Cats Prowl at Night

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Bertha Cool heaved her hundred and sixty-five pounds up out of the swivel chair and, walking round her desk, jerked open the door of her private office.

The sound of Elsie Brand’s typewriter came clattering through the door. Bertha Cool stood in the doorway waiting for Elsie to look up from her work.

Elsie Brand finished the letter with a crescendo of speed, ripped the paper off the platen, laid it to one side, swooped down to the lower drawer of the desk for an envelope to address, then saw Bertha Cool in the doorway.

“Was there something you wanted, Mrs. Cool?”

“What are you writing?”

“Those letters to the lawyers.”

“Quit it.”

“Do you mean no more letters?”

“That’s right. No more letters.”

“Why I–I thought—”

“I know you did,” Bertha Cool said, “and so did I. That’s where we made a mistake. Those lawyers are counsel of record in personal injury cases. I thought we could write to solicit business — that there might be a missing witness or something.” Elsie Brand said, “But why not? I think it’s a splendid idea. It gives you a chance to contact future clients who are in the big money, and—”

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