‘It took you long enough to get here.’
Bertha Cool said, ‘We didn’t want to run into the police.’
‘There’s a guard downstairs.’
‘I know.’
‘Did he try to stop you?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you get by?’
‘Walked by.’
‘You told him you were a detective?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would he let anyone in who wasn’t a detective?’
‘How the hell do I know, dearie? He’s a cop. You can’t tell what a cop will do.’
Sandra bit her lip and frowned. ‘I’m expecting a young man — a friend of ours — I wonder if they’ll take him into custody—’
‘Better call him up and head him off,’ I said.
‘I think they have my line tapped. I think they’re leaving me here as bait for a trap.’
‘What sort of a trap?’
‘I don’t know.’
Bertha Cool said, ‘Let’s take a look in the bedroom, then we’ll j talk.’
Sandra Birks opened the bedroom door. A chalked outline on the carpet showed where the body had lain. A section had been sawed from the door, a small square piece cut out of the wood.
‘What’s that?’ Bertha Cool wanted to know. ‘Where the bullet was embedded?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are they sure the bullet came from that gun?’
‘That’s what they’re going to find out.’
Bertha Cool said, ‘Where did she get the gun?’
‘That’s what I can’t understand. I’m absolutely certain she didn’t have one yesterday morning.’
Bertha Cool looked at me. Her eyes were steady, thoughtful, and filled with rebuke.
‘Where’s your brother?’ she asked.
Sandra Birks shifted her eyes. ‘I’m sure I don’t know.’
‘Where was he when the shooting occurred?’
‘In his room, I guess. He was supposed to be there.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Had his bed been slept in?’
‘No, he evidently hadn’t retired.’
‘Rather late for him to be up, wasn’t it?’ Mrs. Cool asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Sandra said, with a flare of temper. ‘I was out myself. Of course, if I’d known my husband was going to be shot, I might have planned the evening differently. But no one told me; therefore, I didn’t sit by my brother’s bedside to see what time he retired or what his plans were.’
‘Anything else?’ Mrs. Cool asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is there anything else you want to say?’
‘Why?’
‘Because,’ Bertha Cool said calmly, ‘it’s costing you money to talk to me. If you want to spend your money trying to stand between your brother and the consequences of his act, it’s all right with me. I’ll listen as long as you want to talk, dearie.’
Sandra had been talking with that swift, vehement articulation which a woman of her type uses when she’s putting on a counter offensive, trying to cover something up. Now her eyes showed puzzled surprise. ‘What do you mean, standing between him and the consequences of his act?’
Bertha Cool said, ‘You know what I mean, dearie. Your brother murdered your husband,’ and then, as Sandra Birks started to say something, she turned to me and said, ‘Come on, Donald, let’s take a look through the other rooms. I suppose the police have messed things up like hell, but we’ll look around anyway.’
She started walking before she was finished talking. Her huge figure moved slowly and majestically through the door, and I followed along behind.
Sandra Birks was standing in the middle of the floor, her eyes clouded with thought.
‘You talked with Bleatie in the other bedroom, Donald?’ Bertha Cool asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Show me where it is.’
I detoured around her and took the lead. Sandra Birks remained in the bedroom with the twin beds. When I had opened the door to Bleatie’s room, Bertha Cool said, ‘Not that I give a good God damn about what’s in here, Donald, my love, I’m just giving her time to realize the possibilities of the situation.’
‘You think she wants to protect Alma Hunter?’ I asked.
‘Of course, otherwise why did she want to have us on the job?’
‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘she’s already said too much to the police. They must have asked about her brother.’
‘Well, let’s hope it’s nothing she can’t lie out of afterwards,’ Bertha Cool said. ‘She doesn’t impress me as being a particularly wide-open type. She’s secretive and furtive as hell. You ask her what the weather is, and she’ll find some way of avoiding the subject very tactfully, stopping just short of telling you whether it’s raining or sunny, hot or cold — so this is Bleatie’s room. Well, let’s take a look around.’
Bertha Cool started opening bureau drawers, making a quick mental inventory of the contents, and closing them again. Suddenly she swooped down on the interior of a drawer, and pulled out something bulky. ‘Now then,’ she said, ‘what the hell is this?’
‘Looks like a cloth life preserver,’ I said.
‘Straps on the back,’ she mused. ‘I have it, Donald. There was something wrong about Bleatie’s figure. Remember that watermelon stomach he had — not watermelon exactly, sort of a cantaloupe stomach?
‘Well, Morgan Birks didn’t. Morgan Birks was slender. He had a dimple where his stomach should have been. This was the gadget Morgan Birks put on when he wanted to become Bleatie.’
I looked it over. That’s what it was, all right.
Bertha Cool calmly rolled it up and said, ‘See if you can find me a newspaper somewhere, Donald, my love. We’ll just take this God damn thing away with us. It doesn’t need to figure in the case at all.’
There was no newspaper there in the room. I walked out into the living room and met Sandra Birks coming from the other bedroom. ‘Where’s Mrs. Cool?’ she asked.
I indicated the bedroom, and Sandra walked on past me. There was a newspaper on the table, lying on top of the pile of magazines. I picked it up, spread it out so it was flat on the table and then waited for a couple of minutes before I walked back to the bedroom and said, ‘I’ll fix it.’
Bertha Cool and Sandra were facing each other. I heard Mrs. Cool say, ‘Don’t tell me anything, dearie, until you’ve had a chance to think it all out. You’re all nervous and upset. Keep your trap closed until you’ve thought it out carefully, and then we’ll talk about dough.’
‘I’ve thought it out,’ Sandra said.
Mrs. Cool handed me the cloth padding, and said, ‘Wrap it up, Donald. Tie it good and tight, and then bring it back.’
I took plenty of time wrapping the bundle. I made a good job of it. I found some string in a drawer in the kitchenette and put in lots of knots. I’d just finished tying it when imperative knuckles banged on the door and a voice said, ‘Open up.’
I left the package on the table, put my hat over it, and called to Sandra Birks, ‘There’s someone at the door.’
She walked from Bleatie’s room to the door of the apartment. The man on the outside was pounding on the panels again before she had the door open.
Two plain-clothes men pushed into the room. One said, ‘Okay, sister, the jig’s up.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘The gun that killed Morgan Birks was the gun that killed Johnny Meyer, and Johnny Meyer, just in case you don’t know it, was the Kansas City detective who had been working on the organized rackets. He was to go before the grand jury and blow the lid off. He never got there. He was last seen alive with a good-looking frail. He was found the next morning with three slugs in his chest. The K. C. police broadcast photomicrographs of the bullets, and warned all police officers to be on the lookout for the gun.