“She did, and Carlotta did. Trust Carlotta.”
Bertha said musingly, “Same sort of typewriting. Letter addressed to your wife, marked Personal and confidential! ” She raised her voice, “Oh, Elsie—” Through the door came the muffled sound of a clacking typewriter. Bertha Cool picked up the telephone receiver and said to Elsie Brand, “Put on the kettle again, Elsie. We’ve got another letter.”
Bertha replaced the telephone, kept studying the envelope. “Well,” she said, “we’ll have to get something to put in this — same sort of envelope as the other was — a plain, stamped envelope. I’ll have to dig up another advertisement from the fur company.”
“Couldn’t we put something else in this?”
“Don’t be silly,” Bertha said. “If your mother-in-law sees two personal envelopes addressed Personal and confidential, and one of them contains an ad for the fur company and the other one an invitation to contribute to the Red Cross, she’ll smell a rat right then and there. Only thing to do is to make it appear it’s a slick advertising stunt on the part of the furrier, and they got her name on the mailing list twice.”
“That’s right,” Belder admitted. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“What’s new at your house?” Bertha asked.
“Nothing new. Just the same old seven and six. Police detectives trooping over the place, messing around and asking questions. Mrs. Goldring crying. Carlotta snooping on me every minute of the time.”
“What’s she snooping on you for?”
“I don’t know.”