“And it was good?”
“I had you go out there, didn’t I? If the cheque hadn’t been good I’d have had the little tart thrown in the can. Do you think it’d be smart to go to the police and tell them the whole story?”
“Not yet,” I told her. “Later on perhaps. When we tell the police, I want them to have something to work on.”
“They’d have something to work on if we told them, now, wouldn’t they, lover?”
“Yes!” I said. “Me!”
I slipped the receiver back on the cradle and went up to our office building. I signed the register the porter kept in the lift, and he took me up to our floor. I walked down to the offices where the frosted glass bore the legend COOL & LAM and down in the lower left-hand corner, Investigations. Walk in.
I entered the office, swung past the door to my private office and on into Bertha’s private office. Every piece of furniture was stamped with the individuality of Bertha Cool, from the creaky swivel chair behind her desk to the locked cash drawer over on the right-hand side — a drawer which locked with a separate key from any of the other drawers in her desk. It was always a safe bet that Bertha had everything under lock and key. She didn’t trust the secretary, the porters, or, for that matter, her partner.
I sat down in Bertha Cool’s swivel chair.
The squeak seemed to have been built into it, a peculiar squeak which came just at one place whenever I moved. I raised the blotter.
The memorandum was there.