A man’s voice said, “Is that Bertha Cool?”
“Who did you think it was?” Bertha demanded truculently.
“This is Sergeant Sellers. Let me in.” Bertha stood for a few seconds blinking angrily at the door, then she said, “I’m taking a shower. I’ll see you at the office at” — she glanced hastily at the clock — “at quarter past ten.”
“I’m sorry,” Sergeant Sellers said, “but you’ll see me now.”
“Stand there until I get some clothes on,” Bertha snapped.
She retired to her dressing-room, rubbing herself into a glow with the coarse towel.
Sergeant Sellers kept up a steady, monotonous pounding on the door.
Bertha stood it as long as she could, then she flung a robe around her, went to the door and jerked it open. “Just because you’re the law,” she stormed, “you think you can bust in on anybody at any time. Go right ahead, wake people up in the middle of the night.”
“It’s quarter-past nine,” Sellers said, grinning at Bertha and walking nonchalantly into the apartment.
Bertha kicked the door shut and regarded him sourly. “You might just as well leave your badge at home,” she said. “Anybody can tell you’re a cop, walking into a woman’s apartment while she’s dressing, keeping your hat on, smoking a soggy cigar, stinking up the apartment before I’ve had my breakfast.”