“That’s five thousand a year.”
“That’s right,” Josephine Dell said with sudden cold, biting rage. “That’s five thousand a year. Very generous compensation, isn’t it, Mrs. Cool? Well, you don’t know everything, and don’t ever kid yourself that — oh, well, what’s the use? Will you please go on home now and let me finish packing?”
“That man who was a witness,” Bertha Cool asked, “wasn’t his name Bollman?”
“That’s right. Jerry Bollman. He saw the accident, and I guess he’s trying to cash in on it — seems like he does that sort of thing. Well, I’ve simply got to take some of the things out of this suitcase.”
“Jerry Bollman,” Bertha said, “is dead.”
She picked up the top layer from the suitcase, gently placed it on the bed, said, “Well one thing’s certain. I’ve got to get along with only one other pair of shoes.”
She took an extra pair of shoes from the suitcase, started over to the trunk, then stopped abruptly, turned to Bertha Cool, and said, “I beg your pardon. What did you say?”
“Jerry Bollman’s dead.”
Josephine Dell smiled. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I talked with him yesterday afternoon, and then he called again about two hours ago. Now let’s see. If I put—”
“He’s dead,” Bertha Cool said. “He was murdered about an hour and a half ago.”