She climbed into the automobile, taking the back seat which Sellers indicated. Sellers climbed in beside her, a police chauffeur doing the driving. There was one other man in the front seat and another beside Sergeant Sellers in the rear seat. Bertha Cool knew neither of them, and Sellers made no effort to perform introductions.
The chauffeur drove with swift skill, dimming his lights, however, as he topped the rise of ground and came within the area subjected to stringent dim-out regulations on the part of cars driving toward the ocean.
“I think it’s right after the next cross street,” Bertha said.
The police car slowed, crawling along close to the curb until Bertha said, “This is it.”
The men climbed out. Bertha said, “I don’t have to go in, do I?”
“No, not now. You can wait here.”
“All right, I’ll wait.”
Bertha opened her purse took out her cigarette case, and asked, “Is it going to be long?”
“I can’t tell you yet,” Sellers said cheerfully. “I’ll be seeing you.”
The men went on into the house. One of them came out after a few moments to get a camera, a tripod, and some floodlights. A few minutes later and he was back again, grumbling. “Not a damn bit of current in the whole house.”