“Tell him you’re busy. Tell him you can’t be disturbed,” Belder said. “Don’t misunderstand me, Mrs. Cool. I want to hire you and this time I’ve got the money. I’m willing to pay you anything—”
Bertha got up from her creaky swivel chair, walked over and said, through the closed door, “I’m busy. The office is closed. It’s Saturday afternoon. I can’t see anyone to-day.”
The knob twisted. The door pushed open. “Oh, is that so,” Sergeant Sellers said.
Bertha flung her weight against the door. “Get out of here and stay out.”
But Sergeant Sellers had glimpsed Everett Belder’s frightened face through the crack in the open door. He said, “That’s different, Bertha. I’m coming in.”
Bertha said grimly, “The hell you are,” and set her weight against the door.
Sergeant Sellers, on the other side of the door, exerted pressure. Slowly Bertha was pushed back.
“Come on and help me,” she panted to Belder.
Belder made no move, but sat there, apparently paralyzed with fear.
Sergeant Sellers pushed the door open.