“You were in with Esther Clarde, the blonde girl who works at the cigar counter,” I said, “the one who was Jed Ringold’s mistress.”
His lips came together. He looked me straight in the eyes and said, “You’re a liar.”
Bertha Cool stifled a yawn and said casually, “Well, for Heaven’s sake, let’s get down to brass tacks.”
I slowly got up from my chair, intending to point my finger at him as I made my direct accusation. He misunderstood what I had in mind. I could see the sudden flash of fear in his eyes as he remembered my reputation as a jujitsu expert. “Now wait a minute, Lam,” he said hastily. “Don’t get hotheaded about this thing. I lost my temper. That was rather a direct statement you made. I won’t say you’re a liar. I’ll just say the statement is untrue. You’re mistaken. Somebody’s been lying to you.”
I followed up my advantage. I let my eyes close to narrow slits. I said, “I suppose you know I could lift you out of that chair, tie you up like a pretzel, throw you into the garbage, and you wouldn’t get untangled until they lifted you out to put you in the incinerator.”
“Now, take it easy, Lam, take it easy. I didn’t mean it that way.”
Bertha Cool gave a choking cough which sounded almost like Mrs. Ashbury’s reaction to the medicine.
I kept my finger pointed at him. “You,” I said, “were up at Esther Clarde’s apartment tonight. You were there when the cops came up.”
His eyes shifted.
I said, “That business of three detectives getting letters out of Alta’s room is the bunk. The homicide squad might have had three detectives, but the D.A.’s office never had three investigators it could put on a job like that, and the thing had already been dumped in the D.A.’s lap by the police. It was up to the D.A. to uncover his own evidence.”