“Twenty-three hundred bucks of her money is going to be.”
“That’s different.”
“You’re damned right it is,” Bertha said. “Who’s your barber?”
“I— What?”
“Who’s your barber?”
“Why — I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
“Neither do I,” Bertha said. “I just wanted to know, that’s all.”
“What difference does it make?”
“It might make a lot. Do you go to one shop regularly?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Belder hesitated for a moment, then said, “It’s the Terminal Tonsorial Parlour near the Pacific Greyhound bus station.”
“Go there regularly?”
“Yes.”
“Been going there quite a long while?”
“Yes. Really, Mrs. Cool, I don’t understand why you’re asking this.”
“There’s nothing secret about this, is there?”
“Good heavens, no.”
“No objection to coming right out and telling anyone where you get your hair cut?”
“Good Heavens, no! What’s the idea? Are you crazy, or am I?”
Bertha grinned. “It’s all right. I just wanted to make certain there wasn’t anything secret about it. You aren’t having any business dealings with the proprietor of the shop, are you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Own any interest in the shop?”
“No. Mrs. Cool, will you please tell me the reason for asking these questions?”
“I’m trying to find out the reason why it should make a damned bit of difference where you get your hair cut.”
“But it doesn’t.”
“It shouldn’t.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. What’s this about another letter?”
Belder’s manner showed complete exasperation. He hesitated as though trying to let Bertha see he was debating whether to walk out or let her see the letter. After a few minutes he took a sealed envelope from his pocket. Bertha extended her hand. He gave it to her and she turned it over and over in her fingers.
“When did this come?”
“In the mail that’s delivered about three o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Your mother-in-law see this letter?”
“She did, and Carlotta did. Trust Carlotta.”
Bertha said musingly, “Same sort of typewriting. Letter addressed to your wife, marked Personal and confidential!” She raised her voice, “Oh, Elsie—” Through the door came the muffled sound of a clacking typewriter. Bertha Cool picked up the telephone receiver and said to Elsie Brand, “Put on the kettle again, Elsie. We’ve got another letter.”
Bertha replaced the telephone, kept studying the envelope. “Well,” she said, “we’ll have to get something to put in this — same sort of envelope as the other was — a plain, stamped envelope. I’ll have to dig up another advertisement from the fur company.”
“Couldn’t we put something else in this?”
“Don’t be silly,” Bertha said. “If your mother-in-law sees two personal envelopes addressed Personal and confidential, and one of them contains an ad for the fur company and the other one an invitation to contribute to the Red Cross, she’ll smell a rat right then and there. Only thing to do is to make it appear it’s a slick advertising stunt on the part of the furrier, and they got her name on the mailing list twice.”
“That’s right,” Belder admitted. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“What’s new at your house?” Bertha asked.
“Nothing new. Just the same old seven and six. Police detectives trooping over the place, messing around and asking questions. Mrs. Goldring crying. Carlotta snooping on me every minute of the time.”
“What’s she snooping on you for?”
“I don’t know.”
Bertha lit a cigarette.
“What caused you to ask about my barber?” Belder asked.
“It seems to worry you.”
“It doesn’t worry me. I’m simply curious, that’s all.”
“What was the reason you didn’t want to tell me who your barber was?”
“Why, there’s no reason on earth.”
“Then why did you stall around about it?”
“Don’t be silly. I didn’t stall around. I simply wanted to know what was behind the question. I’m not objecting. I was trying to find out why you asked me.”
“I just wanted to know. What’s the name of this girl — the one that’s going to put up the money?”
“Mamie Rosslyn.”
“What does she do?”
“She has complete charge now of the advertising for a big San Francisco Department store. She’s moved right up to the top.”
“What does Dolly Cornish have to say about her?”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“Have you told Dolly this Rosslyn woman is going to put up some money for you?”
“Why, no. Why should I?”
“Why shouldn’t you?”
“I fail to see any reason why I should.”
“How long is she going to be in town?”
“Who, Dolly Cornish?”
“No. The Rosslyn girl.”
“She’s taking the train to-night and is sending the money down by telegram tomorrow. That’s what I wanted to see you about particularly. I want you to get in touch with Nunnely and make certain the thing doesn’t get away from us. It’s particularly important that we get the judgment cleaned up before noon tomorrow.”
Elsie Brand opened the door. “The water’s boiling.”
Bertha shoved back her creaking swivel chair, heaved herself to her feet. “Well,” she announced, “here’s where we violate some more postal regulations.”
The teakettle over on Elsie Brand’s desk was boiling briskly. Underneath it the electric plate cast a deflected red glow down upon the magazine which Elsie had placed under the plate to protect her desk.
Bertha, holding the envelope in her thumb and forefinger, stalked over to the teakettle, saying to Belder over her shoulder, “Lock the door.”
Bertha bent over the teakettle, skilfully applying the flap to the live steam, concentrating on the task at hand.
Elsie Brand hurriedly pushed against her desk, sending her office chair shooting back on well-oiled casters.
“What is it?” Bertha asked without looking up.
“The door,” Elsie Brand said, and started running.
Bertha glanced up. A black shadow was blotted against the frosted glass on the outside of the door, the shadow of broad shoulders, the silhouettes of a grim profile, a long cigar clamped at a slight upward angle. Belder was standing at Bertha’s shoulder intently gazing down at the letter. Elsie Brand had her hand extended to throw the lock on the door.
“Damn it,” Bertha blazed at Belder. “I told you to lock that door. I—”
Elsie Brand’s hand touched the lock.
The shadow on the frosted glass moved. The knob turned, just as Elsie’s fingers touched the lock.
In a panic, Elsie flung her weight against the door in a futile attempt to keep it closed.
Sergeant Sellers shouldered the door and looked through the open segment at the figures over by Elsie’s desk, took in the teakettle, the electric plate, Bertha Cool’s indignation, Everett Belder’s consternation.
Wordlessly, and without taking his eyes from Bertha and Belder, Sellers slid his hand along the jamb of the door until he came to the spring lock. His forefinger snapped it back and forth. He said to Elsie, without looking at her, “What’s the idea? Trying to keep me out?”
“I was just closing the office,” Elsie Brand said hastily. “Mrs. Cool was tired and didn’t want to see anyone else.”