windows down, the shades drawn, and –”
“I know, but I was afraid someone would see in.”
Bertha Cool went over to the window, pulled the shade to one side, then jerked the shade up, raised the windows, and said, “No one can see in. You have an outside room.”
“I’m sorry,” Kosling said in a patient voice. “That’s one of the disadvantages of being blind. You can never tell whether ‘ you have an inside room, and there’s another room right across the court from you.”
“Yes,” Bertha said, “I can understand that. How did you know what happened?”
“The radio,” he said, indicating a section of the room with a vague wave of his hand. “I stumbled on the radio, rather a luxury for me. They apparently have some meter arrangement by which they can charge you for the amount of time it’s played.”
“Yes,” Bertha said. “Fifteen cents an hour.”
“I turned it on and was listening to music and news broadcasts. Then I heard about it in a news broadcast.”
“And what did you do?”
“Called you.”
“And you’d been waiting here all that time—before you called me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Bollman told me to.”
Bertha said, “All right, let’s talk. Tell me everything that happened.”
“There isn’t anything to tell you,” he said. “You’ve got to tell me.
“Tell me all you know.”
“Well, 1 have a chauffeur. I don’t have him all by myself. There are several others who –”
“Yes, I know all about that,” Bertha Cool said. “Begin from when you met Bollman.”
“The first time I met him I didn’t know who he was. He dropped five silver dollars into my-cup, one right after another, and –”
“Skip that,” Bertha Cool said. “I know about that.”
“I. naturally remembered him. I remembered the sound of his step, and there’s a peculiar odour about him, a rather distinctive type of tobacco. It has a certain pungent aroma.”
“All right, you remembered him. When was the next time you saw him again?”
“Yesterday.”
“When?”
“About noon.”
“What happened?”
“He came to my house just around twelve and said, ‘You don’t know who I am, but I want to ask you a few questions. Answering them correctly may mean a good deal to you.’ He thought I didn’t know him, thought I didn’t realize he was the same man who had put the five silver dollars into my cup. I never let on. When they don’t want me to know, I pretend I don’t know. So I just smiled and said, ‘Very well, what is it?’
“Then he asked me all about you; asked me if I’d hired you and what you’d found out for me. Naturally, I didn’t want to tell him too much. I was a little vague in my replies. Being a perfect stranger except for that one time when he’d dropped the money, I didn’t feel like telling him all of my private affairs. I told him that he could get in touch with you, and you could tell him all about it.”
“Then what?”
“Then he said that the young woman who had sent me a present wanted to see me. Unfortunately, she couldn’t come to me, but if I could come to her, she’d appreciate it very much. He said that we could have dinner together and then he could drive me home after I’d seen her.”
“Go ahead.”
“Perhaps you don’t realize how humdrum and routine our lives become. It’s a peculiar type of loneliness. We’re in the middle of a big city. People stream past us. We get so we know them. We hear their steps, recognize them almost as definitely as though we could see them; but they never speak to us. When they do, it’s just a patronizing little expression of sympathy. You’d prefer they didn’t say anything.”
Bertha nodded; then realizing that he couldn’t see the nod, said, “I understand. That is, I can understand enough to see what you’re getting at. Go ahead. Give me the facts just as fast as you can.”
“Well, naturally, I jumped at the chance to break away from my old routine and enjoy some normal companionship.”
Bertha Cool, thinking that statement over, said abruptly, “You had a lot of dough on you when you came to my office. Is begging that profitable?”
He smiled. “As it happens, there is perhaps a bare existence in begging. I don’t keep any books on it. My income is quite independent of that.”
“Then why do you drag yourself down to sit on the sidewalk and—”
“Purely for the companionship, to feel that I’m a part of things. I got started at it when there was no other alternative. I haven’t any particular education. I couldn’t make friends with the class of people I wanted.”
“Where did these investments of yours come from?”
“That’s rather a long story.”
“Make it short and give it to me.”
“A man used to be rather generous with me. He said I brought him luck. He gave me a few shares in a Texas oil development—just dropped the certificate into the cup. I couldn’t read it. I took his word for what it was and put it away.
“To tell you the truth, I entirely forgo
t about them. Then a man came to see me one day; said he’d been looking for me and that I hadn’t answered his letters. Well, anyway, it seems they’d struck oil, lots of it. He made an offer for my stock. I didn’t sell out. I preferred to hold it. It’s paid me a steady income. Being blind, I can’t write checks and have a bank account—not conveniently. I keep my money on me. I like to feel it there. When you aren’t normal physically, it gives you a feeling of greater assurance to have a lot of money actually on you. A big roll of bills builds morale.”
“I see. Let’s get back to Bollman.”
“Well, we went to an early dinner. We talked a little. He said that the girl I wanted to see was out of town. He had an appointment to take me to her and that it would be about an hour-and-a-half or two-hour drive. I didn’t think anything of it. I had confidence in him, and settled back in the car and talked with him.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Oh, a variety of things: philosophy, politics—everything.”
“About that automobile accident?”
“Oh, it was mentioned.”
“About the work I’d done for you?”
“In a general way. He’d won my confidence by that time.”
“About the presents you’d received from Josephine Dell?”
“Yes. I mentioned those.”
“Then what?”
“We came here. I didn’t even know what city it was. He said he’d have to do some telephoning and for me to wait in the car. I waited in the car. He came back and seemed ve much disappointed, said that it was going to be quite late tonight or early tomorrow before we could see her. Something had developed. She regretted it very much and wanted him to tell me how sorry she was. We had a bite to eat. Then Bollman got me this room, said he had some work to do, and that he’d see me in the morning.
“I have a watch by which I can tell time. I unscrew the crystal and feel the position of the hands. It’s my only way of telling when it’s daytime—to know the time. If I ever lose track of the hour, I get all mixed up—can’t tell whether it’s eleven in the morning or eleven at night. I slept until about nine o’clock; then I got up, dressed, and waited. It took me a while to get a bath and get dressed. This is a strange room, and I had to feel my way around until I finally got everything all listed and memorized. One thing bothered me; I couldn’t tell whether the lights were on or off. I couldn’t remember whether Bollman had switched them off when he went out. A man hates to make a spectacle of himself, and I didn’t know but what there might be some room right across the narrow court from me, so I kept the curtains pulled down. Well, after a while, when I thought surely it was time, I picked up the telephone and asked them if they’d ring Mr. Bollman’s room. They told me there was no Bollman registered. That bothered me. I don’t eat very much as a rule, and I’d had a hearty dinner the day before and a bite after we got here, so I didn’t eat any breakfast. I found the radio, turned it on, listened to music for a while, dozed off, woke up, and finally began to worry. Then, when I was playing the radio, a news programme came on, and I heard about Bollman. Well, I didn’t know what to do.”
Bats Fly at Dusk Page 14
