Paul Hanberry seemed very much a masculine nonentity, drained dry by the relatively stronger personalities of the two women. He was of average height, average weight; a man who created no particular impression. As Bertha Cool expressed it afterwards in her letter to Donald Lam, “You could look at the guy twice without seeing him.”
Christopher Milbers promptly effaced himself into the background, hiding behind Bertha Cool’s dominant personality as though he had been a child tagging along when his mother went to school to “investigate” the administration of a discipline of which she did not approve.
Bertha lost no time getting to the point.
“All right, folks,” she said. “This isn’t a social visit. My client, Christopher Milbers, is getting things cleaned up here.”
“Your client?” Mrs. Cranning asked with cold, arch reserve. “May I ask if you’re a lawyer?”
“I’m not a lawyer,” Bertha said promptly. “I’m a detective.”
“A detective!”
“That’s right.”
“Well, good heavens!” Eva Hanberry exclaimed.
Her husband pushed his way forward. “What’s the idea of having a detective in on the job?” he asked with a ludicrous attempt at bluster which made it seem as though he might be trying to bolster his own courage.