A spasm of expression crossed Bertha Cool’s face. “Hell!” she said. “That isn’t eccentricity. That’s sense.”
Christopher Milbers pressed his hands together until the fingers arched backwards at the knuckles. “Eccentricity or sense, whatever you wish to call it, Mrs. Cool, my cousin always kept a large sum of currency in his possession — in a billfold in his pocket, to be exact. I know that for a fact. I have a letter from him so informing me. He felt that at anytime a major emergency might develop. Moreover, on Thursday he drew out an additional five thousand dollars from his account. He planned to attend an auction sale of rare books on Friday afternoon.”
“Well?”
“When I arrived here to take charge, I was given the things that were on his body at the time of death — the clothes and personal possessions, watch, card case, and — the wallet.”
“What about the wallet?” Bertha Cool asked, her eyes glittering with eagerness.
“In the wallet,” Christopher Milbers said, “there was one one-hundred-dollar bill, one twenty-dollar bill, and three one-dollar bills — nothing else.”
“Oh, oh!” Bertha observed.
“You can imagine my perturbation.”
“Did you say anything?”
“Well, a person dislikes to say anything which might be considered an accusation until he is certain of his ground.”