“No. I decided the damage had been done. I couldn’t actually prove anything, so I decided to keep quiet and move into another apartment — a very small, cramped single. I’m fed up on this double business.
“Well,” she said, changing the subject abruptly, “there’s only one thing to do, and that’s to get this stuff packed somehow or other. I’m sick and tired to death of trying to sort out every blessed thing I want to take. Here it goes.”
She picked up bundles of folded garments and crammed them indiscriminately into the trunk and the cardboard carton. “Can I help?” Bertha Cool asked.
“No,” Josephine Dell said, and then added as an afterthought, “Thank you.” Her voice and manner indicated that Bertha could be of the biggest assistance by getting out and staying out.
“What are you going to do about that will?” Bertha Cool asked. “About giving your testimony on it?”
“Oh, I’ll be available when they need me,” she said. “They say I may have to go down to the tropics. This is different from a week-end trip. I’m supposed to live out of a suitcase. I can’t take a trunk because a lot of my travel will be on a plane. It sounded marvellous when I—”
Bertha Cool, looking Josephine Dell over thoughtfully, interrupted. “There’s one thing you can do for me.”
“What?”
She said, “I want to know something about Harlow Milbers — about how he died.”
“It was very sudden, although he’d been feeling rather poorly for three or four days.”