“They probably will,” Bertha said.
“I remember seeing in the papers, now, there’d been some trouble up at his house. A maid fell down the cellar stairs and killed herself, didn’t she?”
“Something like that.”
“This anything to do with that?”
Quite apparently the man had been too tired to give much thought to Bertha’s first questions. He had answered them while changing his clothes, anxious to get rid of her so he could finish up with the afternoon rush. Now, as he turned inquisitor, he was beginning to become suspicious.
Bertha glared him into submission. “What possible connection would there be between the time that he came by your barber shop and a maid falling down the stairs?”
The barber thought that over while he was buttoning the white jacket. “Nothing, I guess. I was just wondering. That’s all I know about Belder’s last visit here.”
Bertha followed him out of the little room with a meek docility which would have aroused Sergeant Sellers’ instant suspicions, but the barber had already forgotten her by the time he took up his position behind his chair.
“Who’s next?” he asked.
A man got up, started for the barber’s chair. Bertha, her hand on the doorknob, said, “I left my purse in there,” and started for the back room.