“Knows what?”
“That she won’t talk.”
I said, “That depends on who the murderer is.”
Bertha said suddenly, “Donald, you know who the murderer is, don’t you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
“Whether or not I know.”
Bertha said, “That’s a hell of an answer.”
“Isn’t it,” I agreed and went sound asleep in the few seconds of glaring silence which followed. When I woke up, we were droning in for a landing at the Reno airport. It had been the change in the tempo of the motor that had wakened me.
Bertha Cool was sitting very erect and dignified, endeavoring to show her displeasure by a cutting silence.