Bertha turned to Belder. “Now, you,” she charged, “get the hell out of here as soon as he leaves the office, and go give that mother-in-law of yours something to think about.”
7
A Body in the Cellar
Bertha Cool made a habit of stretching out in bed when she wakened in the morning, flexing her muscles, stretching her arms, reaching as far as she could with her extended fingers, pushing her feet down against the foot of the bed. Following which, she would reach for the packet of cigarettes which was always on the stand by the side of the bed, light up, and relax in the enjoyment of the first smoke of the morning.
The alarm clock said eight-ten as Bertha awakened and began her muscle-stretching exercises.
She had her first cigarette, then lay back against the doubled pillows, her eyes half closed, relaxing in the warmth of the bed.
Outside, the morning was drab and cold, with a low, thin fog obscuring surroundings. A faint damp wind billowed the curtains back from the open window. The screen was glistening with particles of fog moisture.
Bertha knew it would be clammy cold in the apartment. She was glad she had individual gas heat and didn’t need to rely on a central heating plant... Eight-thirty — the buildings that had steam heat would have turned on the heat just enough to break the chill, and would have been turning the steam off by this time.
Bertha stretched her shoulder muscles, yawned, kicked back the covers, and found it was even colder than she had anticipated. She pulled down the windows, lit the gas, and then popped back into bed, snuggling down into the warmth of the covers.
The clock seemed to tick more loudly in garrulous accusation.