Bertha glanced up. A black shadow was blotted against the frosted glass on the outside of the door, the shadow of broad shoulders, the silhouettes of a grim profile, a long cigar clamped at a slight upward angle. Belder was standing at Bertha’s shoulder intently gazing down at the letter. Elsie Brand had her hand extended to throw the lock on the door.
“Damn it,” Bertha blazed at Belder. “I told you to lock that door. I—”
Elsie Brand’s hand touched the lock.
The shadow on the frosted glass moved. The knob turned, just as Elsie’s fingers touched the lock.
In a panic, Elsie flung her weight against the door in a futile attempt to keep it closed.
Sergeant Sellers shouldered the door and looked through the open segment at the figures over by Elsie’s desk, took in the teakettle, the electric plate, Bertha Cool’s indignation, Everett Belder’s consternation.
Wordlessly, and without taking his eyes from Bertha and Belder, Sellers slid his hand along the jamb of the door until he came to the spring lock. His forefinger snapped it back and forth. He said to Elsie, without looking at her, “What’s the idea? Trying to keep me out?”
“I was just closing the office,” Elsie Brand said hastily. “Mrs. Cool was tired and didn’t want to see anyone else.”
“I see,” Sellers observed. “Going to have a pot of tea, I suppose?”
“Yes.” Elsie Brand’s acquiescence was just a bit too quick and enthusiastic. “That’s right. We were just going to have tea. Quite frequently we have tea. I—”