Bertha Cool started with grim competency toward the door. Her foot tangled in a thin wire, jerked some object sharply, and sent it clattering. Bertha’s flashlight swung down, showing a tripod with a small gauge shotgun lashed in position, the wire running to the trigger. Bertha’s march became a retreat, then a rout. The wooden porch of the building echoed to her fleeing steps, and the flashlight bobbed and weaved in her hand as she ran down the walk.
The cab driver had turned out his headlights, and Bertha knew only that the cab should be somewhere down the street. She kept looking back over her shoulder as she ran down the sidewalk.
Abruptly the parking lights of the taxicab snapped on. The cab driver, looking at her curiously, said, “All finished?”
Bertha didn’t want to talk just then. She dived into the security of the taxicab, and slammed the door. The body lurched as the driver slid in behind the wheel started the motor, and spun the car in a U-turn.
“No, no,” Bertha said.
He turned to look back at her curiously.
“There’s — I must get the police.”
“What’s the matter?”
“A man’s dead in that house.”
The curiosity in the eyes of the cab driver suddenly gave place to a cold appraisal, a calculating suspicion. He looked down at the glint of metal in Bertha Cool’s right hand.