“No one waiting in the outer office when she came in here?”
“No.”
“Anyone shadow her when she left?”
“I can’t be certain of that, but I would say probably not. There was no one else in the office all the time she was in here.”
Bertha Cool interrupted. “What’s the use of beating around the bush. This is the party you want.”
Sellers frowned warningly at Bertha Cool. “I’m not so certain you’re right on that, Bertha.”
“ I’m certain,” Bertha snapped.
Sellers looked through the window at the building across the street. “There’s some pretty strong evidence in favour of that office-window theory, Bertha.”
Bertha turned to Imogene Dearborne, zipped open her purse, pulled out the typewritten memo she had pilfered from Everett Belder’s files. “Who wrote this?” she demanded, thrusting the paper out at Imogene Dearborne.
“Why — why — why, I guess I did. That was a note I put on Mr. Belder’s—”