“Well, of course, Mrs. Cool, if you have some evidence that—”
“What I have, I have,” Bertha Cool said, getting up out of the chair. “I make my living by selling my knowledge.”
“If you have anything in which you think the police should be interested, it is your duty to go to them. If you have any knowledge it is your duty—”
Bertha said, “In other words, you won’t put a red cent on the line. You’re going to sit tight, but you’d like to see that the police get some anonymous tip that’ll start them making an investigation. I suppose you’re trying now to get me to stick my neck out and go to the police on a thank-you basis.”
“It would be the proper thing to do,” Milbers said. “If, as a citizen, you have any knowledge concerning a crime, or even any clues which remotely indicate—”
Bertha started for the door saying, “I’ll get out and let you get dressed. There’s a drugstore on the corner with a phone booth.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” Milbers said.
“The hell you don’t,” Bertha said grimly. “Within ten minutes after I’m out of here the police will get an anonymous call telling them that Harlow Milbers was poisoned and suggesting that they look up the death certificate, talk with the doctor, and then exhume the body in order to get proof. Then you can hang up, come back here, and go to bed with that smug smile wrapped all over your face. It’ll have cost you five cents for the telephone call, and that’s all.”
“But my dear Mrs. Cool. You don’t understand—”
Bertha reached the door in two quick strides, jerked it open, and slammed it shut on the rest of Milbers’s speech.