Sergeant Sellers grinned again. “You’d get my goat, Bertha, if it weren’t for the fact that I know you have a heart of gold under that hard-boiled exterior. When I think of what you did in that blind man’s case, I feel that I should buy you a drink every time I see you.”
“Oh, hell,” Bertha snorted. “What’s the use. I can’t even get under your damned thick hide. Sit down and read the newspaper, but for God’s sake throw that stinking stogie out of the window. I’ll brush my teeth and—”
Sergeant Sellers held a match to the cold, soggy cigar, tilted his hat back, said, “I’ve seen the newspaper, and never mind your teeth. What do you know about Mrs. Everett Belder?”
“What’s it to you?” Bertha demanded, instantly alert with suspicion.
“Seems to be a sloppy housekeeper,” Sellers said.
“Yes?”
“That’s right. Goes away and leaves bodies in her basement and forgets to come back.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A body in Mrs. Everett Belder’s cellar.”
Bertha Cool became as wary as a veteran trout in a deep mountain pool watching a fly being flicked over the surface of the water. “Who did she kill, her husband?”