Sergeant Sellers’s five-cell flashlight blazed into brilliance, lighting the way into the front room of the little bungalow.
Chapter XXVII
The matron escorted Bertha Cool to the door of Sergeant Sellers’s private office and knocked.
The tinkling strains of Bluebells of Scotland sounded faintly through the door.
“Come in,” Sellers called.
The matron opened the door. “In this way, dearie,” she said to Bertha Cool.
Bertha paused on the threshold, turned, looked at the matron — two husky, bulldog-jawed women glaring at each other. “All right, dearie,” Bertha Cool said.
“What did you find?” Sergeant Sellers inquired.
“Nothing,” the matron announced.
Sergeant Sellers raised his eyebrows. “Well, well. Don’t tell me that you went there just for the experience, Mrs. Cool?”