A latch clicked on the inside of the door. I turned the knob and walked in.
It was quite a gathering. All three of the Dearbornes were there, also Paul Endicott, Arthur and Philip Whitewell. Bertha Cool was half reclining on a chaise longue, propped up with pillows. She was wearing a low-cut backless evening gown.
A table in the center of the room was littered with bottles. Glasses were scattered around the room. A silver pail of ice cubes held only an inch or two of water. Ash trays were well filled with cigarette stubs and cigar butts. The atmosphere of the room was pretty thick. The men were in dinner jackets.
Bertha Cool’s eyes grew big as she stared at me.
The conversation came to an abrupt stop as though someone had turned off a radio when a mob scene had been playing.
Bertha said, “Well, fry me for an oyster!”
I stood in the doorway. People put glasses down as though I’d been a prohibition officer making a raid.
“Well,” Bertha demanded truculently, “where the hell have you been?”
“I’ve been to Reno. I’ve found Corla Burke.”
The room became absolutely silent. You couldn’t even hear the rustle of motion or the sound of breathing. Then Anita Dearborne gave a quick, sharp intake of breath. At the same time, Eloise sighed.