Bats Fly at Dusk

Chapter X

The tall, well-dressed man who spoke in the quietly modulated tones of a college graduate approached Elsie Brand’s desk.

The briefcase which he carried in his right hand was a creation of heavy black leather and gleaming brass. The hand which rested lightly upon the corner of Elsie Brand’s desk was soft, well kept, the nails neatly manicured and highly polished.

“Mrs. Cool?” he inquired with just the right rising inflection of culture.

“She isn’t in yet.”

The man looked at his wrist watch as though not so much interested in verifying the time for himself as in conveying a subtle rebuke to Bertha Cool’s tardiness. “It’s nine-fifteen,” he said.

“Sometimes she doesn’t get in before ten or ten-thirty,” Elsie Brand told him.

“Indeed?”

As no reply was made to that comment, the man went on, “I’m from the Intermutual Indemnity Company. Mrs. Cool is, I believe, the one who placed the ad in the paper asking for information about witnesses to a certain automobile accident.”

Elsie met his eyes and said, “I couldn’t tell you.”

“You mean you don’t know?” he asked in well-bred surprise.

“I mean, I couldn’t tell you. I’m here to do the typing. Mrs. Cool has charge of the department that gives out information. I—”

The door pushed open.

Bertha Cool, barging into the room, said, “Did you hear anything from Donald, Elsie?” before her eyes had become sufficiently focused on the interior of the office to see the visitor.

“Nothing yet,” Elsie Brand said.

The tall man moved toward Bertha Cool. “Mrs. Bertha Cool, I take it.”

Bertha, chunky and capable, looked up at the languid humour in the tall man’s eyes and said, “All right, go ahead and take it.”

The tall man flushed. “I didn’t mean it that way Mrs. Cool. I was merely using a colloquial expression. I’m from the Intermutual Indemnity Company.”

“What’s your name?” Bertha asked.

“Mr. P. L. Fosdick,” he said, rolling the name over his tongue as though he were reciting something very pleasant. His well-manicured hand went to his vest pocket, producing a card case which snapped open and automatically extended a card. Bowing slightly, Fosdick handed this card to Bertha Cool.

Bertha took the card, looked at it, rubbed her thumbnail over the embossed lettering in a gesture of quick, financial appraisal, and said, “All right, what do you want?”

Fosdick said, “You have been investigating an accident case, Mrs. Cool, advertising for witnesses in fact. My company naturally views this activity with some concern.”

“Why?”

“It looks as though you were preparing to file a suit.”

“Well?” Bertha demanded belligerently, her square-toed personality bristling at the suave, patronizing splendour of the tall man’s manner. “What’s wrong with that? I’ve got a right to file suit if I want to, haven’t I?”

“Yes, yes, Mrs. Cool. Please don’t misunderstand me. It may not be necessary.”

Bertha stubbornly refused to invite him into her private office. She stood there sizing him up with greedy, glittering eyes.

The door from the corridor opened and closed. Elsie Brand coughed significantly.

Bertha didn’t turn around immediately.

Fosdick said in the manner of a man attempting to be deliberately impressive, “It might not be at all necessary to file suit, Mrs. Cool. It is quite possible that the Intermutual Indemnity Company, which insures the driver of the car involved, would accept the responsibility, admit liability, and make an adequate settlement.”

Elsie Brand coughed again. When Bertha didn’t turn around, Elsie said, “Mrs. Cool is busy at present. Could you come back a little later?” The tone of Elsie Brand’s voice made Bertha whirl.

The droopy individual who had answered her ad as one of the witnesses and who had consistently refused to give his name was drinking in the situation.

Bertha said to Fosdick, “Come in my office,” and to the witness, “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for you today.”

“I’ll wait anyway,” he said, smiling and making himself comfortable in one of the chairs.

“I’m not going to have anything for you.”

“It’s all right. I’ll wait.”

“I am definitely not interested.”

“All right, Mrs. Cool. All right, all right.” He picked up a magazine from the table, opened it at random, and apparently became instantly interested in the printed page.

Fosdick gallantly moved over to open the door of Bertha Cool’s private office, and then, bowing with well-mannered politeness, stood to one side.

Bertha, sailing on into the inner office, watched Fosdick close the door and stand by the big chair at the window, quite ostentatiously waiting for Bertha Cool to seat herself.

Sheer irritation caused Bertha to keep him standing for several unnecessary seconds before she adjusted herself in the depths of the swivel chair.

“You’ll understand of course,” Fosdick went on smoothly, “that the Intermutual Indemnity Company is not admitting any liability. We are only engaging in a preliminary discussion looking toward a compromise of an outstanding claim, and, as I suppose you realize, there are Supreme Court decisions to the effect that any statement made under such circumstances is not admissible in evidence — since it is the policy of the law to encourage settlements wherever possible.”

Bertha didn’t say anything.

“Now,” Fosdick went on as smoothly as flowing syrup, “we try to be just, Mrs. Cool. Many people think an insurance company is a heartless, soulless corporation intent only upon collecting as large premiums as possible on the one hand and paying out as small losses as possible on the other. The Inter-mutual Indemnity Company always endeavours to be fair. When our client is responsible, we make every effort to bring about a fair settlement, regardless of the financial expenditure.”

Fosdick elevated the brief-case to his lap, opened it, took out a file of papers, and let Bertha Cool see varying expressions on his face as his well-manicured fingers turned over the leaves; the raised eyebrow of interest, the little moue of skeptical surprise, the sympathetic frown of one who is horrified at physical suffering.

Bertha said impatiently, “Okay, go ahead and say it.”

Fosdick looked up. “Mrs. Cool,” he said, “if you secure a proper release, duly signed by the person injured, the insurance company would be willing to pay one thousand dollars cold — hard — cash.”

“You’re so good to me,” Bertha murmured sarcastically.

“Of course,” Fosdick went on tentatively, “it appears that there were no serious injuries. It is further apparent that the person you represent must have been crossing the street without proper regard for the conditions of traffic. It is indeed quite possible that she was crossing against a red light. In court, a defence of contributory negligence would be raised, and, quite probably, sustained. However, it is always the policy of the Intermutual Indemnity Company to give the benefit of the doubt to any person who has actually been struck by a car operated by one of our insured up to and until the time such person files suit. After suit is filed, we are as adamant. We seldom lose a lawsuit. Once in court, we ask no quarter, and we give none. Under those circumstances, Mrs. Cool, regardless of the fact that the damage seems to have been so purely nominal, the insurance company will make you that as an offer — one thousand dollars in cold, hard cash.”

Fosdick closed the file of papers, carefully replaced it in the brief-case, snapped the catch on the brief-case, inserted the leather straps through the brass buckles, adjusting them carefully into position, and got to his feet. His manner was that of one who has made a very handsome gesture indeed and expects to be applauded.

Bertha Cool said, “A thousand dollars is nothing for what this woman suffered.”

“A thousand dollars,” Fosdick proclaimed, “is a very generous compromise offer.”

He bowed to Bertha Cool, opened the door, started across the outer office, paused halfway to the door, and said, “It is not only our first offer but our last. The Intermutual Indemnity Company will not increase it by one red cent.”

Bertha’s irritation snapped the bonds of her self-restraint. She shouted at him, “All right, make any offer you damn please — but you don’t need to be so God-damned erudite about it!”

She jerked the door of her private office shut, stamped back to the swivel chair, then suddenly thought of the other visitor in the outer office. She got up, walked back to the door, and jerked it open just in time to see the door of the outer office close.

“Where’s Droopy Lids?” she asked Elsie Brand, motioning toward the chair where the lackadaisical young man had been seated.

Elsie Brand said, “He got up right after the insurance adjuster went out and followed him down the hall.”

Bertha’s face darkened as the full significance of this move dawned upon her. “Why, damn his dehydrated soul,” she said with fervor. “The two-time, chiseling, double-crossing crook! Well, I’ll just fix him. I’ll beat it down to Josephine Dell and get her lined up before that buttinsky can chisel in on the job.”

Bertha grabbed up her hat, clapped it firmly on her silver-grey hair, and was just starting for the door when it opened. A uniformed messenger stood in the doorway with a fat envelope. “Telegram for Bertha Cool,” he said, “sent collect.”

“Who’s it from?” Bertha Cool asked.

The messenger looked at a memorandum “From Donald Lam, and it was sent from San Francisco,” he said.

Bertha snatched at the envelope, jerked her head toward Elsie Brand, and said to the messenger boy, “Collect from her. Give him the money out of the petty cash drawer, Elsie.”

Bertha Cool flounced back to her inside office and ripped open the still moist seal of the envelope. She took out a folded message which read:

Bertha sat staring at the telegram, muttering under her breath, “Fry me for an oyster — the brainy little bastard!”

The door opened. Elsie Brand asked, “Is there any reply?”

“Yes,” Bertha said indignantly. “Send a letter to Donald Lam at that San Francisco address. Ask him what the hell he means by putting in all those extra words about regards and best wishes when he’s sending a telegram collect.”