All Grass Isn't Green

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The squeaky swivel chair in which Bertha Cool shifted her hundred and sixty-five pounds of weight seemed to share its occupant’s indignation.

“What do you mean, we can’t do the job?” Bertha asked, the diamonds on her hands making glittering arcs of light as she banged her palms down on the desk.

The potential client, whose card gave his name simply as M. Calhoun, said, “I’ll be perfectly frank... er, uh, Miss Cool — or is it Mrs. Cool?”

“It’s Mrs.,” snapped Bertha Cool. “I’m a widow.”

“All right,” Calhoun went on smoothly, “I need the services of a first-class, highly competent detective agency. I asked a friend who is usually rather knowledgeable in such matters and he said the firm of Cool and Lam would take care of me.

“I come up here. I find that the Cool part of the firm is a woman, and that Lam is...” Calhoun looked at me and hesitated.

“Go ahead,” I said.

“Well, frankly,” Calhoun blurted out, “I doubt if you could take care of yourself if the going got rough. You won’t weigh over a hundred and forty pounds soaking wet. My idea of a detective is a big man, aggressive, competent — heavy-fisted if the occasion requires.”

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