I am indeed sorry I missed seeing you, but Elsie will type this out, and I think you will find that you can count on the co-operation of Sergeant Sellers.
Bertha Cool laid the letter down on the desk, fished in the envelope, and brought out the assignments duly executed by Josephine Dell and witnessed by two nurses in the sanitarium.
“Fry me for an oyster,” Bertha Cool said.
She reached for a cigarette, but her trembling hands fumbled with the lid of the office humidor.
Bertha heard a commotion in the outer office; then the door burst open. She heard Sergeant Sellers’s booming voice saying, “Nonsense, Elsie. Of course, she’ll see me. My God, after what she’s done for me, I feel like a partner in the firm.”
Sergeant Sellers stood in the doorway, a vast hulk of beaming amiability.
“Bertha,” he said, “I want to apologize to you. I got a little rough with you, and then, by God, you make me feel like a heel. You heap coals of fire on my head. You give me a chance to crack the two biggest murder cases of my entire career, and you and that nervy little partner of yours step aside so that I can take the credit. I just want to shake hands with you.”
Sergeant Sellers came barging across the office, his hand outstretched.
Bertha got to her feet, gripped Sergeant Seller’s hand.
“Things work out all right?” she asked.
“Just exactly as you and Donald blocked them out for me. Bertha, if there’s ever anything you want from the police department, anything that I can do for you, all you’ve got to do is to say so. I think you understand that. I–I—dammit, come here.”
Sergeant Sellers threw a big arm around Bertha Cool’s massive shoulders, tilted her chin with his big ham-like hand, and kissed her on the mouth.
“There,” he said, releasing her. “That’s the way I feel.”
Bertha Cool dropped weakly into a chair.
“Can me for a sardine,” she said weakly. “I’m just a poor fish.”