Bertha backed out, closing the door to the garage, and started exploring other doors in the corridor. The next door opened into a bedroom which Bertha assumed was Carlotta’s. Pictures of three or four young men in uniform adorned the dresser. There was a smell of cosmetics about the room. The adjoining bath held bathroom scales, a glass shelf devoted to bath salts and toilet accessories.
Bertha tried the next door and found what she wanted. Here were two bedrooms at the front of the house, finished in knotty pine, connected by a bathroom. The front room was evidently Everett Belder’s. The one in back undoubtedly had been used by his wife.
Bertha gave the room itself only a hasty inspection, going almost at once to the closet, taking an inventory of the clothing, searching for some significant clue which would loom large in the eyes of a woman, but would escape the masculine analysis of the detectives.
As Sergeant Sellers had so aptly pointed out the first time, everything about the case pointed to a man: Sally Brentner apparently peeling potatoes with a ten-inch carving-knife. Mabel Belder presumably fleeing from the scene of a murder she had just committed, yet leaving behind a whole closetful of fine clothes, taking only a small assortment of plain garments with her, even leaving her cosmetics behind.
Whoever had removed the things which had been taken, however, must have left some clue somewhere. Perhaps in the house itself was concealed the suitcase in which Mabel Belder’s things had been packed, stored and concealed.
Bertha prowled into the back recesses of the closet, the beam of her flashlight penetrating the dark corners. She frowned down at several small particles on the floor, then bent down and picked up some of these in her thumb and forefinger. Bits of wood twisted into tight spirals which had broken and left little curved segments of that yellowish appearance which is typical of freshly cut wood.
Beyond doubt these bits of wood had been turned out by an auger from a pine board. Bertha could almost tell the diameter of that auger from the shape of the tightly compressed bits of wood.
But there was no hole.
Bertha made it a point to cover every inch of that closet with her flashlight; no slightest sign of a hole anywhere in the walls, floors or ceiling.
Forgetful for the moment of her surroundings, Bertha deliberated over her discovery.
“Damn it,” she muttered, “if Donald were only here, he’d find a way out of this mess. Brainy little devil!... I’m in awfully bad. Only way to get out is to find something. What the hell are these shavings doing in the corner of the closet? Somebody bored a hole and then made the hole disappear. No chance that the hole’s been cunningly plugged up — or is there?”
Bertha once more brought her flashlight into action. On her hands and knees she again studied every inch of the closet floor and walls.
So engrossed was she in her task that she forgot her surroundings, so that the sudden slamming of a door somewhere in the house was as terrifying as the repercussion of a revolver shot.
Snatched back to the circumstances of the moment and the peculiar position in which she had placed herself, Bertha crouched on the closet floor listening.
Plainly she could hear steps, the distant subdued sound of feminine voices — then silence.
Bertha debated the possibilities of escaping through the back door. She tiptoed out of the closet, stood in the bedroom, listening. She could hear the voices more plainly now. The persons who had entered the house had gone out to the kitchen. She heard the sound of a plate being scraped along the edge of another plate and the slamming of a cupboard door.
In all probability Carlotta and Mrs. Goldring had returned to the house and were getting a snack in the kitchen.
Bertha, forced to dismiss the back door as a means of escape, thought of the possibilities of the front door, but realized the dangers of moving the length of the corridor. Then she thought of the garage and the passageway on the side of the maid’s bedroom that led to the garage. She decided to try it.
Bertha slipped her shoes off, put them under her arm, cautiously crossed the bedroom, stepped out into the corridor. She could hear the dishes and voices much more plainly now, and heard, equally plainly, the impatient “meow” of a cat.
So that was it. They were feeding the cat.
Bertha heard the sound of an icebox door opening and closing, then Carlotta’s voice, sounding very plain, saying, “I tell you, Mother, they’re going to convict Everett Belder of those murders. And I’m glad of it. They can count on my help. Hanging is too good for that man.”
Bertha listened for a reply and could hear none.
She was feeling her way along close to the wall now, trying to avoid any creaking boards. To be caught in that corridor would add a fatal complication to the predicament in which Bertha found herself — a predicament in which all avenues of escape were being closed to her.
Carlotta said, “I’m not too keen about cats myself. I’m going to get rid of this one. He always did hate me. I’m going to get some hand lotion. I get smelly handling him.” Abruptly, and before Bertha realized the full impact of the remark, the knob on the door turned and a wedge of light from the kitchen shot into the back corridor.
Bertha shifted her flashlight over to the left hand which held her shoes, doubled her right hand into a businesslike fist. But Carlotta didn’t go after the hand lotion immediately. She apparently changed her mind, and Bertha heard her move back away from the door. Through the half-opened door, Bertha could hear the steady lap — lap — lap of the cat’s tongue as it drank up the milk Carlotta had poured into its saucer.
There was no time for caution now. Bertha moved swiftly along the corridor, heedless of creaking boards, down the passage to the garage. She opened the door and heaved a sigh of relief as the musty darkness enveloped her.
She sat down on a tool chest to put on her shoes. Sheer nervousness made her hand tremble slightly. She switched out the flashlight and put on her shoes in the dark, angry with herself because of that nervous tremor which shook her hands.
Bertha got her shoes on, took a couple of steps across the cement towards the garage door, and suddenly halted. The front corner of the garage showed a peculiarly weird illumination, a light which seemed to be coming from behind a copper-covered gasket which hung from the wall on a nail. Bertha gently removed this gasket and found a neat hole approximately an inch in diameter.
Through this hole light was coming, but Bertha, applying her eye, could see nothing save a vague obstacle in front of the hole.
For the moment, Bertha forgot all risk of discovery. The detective in her came to the forefront. Evidently someone had used the garage for the purpose of spying on the interior of the house. That light would be at just about Mabel Belder’s bedroom. Bertha picked up a screw-driver from the workbench, inserted it through the hole. The bit of the screw-driver encountered an obstacle on the other side. Bertha pushed against it tentatively and realized that it was a picture hung on the wall of Mrs. Belder’s bedroom so that it effectively concealed the hole from that side. If she could push that picture to one side, she would have an unobstructed view of the bedroom. Someone must have utilized this as a means of spying on Mrs. Belder. Therefore, it should be possible to move the picture easily to one side and then in case there was any danger of discovery, let it drop back into position.