Imogene Dearborne glanced up from her typewriter. Bertha saw that she had been crying. The girl hastily averted her eyes, said, “Go right on in. He’s expecting you.”
Sergeant Sellers raised a questioning eyebrow at Bertha, and at Bertha’s almost imperceptible nod the sergeant sized up the girl at the typewriter.
Imogene Dearborne seemed to be aware of his scrutiny. Her back stiffened, but she didn’t look up. She continued flinging her fingers at the keyboard of the typewriter, beating out a staccato tune of business efficiency.
The door from the private office opened. Everett Belder said, “I thought I heard you come in. Good morning. Good morning! Step right this way, please.”
They entered Belder’s private office.
Sergeant Sellers settled himself in a chair, pulled a cigar from his waistcoat pocket, bit off the end and groped for a match. Bertha Cool sat down with the grim formality of an executioner calling on the condemned man. Everett Belder adjusted himself nervously in the big chair behind the desk.
Sellers got his cigar going, shook out the match, tossed it into a small fireplace where some papers were burning, looked at Belder and said, “Well?”
Belder said, “I presume Mrs. Cool has told you everything.”
Sellers grinned at Belder through blue cigar smoke. “I don’t think she’s told me everything, but she told me more than you intended her to tell.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Belder said, trying to be dignified.