“You forget Freddie,” Bertha said. “Got a cigarette? Your girl friend snitched my package.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot your cigarettes,” the matron said. “I put them up on that—”
“It’s all right, dearie. Keep them with my compliments,” Bertha said.
The matron caught Sergeant Sellers’s eye and seemed embarrassed. “You should have said something about them at the time, Mrs. Cool.”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to,” Bertha announced. “I thought it was a privilege that went with the office, like the cops taking apples from the fruit stands.”
“That’s all, Mrs. Bell,” Sergeant Sellers said.
The matron glared at Bertha Cool, then quietly withdrew.
“Sit down,” Sellers said to Bertha Cool. “Let’s see, you wanted a cigarette. Here’s one.”
He opened a fresh package of cigarettes, and handed Bertha one. He fished a black, moist cigar from his waistcoat pocket, clipped off the end, shoved it in his mouth, and, for the moment, made no effort to light it.
“Something about this music box,” he said.