The front door banged.
There was the sound of a motor.
Sergeant Sellers yelled at Bertha, “Get my gun out of the holster over on the right, put it in my left hand.”
Claire Bushnell was the one who got his gun out for him. Sellers, holding the gun in his left hand, dashed to the open front door.
He was in time to see the tail end of his police car skidding around the corner.
He stood dazed, angry and swearing. Then he turned to me, “You’re responsible for this. I’ll be the laughing stock of…”
“Shut up,” I told him. “Take these handcuffs off and start broadcasting an alarm. You’re on the verge of promotion and you’re too dumb to realise it.”
Fifteen
Frank Sellers glowered at me and awkwardly wrapped a handkerchief around his right wrist, using it as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding of his hand.
“That’s what I get for listening to you,” he said savagely.