Bertha Cool said to Sergeant Sellers, “Let’s have those two letters.”
Sellers wordlessly passed them over.
Bertha Cool spread them out on the table. “Take a look at these, young woman. All written on the same typewriter, weren’t they?”
“I–I don’t know. What are you trying to do?”
Bertha said with cold-blooded callousness, “I’m trying to show you up, you little twerp. You were in love with your boss. You thought he’d marry you if his wife didn’t stand in the way. You wrote those letters to Mrs. Belder. You knew your boss was making a play for the maid. You listened at the door and peeked through the keyhole and knew what went on when Dolly Cornish called. You thought you’d got rid of a wife and two rivals all at once. You wrote those letters to Mrs. Belder and then put on your innocent act around the office. A smug, mealy-mouthed, goddamned hypocrite.”
Imogene Dearborne was crying now. “I didn’t,” she denied wildly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Bertha said remorselessly, “Oh, yes, you do. And now I’m going to prove it. Those letters were written by a skilled typist. She used a beautiful, even-spaced, touch system. She wrote ’em on a portable typewriter. It was a Remington portable, about the first model they put out. You have a portable machine, at home. You used it to write these letters. This memo wasn’t written on the machine you’re using in the office. I tricked you into giving me a specimen of the writing on that machine. You admitted that you have a portable at home. Now then, you’d better come clean and tell us—”
“Great Scott!” Belder exclaimed, as he stared down at the memorandum on the desk.
Bertha Cool smiled at him with calm assurance. “Hits you with something of a jolt, doesn’t it? Finding out that you’ve had a little twerp in your office who—”
“It isn’t that,” Belder interrupted. “It’s what you said about the Remington portable.”