“And toast?”
“Oh, certainly. I suppose you have plenty of butter?”
Bertha said nothing, busied herself at the gas stove. Her mouth set in a tight line of indignation.
Sergeant Sellers, his hat pushed back on his head, the cigar now giving forth puffs of light-coloured blue smoke, lounged easily in the doorway. “First rattle out of the box,” he said, “we’ll run over to see Belder, and we’ll all three have a little talk.”
“Why drag me in on it?” Bertha asked.
“I thought I might get further,” Sellers admitted cheerfully. “If Belder starts lying, you’ll tell him he can’t get away with it, so he’d better tell the truth.”
“Oh, I’ll tell him that, will I?” Bertha demanded sarcastically, standing poised with a frying-pan which she had been about to put on the stove held at an angle of forty-five degrees.
“That’s right,” Sellers said. “You have your intellectual blind spots, Bertha, but you aren’t exactly dumb.”
Sellers watched the colour mount in Bertha’s face, grinned at her, said affably, “Well, I guess I’ll go telephone Belder and arrange for a conference.”
He left the kitchenette. Bertha heard him in the other room dialing a number on the telephone, heard low-voiced conversation, then he was back standing in the kitchen door.