She said, “Don’t be like that, Donald dear. Tell me.”
I poured out the last of my coffee, finished it, and said, “Get the sketch. Dr. Lintig runs away with his office nurse. She’s probably Mrs. Alftmont now, but there wasn’t any marriage. It would have been a bigamous ceremony. If they’d tried to solemnize a marriage, that would be a felony. Well, they may have at that. Figure it out for yourself. If Mrs. Lintig is dead or had a divorce, Dr. Alftmont is in the clear. He hasn’t committed bigamy, and his office nurse is the legal Mrs. Alftmont. Perhaps there are children.
“But if Mrs. Lintig didn’t get a divorce — and she says she didn’t — if she’s alive and well, all the picture needs is to have her come swooping into Santa Carlotta on the eve of the election. She identifies Dr. Alftmont as Dr. Lintig, the husband from whom she’s never been divorced. The woman Santa Carlotta society has recognized as Mrs. Alftmont becomes Vivian Carter, the co-respondent. They’ve been living together openly as man and wife — sweet little mess, isn’t it?”
“But,” Bertha said, “they have to have Mrs. Lintig in order to pull that.”
“Probably,” I said, “they already have her. You’ve got to admit it looks suspiciously like it — her showing up at this time in Oakview, oozing love and affection for her husband, dismissing the divorce action so the records will be cleared.”
“Tell me all about that, lover,” Bertha Cool commanded.
I shook my head and said, “Not now. I’m too tired. I’m going home and get some sleep.”
Bertha Cool reached her jeweled hand across the table to grip my hand with strong fingers. “Donald, dear,” she said, “your skin feels cold. You must take care of yourself.”
“I’m going to,” I said. “You pay the check. I’m — going to get some sleep.”
Bertha’s tone was maternal. “You poor little bastard, you’re all in. Don’t try to drive the car home, Donald. Take a taxi — no, wait a minute. Do you think Alftmont’s sending me any an more money?”