His eyes pleaded with Bertha to leave.
“Go on in,” Bertha said, “and assert yourself.”
“You’d better leave,” Belder whispered, his eyes on the open door to his private office. “Please.”
“ Oh, all right,” Bertha said and crossed the office, opened the door to the corridor, went out, and then stood for about four or five seconds just to the left of the closed door; then she turned and abruptly opened the door.
The door to Belder’s private office was closed. Imogene Dearborne, half-way across the office, caught herself in mid-stride and returned to her typewriter.
Bertha said, “It’s just occurred to me that I want some information. Can you put a piece of paper in the typewriter and take a note to Mr. Belder? I’ll dictate it directly to the machine.”
Imogene Dearborne fed a sheet of paper into the machine. Bertha dictated: “Suppose you should report your wife’s automobile as having been stolen. You could claim afterward it was a mistake. The police would pick up the machine if—”
Imogene Dearborne’s hands flew over the keyboard, paused as Bertha hesitated.
Bertha Cool frowned down at the note in the typewriter, said, “On the other hand, that may not be the best way in the world to go about it. I’ll think it over. Perhaps I’d better telephone him.” She pinched a thumb and forefinger against the top edge of the paper, jerked it out of the machine, folded it, and casually dropped it into her purse. “I’ll see that he gets this note later if I decide it is the way to handle it.”
Imogene Dearborne’s slate-grey eyes regarded Mrs. Cool enigmatically.