“Bless your soul,” she said, “the suitcase was easy. You just tell Bertha what you want her to do, and she’ll do it.”
“Where is the suitcase?” I asked.
She pushed the swivel chair back, brought a little suitcase out from under the desk.
“How did you get it?”
“I went to Stanwick Carlton and told him that I was trying to get some sort of a report on the case; that I didn’t think the police theory was the right one; that I thought perhaps the whole thing was a frame-up to cover something else that was bigger.”
“What, for instance?”
“My God, I didn’t tell him,” Bertha said. “I flung glittering generalities around. The poor guy was heart-broken. I let him cry on my shoulder and then poured hooch into him. He already had a start. I told him I wanted the suitcase. He gave it to me and kissed me. My God, lover, the son-of-a-bitch kissed me!”
“But you got the suitcase,” I said, reassuringly.
Bertha wiped the back of her hand across her lips and said, “You’re damn right. I got the suitcase.”
I went over and took a look at it. “Has this been changed at all since…”