I opened the purse and dropped it on the floor. I upset one of the chairs, twisted a rug into a ball, and threw it into a corner. Over near the door, I tapped myself on my sore nose with the side of my hand.
The damn thing wouldn’t bleed. It had been bleeding at intervals all afternoon. Now that I wanted it to, I couldn’t get it started. Tears smarted my eyes, but my sore nose was as dry as a wildcat oil well.
I screwed up my nerve and tried it again. This time I got results, Blood spilled out, and I walked around the apartment, making certain that a few drops would be where they’d do the most good. Then I had a job stopping it. After a while I got it stopped and started for the door.
The telephone bell shattered the silence.
I walked out and pulled the door shut behind me, leaving the telephone ringing mechanically at regular intervals.
I drove to a drugstore that I knew had a telephone booth. I bought a dozen fresh handkerchiefs, went into the telephone booth, and placed a station-to-station call for the Santa Carlotta police station. When I had them on the line, I said, “Let me talk to Sergeant Harbet, please.”
“Who is this talking?”
“Detective Smith, Homicide, Los Angeles,” I said.
“Just a minute.”
I waited about a minute, and then the operator said, “Sergeant Harbet should be in your office now, Smith. He got a call from the district attorney late this afternoon, and left at once for Los Angeles.”