The white-coated man stuck a stethoscope on my chest, said, “Here, we’ve got to get him out to the air.”
I pushed him away and said, “I want to know what’s happened”
“You can’t go in there,” the ambulance man said.
“I’ve got to.”
Bertha Cool said cooingly, “Poor boy. It was his favourite aunt.”
I went into the room. Radio officers were in charge. One of them said, “It’s too late to do anything here. The body isn’t to be touched until the coroner comes. Who shut off the gas?”
“I did,” I said.
The clerk said, “They broke in the transom at my orders. I knew it was the only thing to do.”
Bertha Cool glanced at me meaningly. “You’d better go in the ambulance, lover,” she said.
I looked at Bertha, and said, “I can’t. There’s an important letter—”