I still had hold of her arm. I used all my strength to pull her back.
“What’s the idea?” Bertha said.
I didn’t say anything, just kept pulling.
For a moment she was angry; then she caught a glimpse of the expression on my face and I saw her eyes widen.
I said, in a rather loud tone of voice, “Well, I guess there’s no one home, after all.” All the time I was tugging at her arm, dragging her toward the stairs.
Once she got the idea, she moved quickly enough. We moved silently along the carpeted corridor, and I all but pushed Bertha past the head of the stairs, where she wanted to stop and argue.
We pell-melled out onto the street, and I pulled Bertha back against the wall and started walking rapidly down St. Charles Avenue.
Bertha collected her thoughts sufficiently to start pulling back. “Say, what’s the idea?” she asked. “What in the world’s got into you? That man was murdered. We should have notified the police.”
“Notify the police if you want to,” I said, “but don’t be dumb enough to think you could have gone into that room and come out alive.”
She stopped walking to stand stock-still, her feet rooted with surprise, staring at me. “What on earth are you talking about?” she demanded.