There was a taxi at the stand in front of the hotel. Bertha heaved herself into the seat. I said to the cab driver, “Key West Apartments and make it snappy.”
We rode along for a block or two in silence. Then Bertha Cool said, “Why in hell you didn’t fix it up so the police wouldn’t think she’d been kidnapped is more than I know. If she wanted to come down where she could live with you, why the hell didn’t you have her think up a good stall which would fool cops. The way it is now, you’re headed for the big house, and it doesn’t make a damn what happens to this murder case. You—”
“Shut up,” I said. “I’m thinking.”
She said, “Well, I’m paying you wages. Think about the case we’re working on. Think about your own troubles in your time off.”
I turned on her. “You give me a pain. I am thinking about business problems, and you try to get me started on my personal problems. Shut up.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“Shut up.”
When we were within a few blocks of the Key West Apartments, I said, “We’re all nuts.”
“What is it now, Donald?” Bertha Cool asked.
“Those cigarette stubs in Evaline Harris’s apartment. One of them had lipstick on. One of them didn’t. Police jumped at the conclusion that that meant a man had been in the room. It doesn’t mean any such thing.”