“I don’t think so. Why?”
“In order to pull the job, Belder needed some feminine accomplice. He needed someone to telephone his wife and get her to go down to that garage. If he was playing around with that Dearborne girl, my best guess is she’s the one we want.”
“Say!” Jack exclaimed with alcoholic enthusiasm, “thaa’sh a hell of a swell idea!”
“And I bet that little bitch wrote the — that estimable little bitch wrote the letters after all.”
Jack peered at her owlishly. “Why should she write a letter acushing herself?” he asked.
Bertha had a flash of inspiration. “To divert suspicion from herself, of course. She knew that Mrs. Belder was dead before that letter was mailed. She also knew that things hadn’t worked quite as smoothly as she had anticipated, and she was smart enough to know that a letter of that sort would divert suspicion of the murder from her. She’d rather be Everett Belder’s mistress than his accomplice — in the eyes of the police.”
“Shay, you’ve got sump’n there.” Jack lumbered over to the telephone. “Going to call the Sarge on that. Let’sh shee — what’sh his number? Gotta think.”
Jack placed his head on his hand, his elbow on the desk, closed his eyes the better to concentrate.
A few seconds later Bertha saw the big shoulders sag, the arm stretch out flat on the desk. Jack brushed the telephone to one side as though it had been an annoying obstacle. His head sagged to his arm, then after several anxious seconds, a gentle snore sounded through the whisky-steeped atmosphere of the office.
Bertha eased gently back in the swivel chair so that it wouldn’t creak. She got to her feet, swaying slightly. She gripped the edge of the desk to steady herself, and tiptoeing cautiously, reached the door to the entrance office. Jack moved restlessly, muttering something unintelligible under his breath, his tongue thick with alcohol.