“Looks like it,” I said, “only there are some things that don’t fit in. They’re bothering Sellers. I think now he’s crossed the thing off the books.”
“Well, if he’s crossed it off, that’s all there is to it.”
“Perhaps.”
Bertha said, “What the hell are you getting at?”
I said, “If a man’s made a suicide-pact, why should he miss the first shot?”
Bertha’s glittering little eyes sharpened with avaricious interest. “Anything in it for us, Donald?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Come over and sit down. Pour yourself a drink. What do you want? Coffee? Beer? Or whisky and soda? I have coffee here, but you’ll have to get yourself a cup. There’s soda in the ice-box and…”
“I’ll take a cup of coffee,” I said.
I went for a cup and saucer. Bertha put on a slice of toast for me, ran through the little red-backed notebook and said, “Bob Elgin’s apartment telephone is Cornwall 6-3481. Why do you think he missed the first shot, lover?”