We started up the stairs. Bertha pushing her chunky hundred and sixty-five pounds with slow deliberation up the steep flight, I moving along behind her, letting her set the pace.
Bertha said, “When we get up there, lover, you leave the talking to me.”
“Know what you’re going to talk about?” I asked.
“Yes. I know what he wants me to find out. Think they have the steepest stairs in the world in New Orleans — damned outrage!”
I said, “It’s the second one on the left.”
Bertha wheezed up the last few stairs, marched down the corridor, raised her knuckles to tap on the door, and stopped, holding her hand motionless for a half second as she noticed that the door was open about a half inch.
She said, “Evidently she wants us to walk right in,” and pushed the door open.
“Wait a minute,” I said, and grabbed her arm.
The door swung open under the impetus of the push Bertha had given it. I saw a man’s feet propped at a peculiar angle. The swinging door gradually brought the body into view, a body that was sprawled half on and half off a chair, the head down on the floor, one foot hooked up under the arm, the other leg bent around the arm support. A sinister red stream had flowed from a hole in his left breast down across the unbuttoned vest, down through the cloth of the coat, to spread out in a pool on the floor. A singed soft cushion showed how the shot had been muffled.
Bertha said under her breath, “Fry me for an oyster!” and took a quick step forward.