Her cheeks flamed. “No.”
“When did you see her next?”
“Three-fifteen — when she came out.”
“Anyone else know she was here?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“No one waiting in the outer office when she came in here?”
“No.”
“Anyone shadow her when she left?”
“I can’t be certain of that, but I would say probably not. There was no one else in the office all the time she was in here.”
Bertha Cool interrupted. “What’s the use of beating around the bush. This is the party you want.”
Sellers frowned warningly at Bertha Cool. “I’m not so certain you’re right on that, Bertha.”
“I’m certain,” Bertha snapped.
Sellers looked through the window at the building across the street. “There’s some pretty strong evidence in favour of that office-window theory, Bertha.”
Bertha turned to Imogene Dearborne, zipped open her purse, pulled out the typewritten memo she had pilfered from Everett Belder’s files. “Who wrote this?” she demanded, thrusting the paper out at Imogene Dearborne.
“Why — why — why, I guess I did. That was a note I put on Mr. Belder’s—”
Bertha Cool said to Sergeant Sellers, “Let’s have those two letters.”
Sellers wordlessly passed them over.
Bertha Cool spread them out on the table. “Take a look at these, young woman. All written on the same typewriter, weren’t they?”
“I–I don’t know. What are you trying to do?”
Bertha said with cold-blooded callousness, “I’m trying to show you up, you little twerp. You were in love with your boss. You thought he’d marry you if his wife didn’t stand in the way. You wrote those letters to Mrs. Belder. You knew your boss was making a play for the maid. You listened at the door and peeked through the keyhole and knew what went on when Dolly Cornish called. You thought you’d got rid of a wife and two rivals all at once. You wrote those letters to Mrs. Belder and then put on your innocent act around the office. A smug, mealy-mouthed, goddamned hypocrite.”
Imogene Dearborne was crying now. “I didn’t,” she denied wildly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Bertha said remorselessly, “Oh, yes, you do. And now I’m going to prove it. Those letters were written by a skilled typist. She used a beautiful, even-spaced, touch system. She wrote ’em on a portable typewriter. It was a Remington portable, about the first model they put out. You have a portable machine, at home. You used it to write these letters. This memo wasn’t written on the machine you’re using in the office. I tricked you into giving me a specimen of the writing on that machine. You admitted that you have a portable at home. Now then, you’d better come clean and tell us—”
“Great Scott!” Belder exclaimed, as he stared down at the memorandum on the desk.
Bertha Cool smiled at him with calm assurance. “Hits you with something of a jolt, doesn’t it? Finding out that you’ve had a little twerp in your office who—”
“It isn’t that,” Belder interrupted. “It’s what you said about the Remington portable.”
“What about it?” Bertha asked.
“That’s my wife’s machine.”
The door from the outer office opened. Carlotta Goldring, her prominent blue eyes taking in everything and everybody in the room, said, “There was no one in the reception-room, so I came on in. I hope I’m not—”
No one paid any attention to her. Bertha Cool pointed her finger at Imogene. “Look at her. You can tell I’ve called the turn. The twerp may have managed to write these letters on your wife’s machine at your house, but she wrote those letters! She—”
“It’s a lie!” Imogene screamed. “And what’s more, the portable I have at home isn’t a Remington. It’s a Corona!”
Carlotta, wide-eyed, moved around to the edge of the room, stopped near the fireplace, her back to the fire, regarding the scene with speechless amazement.
“Try to deny that you’re in love with your boss,” Bertha accused. “Try to deny that you thought if you could only get rid of his wife, you’d have easy sailing; that you wrote these letters—”
“Wait a minute,” Belder interrupted. “She couldn’t have done it, Mrs. Cool. She wrote that memo one day when I had my wife’s machine at the office — taking it home after an overhaul. Imogene tried it out. I remember the whole thing very clearly now.”
“Then she wrote both letters that same day,” Bertha charged.
“She couldn’t have. That was before either of these women — before Dolly entered the picture.”
Sellers said to Belder, “Who else had access to this typewriter?”
“Why — no one, I guess. My wife’s family—”
Sellers’ eyes were narrowed and hard. “And the maid, of course.”
“Sally?”
“Yes. Who else would I be talking about?”
Belder said, “Why — yes — but why should Sally have written a letter to my wife suggesting that she was playing around with me? It’s cock-eyed. It’s crazy.”
“But Sally could have had access to that machine,” Sellers insisted.
“She could have, yes.”
Imogene Dearborne slumped down in a chair, her handkerchief at her eyes. The sound of her sobs filled the room whenever there was a lull in the conversation.
Sellers said to Bertha Cool, “You may be right. You may not be right. There’s something screwy about this whole business... Belder, get up and quit stalling around. Put this chair in just about the same position it was when Dolly Cornish was sitting in it... Okay, it was sitting in that position. All right — now let me sit there. Let me see what’s visible through the window from this angle.”
Sergeant Sellers moved his body back and forth enlarging the angle of his vision as far as possible.
“Imogene, cut out that damn bawling, take your pencil and make a note of these places: Dr. Cawlburn, physician and surgeon... Dr. Elwood Z. Champlin, dentist... The dentist looks the most promising. We’ll take a chance on him first; dental chairs always face the windows. I can look across and see a patient in that chair right now. Get those telephone numbers for me, Imogene... Come on, snap out of it!”
Imogene might not have heard him. She sat in the chair sobbing.
Sergeant Sellers got up out of his chair, reached across, grabbed her shoulder, gave it a quick shake, said, “Snap out of it. Do your bawling after office hours. I’m working on a murder case. Get out there and look up those numbers.”
Imogene glanced up at him and, at the expression on his face, suddenly got to her feet, crossed to Belder’s desk, picked up a telephone directory and began looking up numbers, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief from time to time.
Belder handed her a pencil and a memo pad. He patted her arm awkwardly. “There, there, Miss Dearborne,” he said. “Don’t feel that way about it.”
She jerked her arm away from his touch, wrote out the telephone numbers, tore the sheet off the memo pad, and handed it to Sergeant Sellers.
Sellers picked up the telephone, dialled a number, said, “This is Sergeant Sellers of Police Headquarters. I want to talk with Dr. Elwood Champlin, personally... Okay, put him on... Police Headquarters. Tell him it’s important...” While he was waiting, Sellers picked up the cigar which he had deposited on the desk, puffed it into renewed activity, and held it tilted at an aggressive upward angle. Abruptly he removed it, said into the mouthpiece, “Hello, this Dr. Champlin?... That’s right. Yes, Sergeant Sellers from Police Headquarters. Look at your appointment book and tell me what patients you had in the chair in your office last Monday between two o’clock and three-fifteen... No, just the names of the patients... All right, what’s the next name? H-a-r-w-o-o-d. All right, I’ve got that. Who’s next?”