“Ordinarily when a man is murdered, we make a study of his contacts, of the people with whom he associates. Nine times out of ten, when robbery isn’t the motive, the murderer is someone who has had intimate contact with him. Nine tenths of Kosling’s associates are blind.”
“Now then, those associates gathered at around three-forty-five at Thinwell’s house, had their usual dinner and social gathering, and went home around nine. Therefore, if one of these blind men did it, he must have set the trap gun before the party, which accounts for the bat flying around the room.”
“Curtains down?” Bertha asked.
“Yes. That seems to be a peculiar obsession of blind men. They have a tendency to keep their curtain’s drawn.”
“Why?”
“Search me. Thinwell says he’s noticed it with Kosling in particular, several times.”
“You say Kosling telephoned Thinwell?”
“Yes.”
“Call from a pay station?” Bertha Cool asked.
“Yes.”
“How would he dial a number?”
“That’s easy. You don’t realize how sensitive those people are with their fingers. They could manipulate a dial phone just about as quickly as you could, once they knew the number. Otherwise, all they’d have to do is dial Operator, explain the situation, and have Operator get them the number.”
Sergeant Seller’s eyes caught Bertha’s and held them in a cold, steely grip. “There are two theories to work on. One of them is that Jerry Bollman wanted to call on this blind man, or else wanted to get something out of the place. He went out, found the door open on account of this pet bat, and started exploring.”
“What’s the other theory?” Bertha asked non-committally.
“The other theory is that Kosling went out with Bollman; that Bollman took him to dinner. When Bollman had finished with him, he took him home, led the way up the walk, holding the blind man’s arm, probably lighting his own way with a flashlight. Bollman flung open the door, stepped inside, and — BANG!”
Bertha gave a quick, nervous start.
“Just acting things out for you,” Sergeant Sellers said, and smiled.
“Sounds like very fair reasoning,” Bertha said, “taking everything into consideration.”
“The last theory,” Sergeant Sellers said, “sounds a lot better to me — provided there was something Bollman wanted from this blind man, some information or something. Any idea what it could have been?”
Bertha hesitated over that.
“Something that might have been connected in some way with the thing Kosling employed you about in the first place,” Sergeant Sellers prompted, and, as Bertha failed to take the bait, he added significantly, “something that perhaps had to do with a woman.”
“What sort of a woman?” Bertha asked quickly.
“There,” Sellers admitted, “you have me stumped. It wouldn’t be a woman who would be interested from an amorous angle unless she was a gold digger pure and simple.”
“Make it simple,” Bertha said. “The other’s superfluous.”
Sellers grinned.
“Well,” Bertha said, “then what?”
“Then,” Sellers retorted, “we come down to the plain business theory. Kosling might have had some information Boll-man wanted to get.”
Elsie Brand put her head in the door. “Could you get on the telephone Mrs. Cool?”
Bertha Cool looked at her, caught a peculiar significance in Elsie’s glance, said, “Just a moment,” to Sellers, and picked up the telephone.
Central’s voice said, “San Bernardino is calling and wants you to pay for the message.”
“Well, they’ve got a crust,” Bertha Cool said. “The answer to that is very simple, very short, and very sweet. I don’t accept collect calls.”
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 information 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’d 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?”