Bertha tentatively pushed at the picture and shoved the long bit of the screw-driver gently to one side. The picture moved, then slid back across the edge of the screw-driver. Bertha heard the sound of a door opening and closing, low voices, a surreptitious whispering.
Bertha’s curiosity could stand it no longer. She boldly twisted the screw-driver, put it in the hole at as sharp an angle as she could manage, and using the side of the hole as a fulcrum, pried the picture back and to one side.
She could see a portion of the interior of Mrs. Belder’s bedroom, could see Carlotta sitting in front of a dressing-table, rubbing lotion on her hands, regarding herself in the mirror with the critical appraisal which a woman reserves for her more intimate and cynical moments.
Fascinated, Bertha watched as Carlotta opened a drawer in the dressing-table, groped inside. The mirror reflected the expression on her face. Her eyes held the glittering triumph of one who is about to execute a clever coup.
Carlotta reached for the telephone, twisted the dial three quick times and said, “Information, will you give me the number of George K. Nunnely’s residence. I don’t know the address.” There was a pause. “Thank you.”
She hung up. Bertha saw her fingers flying over the dial of the telephone with the quick precision of one whose hands have developed smooth dexterity, heard her say, “Hello... Hello, is this Mr. Nunnely?... Mr. Nunnely, I have never met you, but this is Carlotta Goldring. I’m Mrs. Belder’s sister... That’s right... I’ve uncovered some very peculiar evidence, Mr. Nunnely. I thought you might like to talk it over with me. It’s about Mabel’s murder. I said murder, Mr. Nunnely... You, who were desperately in need of money, seem to be in a position to profit very handsomely from my sister’s death. You—”
Bertha saw Carlotta’s eyes in the mirror, saw them raise slightly as Carlotta, seeming very certain of herself now, shifted into a more comfortable position. Bertha saw the widening horror in those eyes, and for a moment couldn’t imagine what was causing it. Then suddenly, in a flash of sickening realization, she understood. In the mirror Carlotta could see that the picture was held far off to one side by Bertha’s screw-driver. Bertha cursed herself for a fool for failing to realize how quickly a picture hung on a long wire, and being pushed to one side of the perpendicular, would attract attention.
“Mother!” Carlotta screamed.
Bertha hastily let go of the screw-driver, heard it clatter to the floor of the bedroom. The picture slid along the wall on the other side into a perpendicular position. Bertha turned—
It seemed that a shower of meteors struck her on the head with a terrific blow, then the meteors exploded in all directions, sending out blinding streamers of light. Something cold smacked Bertha on the cheek and stayed there. Vaguely, from some distant and detached part of Bertha’s mind, came the realization that this cold surface was the garage floor.
23
The Hole in the Wall
Bertha became conscious of voices, voices making sounds which her tortured brain laboriously tried to interpret into something with meaning. Lying back with her eyes closed and an interminable aching in her head, Bertha wondered, in a detached way, why a series of r sounds such as murderer should mean someone had killed someone else.
And abruptly, as though her cogitation had removed an obstruction somewhere in her mind, consciousness came pouring back in a flood.
Bertha’s eyes popped open, and as quickly snapped shut. Sergeant Sellers, looking extremely grave, was talking with Carlotta and Mrs. Goldring. Evidently he had just arrived on the scene, and Bertha, fully conscious despite the aching in her head, decided to hide behind her injuries, stalling off the evil hour when she would have to make an explanation to the officer.
Carlotta’s voice was rapid with excitement: “... fixing my hair and I saw this picture all skewgee on the wall. It had been pushed way over to one side. Well, Sergeant, you know how anything like that will attract your attention. I raised my eyes to it and then saw this thing sticking through the wall. I thought at first it was a gun, and I could see a gleam of someone’s eye. I screamed for Mother. And almost at the exact moment I screamed, this screw-driver thudded to the floor. I saw it was a screw-driver then, and the picture swung back into position.”
“Mother was in the kitchen feeding Mabel’s cat. She came running in to see what was the matter and she thought I’d gone crazy. Of course the picture had swung back into position just as soon as the screw-driver had been dropped.”
Mrs. Goldring interjected, “No, darling, not crazy, but I thought something terrible had happened. You have no idea how you looked. Your face was as white as a sheet and you were staring at that screw-driver that had fallen to the floor. You looked as though it were a poisonous snake about to bite you.”
“Well, anyway,” Carlotta resumed, “I screamed to Mother to run to the garage quick; that someone was out there. And we both of us ran through the passageway. Mother was first. She was the one who saw this man. He was bending over Mrs. Cool — only, of course, we didn’t know at the time it was Mrs. Cool. He had a club in his hand — something white. It looked like a piece of pipe wrapped in some heavy paper. But at first I thought it was a long knife wrapped up in the paper.”
“And what did he do?” Sergeant Sellers asked. “Exactly what did he do?”
“He looked up, saw us, and came running at us brandishing this weapon.”
“Did you get a look at his face?”
“No. It was dark in the garage. You know, sort of half dark. You could see only figures. I could tell you the way he was built, but I didn’t get to see his face, and Mother didn’t either.”
“Tall and slender or—”
“No. He was of medium height, and somehow I had the impression that he was very well dressed, and a gentleman, although I don’t know what made me think so. Perhaps it was just the way his clothes fitted him, or perhaps the way he moved, the sort of easy grace that men have when they’re customarily well dressed and know it. That sounds terribly silly when I hear myself saying it.”
“No,” Sellers said thoughtfully. “You may have something there. Go ahead, what happened?”
“Well, that’s about all. He ran past us. Mother tried to stop him and he hit her.”
“Right in the stomach,” Mrs. Goldring said indignantly. “I don’t agree with Carlotta. I don’t think he was a gentleman. A gentleman wouldn’t hit a woman.”
“With his fist?” Sellers asked.
“No,” Mrs. Goldring said indignantly. “He poked me with the end of the club, or piece of pipe, or whatever it was.”
“And then what?”
Carlotta said, “Then he ran through the passageway into the house. I was afraid Mother was badly hurt. I thought he’d stabbed her. You see, I thought it was a knife. I kept asking Mother if she was badly hurt, and then we heard the slam of the back door.”
“Did you run to the back of the house?”
“I’m afraid,” Mrs. Goldring said, “we were more angry than prudent. We dashed to the back of the house. He’d gone through the kitchen, all right. Whiskers, the cat, was up on the table, his eyes big and round, and his tail fluffed out so it looked as big as a toy balloon.”
“The cat usually act that way with strangers?” Sergeant Sellers asked.
“No. The cat is usually very affectionate,” Mrs. Goldring said, “I know that I told Carlotta afterwards that it was just as if this cat knew this man — or had had some disagreeable experience. Perhaps this man had tried to catch it or something, and the cat was afraid of him. You could see the cat was definitely afraid, terrified. It was big-eyed with fright.”