The officer looked longingly at the bottle. “Nope,” he said ruefully, “I don’t drink alone. I haven’t got that low yet.”
“I’m drinking with you.”
“You’re still nursing that first drink.”
Bertha tossed off the whisky, poured two more glasses.
Under the influence of the liquor her bodyguard became loquacious and human. His name, it appeared, was Jack. He felt certain that the Sarge was trying to give Bertha the breaks; that Bertha was in bad, but that the Sarge was working, trying to get her out. She’d helped him on that Bat murder case, and the Sarge wasn’t one to forget favors. But Bertha certainly was in bad. Everything depended upon what happened when Belder came clean. If he exonerated Bertha that would be good enough for the Sarge.
Bertha wanted to know if Belder was softening up any.
“I think he is,” Jack told her. “The Sarge couldn’t tell me much over the telephone, but he said that he was making headway. He said he was hoping he could turn you loose before midnight.”
“Midnight’s a hell of a long way off,” Bertha said.
“If he has to book you, it’ll be a lot of midnights before you’re back on the job,” Jack warned, and then added hastily, “There, there, now, don’t get worked up over it, Bertha. I didn’t mean it exactly that way. Don’t worry. The Sarge will get you out all right. The Sarge is strong for you. You know that.” Bertha poured another drink.
Another twenty minutes and Jack had gravitated into the position of custodian of the whisky bottle. He had apparently forgotten his earlier compunctions about having Bertha keep up with him on the drinks. He would fill her glass, and then splash liquor into his own. By taking only a few sips at a time, Bertha managed to consume about one-third of the whisky the plain-clothes officer was drinking.