“Go on.”
“How the hell did I know what was on it? It might have been something important. Something she wanted done.”
“Something that would have brought her back to life?”
“Don’t be sarcastic.”
“What I’m getting at,” Sergeant Sellers said, “is that there are a couple of very excellent fingerprints on this piece of paper — and I suppose,” he said, his voice suddenly weary, “they’ll turn out to be the fingerprints of Bertha Cool — just when I think I’m really getting somewhere.”
“I’m sorry,” Bertha said.
“So am I, Bertha.”
“Did she die of monoxide poisoning?”
“It looks that way.”
“What do you make of it?”