Cats Prowl at Night

12 All Wool And—

Sergeant Sellers tilted back a somewhat battered, uncushioned swivel chair at Headquarters and grinned across at Bertha Cool. “You’re looking great, Bertha. What’s this about that Dearborne girl filing suit against you?”

Bertha said, “The little—” and stopped.

“Go ahead,” Sellers remarked grinning. “I’ve probably heard all of the words you know. Get them off your chest, you’ll feel better.”

Bertha said, “I’ve just come from my lawyer’s. Any names I call her might show malice, and that might hurt my lawsuit. So far as I’m concerned, she’s a very estimable young lady, mistaken perhaps, misguided certainly; but a very charming young bitch of unquestioned virtue.”

Sellers threw back his head and laughed. He pulled a cigar from his pocket and Bertha took a cigarette from her purse. Sellers leaned across the table to hold a match to her cigarette.

“We’re getting polite,” Bertha said.

“Oh, hell,” Sellers observed cheerfully. “We know the conventional obligations of a host. We just don’t pay attention to them most of the time.”

He dropped the match into a large-mouthed polished brass cuspidor which sat on a rubber mat by the side of the big table. All over the table and on the floor around the cuspidor, ribbons of black had been burnt into the wood, places where cigarettes had been allowed to lie neglected, or tossed carelessly in the general direction of the cuspidor, and had burnt themselves out.

Sergeant Sellers followed Bertha’s glance, and grinned. “You always see that around Police Headquarters,” he said. “A man could write a book about the stories back of those cigarette marks. Sometimes you put a cigarette down to answer the telephone. It’s a homicide, and you go busting out and forget all about your cigarette. Sometimes you’re pouring questions at a guy and he begins to crack. He starts wanting cigarettes, just a whiff or two, and then tosses them away. He’s nervous, he couldn’t hit the mouth of the spittoon if it were four feet in diameter. And those short marks— Well, they’re caused by the boys getting careless. Toss ’em in the general direction you want ’em to go, and forget ’em. What do you want me to do with this Dearborne girl?”

“What can you do with her?”

“Plenty.”

“I don’t get you.”

Sellers said, “You gave me a break in that case involving the blind man. I’ll never forget it, Bertha. We don’t forgive our enemies, or forget our friends up here. Now, that girl sues you for slander. She’s asking for damages for her reputation. That means she puts her reputation into the issues. We’ll go back over her past with a fine-toothed comb. We’ll dig up things that will make her squirm. Then your lawyers can let her lawyers know that you have the dope on her, and she’ll quit.”

Bertha said, “I’m my own lawyer, and don’t tell me I’ve got a fool of a client.”

“What’s the idea acting as your own lawyer?”

“The lawyer who does my work wanted five hundred bucks for a retainer, then had the crust to tell me I could pay more when trial came up.”

Sergeant Sellers whistled.

“That’s just the way I felt about it,” Bertha said.

“Well, let me talk with him, Bertha. Perhaps I can do something about it.”

“I’ve already talked with him about it,” Bertha said. “Something’s been done about it.”

“Then he’s going to represent you?”

“No. He’s going to draw an answer. I’m going to file the answer and pay him twenty-five dollars. From then on I’m on my own.”

Sellers said, “Well, let me go to work on Imogene. Perhaps I can dig something up. A girl who runs an office that way and files suit against you almost before the words are off your lips is apt to have something in her past she won’t want dragged out into the open.”

Bertha said, “Damn her. If I get my hands on her, I’ll slap her to sleep. The goddamned — estimable young lady!”

Sellers grinned. “I know just how you feel.”

“What have you found out about the Belder business?” Bertha asked.

“I think it’s murder.”

“Didn’t you think so all along?”

“Not quite so strongly as I do now. An autopsy shows that she died of carbon monoxide poisoning. She’s been dead for some little time — perhaps an hour or two before the knife was stuck into her.”

“Any clues?” Bertha asked, her eyes narrowing watchfully.

Sellers hesitated for a moment as though debating whether to tell Bertha what was on his mind, then he said abruptly, “It’s a man’s crime.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean a man did it.”

“Not Mrs. Belder?”

“I’m crossing her out.”

“Why?”

“The carving knife.”

“What about it?”

“A maid doesn’t peel potatoes with a ten-inch carving-knife.”

“Naturally.”

“A woman would know that. A man wouldn’t. Either Sally met her death accidentally, and someone, fearing he’d be blamed, tried to make it look like an accident, or else he was trying to cover up a murder.”

“Who could have murdered her?” Bertha asked.

Sellers grinned at her. “Everett Belder, for one.”

“Phooey!”

“Don’t be too damned certain... By the way, Mrs. Belder’s cat came back.”

“The deuce it did!”

“That’s right.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“Early?”

“Around midnight.”

“Belder let it in?”

“No. Mrs. Goldring heard it yowling and opened the door. The cat came in. Seemed to be well fed, but kept yowling, kept padding around the house all night and yowling. Wouldn’t stay put and settle down.”

“Probably misses Mrs. Belder,” Bertha said.

“Probably.”

The telephone on Sellers’ desk tinkled tentatively.

Sergeant Sellers picked up the receiver, said, “Hello,” then nodded to Bertha. “For you, Bertha. Your office calling. Says it’s important.”

Bertha took the telephone, heard Elsie Brand’s voice speaking in the low, somewhat muffled tones of one who is trying to be secretive by holding her lips well within the mouthpiece of the telephone. “Mrs. Cool, Mr. Belder keeps telephoning. He says he has to see you right away.”

“To hell with him,” Bertha announced cheerfully and promptly.

“I think he has another letter.”

“And hasn’t guts enough to do anything about it, eh?” Bertha asked.

“Something like that.”

“Well, you know what he can do,” Bertha said, and then with growing impatience, “My God, Elsie, don’t chase me around when I’m working on a case just because Belder wants—”

“Another matter,” Elsie broke in. “Just hold the phone a moment, Mrs. Cool. I’ll go in the outer office and see if I can find it among your papers.”

Bertha frowned, then, realizing that Elsie was making an excuse to get away from a client in the office, waited until she heard a faint click on the line. Elsie Brand’s voice, sounding less muffled, said, “There’s a woman here who wants to see you; won’t give her name. Says she has to see you at once, that it will be worth a great deal of money to you.”

“What’s she look like?”

“She’s somewhere around forty, but she has a very good figure. She looks a little — well, as though she could be hard on occasion. She has a short veil hanging down from her hat brim and ducks her head so the veil conceals her eyes every time she catches me looking at her. She says she can’t wait.”

Bertha said, “I’ll come up right away.”

“And what shall I tell Mr. Belder? He’s been calling every few minutes.”

“You know what you can tell him,” Bertha said, and hung up.

Sergeant Sellers grinned at her. “Business pretty good, Bertha?”

“So-so.”

“Glad to see it. You deserve the best there is. You’re all wool and—”

Bertha got angrily to her feet. “It wouldn’t have been so bad if you hadn’t stopped there,” she said. “Why the hell didn’t you go ahead and say ‘a yard wide’ and act as though it didn’t mean anything. But no, you had to stop and—”

“I was afraid you might take offence. I didn’t realize how it was going to sound until—”

“And why should I take offence?” Bertha demanded.

Sergeant Sellers coughed apologetically. “I was just trying to pay you a compliment, Bertha.”

“I see,” Bertha said sarcastically. “A yard wide! Phooey!”

Sergeant Sellers’ eyes remained fixed on the door after Bertha had slammed it shut. A smile twitched the corners of his mouth. He reached across the desk, picked up the receiver, said into the telephone, “Did you get all of that conversation Bertha had with her office?... Okay, write it out and bring it in. I want to look it over... No, let her go. Give her lots of rope... No, I don’t want her to hang herself, but when she gets tangled up, she starts moving with rapidity and violence. Someone who’s on the other end of the rope is going to get jerked into the limelight so fast it’ll scare him to death... No, no. Don’t try to intercept that Belder letter; we don’t want to take the responsibility of opening it. Let Bertha steam it open and then I’ll take it from Bertha.”