Bertha frowned. Slowly a look of disappointment came over her face. She said, “You can’t make it stick, Donald, no matter how you try. The door was locked from the inside and it was his gun. That sews the case up.”
“But there were three shots.”
“Well, he missed one.”
“Which one?”
“The first, probably.”
I said, “The woman was shot in the back of the head.”
“Well?”
I said, “All right, he missed the first shot. What happened then?”
“How the hell do I know?” Bertha said. “You’re putting the thing together. You tell me what happened next.”
I said, “If the woman had had her back turned, she’d have swung around at the sound of that shot to see what happened, wouldn’t she?”
Bertha nodded.
I said, “In that event, if he’d shot her again he’d have shot her in the forehead, right while she was looking at him.”
Bertha said, “She looked at him for a second, saw what he had in mind and turned and started to run. Perhaps she was trying to get to the door. He shot her in the back of the head.”
“While she was running?”
“Why not?”
I said, “If he missed the first shot while she was standing still, he must have improved his shooting a lot between the time of the first and second shot while she was running.”
“Perhaps the woman turned her back to him, knowing he was going to shoot her. It was a suicide-pact and she couldn’t face the gun, or perhaps he couldn’t get up his nerve to shoot her in the forehead.”
“That’s logical,” I said, “but then why did he miss the first shot, and why did he miss it that far?”
“What do you mean that far?”
I said, “A woman who’s standing up has her head over five feet above the floor. A suitcase on the floor isn’t more than eighteen inches high. If he was shooting at her head, and missed, and hit the suitcase…”
“I get it!” Bertha said. “I get it!” Her little eyes blinked rapidly. She let her lips soften in a smile. “Donald,” she said, “you’re smart — at times — damn smart. Now, what can Bertha do to help?”
I said, “You can ring up Bob Elgin and tell him your partner wants to talk with him. Tell him that you’d appreciate it if he’d give me an hour.”
“Hand me the phone,” Bertha said.
I handed Bertha the telephone. She dialled the number she wanted, and sat there waiting, her little beady eyes blinking rapidly as she thought things over.
Abruptly Bertha cupped her hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone, looked up and said, “Ten G’s in it for us, lover?”
“That depends,” I told her. “There could be plenty.”
Bertha nodded with smug complacency. “Now you’re talking,” she said. “I knew I could depend on you to…”
She jerked her hand away from the mouthpiece and said in her most seductive tones, “Hello… hello… hello, Bob? Bob, this is Bertha Cool… Now, Bob, I know you work late, but after all it’s time anyone should be up. I sleep late myself… Look, Bob, I have a favour I want you to do for me. Now be a lamb and do what Bertha wants.”
There was an interval of silence during which Bertha frowned at the telephone, then she apparently interrupted, to say, “Now don’t be like that, Bob. Here’s the set-up. I have a partner, Donald Lam, and he’s working on a case, trying to find somebody who evidently has some contact with the Cabanita. Now, Bob, if you could give him just half an hour — just talk with him No, no, you don’t need to dress, just stick around in your pyjamas. Just talk with him, that’s all… No, it isn’t doing anything that will give your place notoriety… I tell you, it’s just giving my partner a little help… All right, he’ll be right over… You still at the same address?”
“Thanks, Bob, darling. Bertha loves you for that.”
Bertha hung up the telephone and said, “The son-of-a-bitch!”
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Half grouchy,” Bertha said. “After all I’ve done for him, too.”
“But he’s going to see me?”
“He’ll see you,” Bertha said, “but he could have been a lot nicer about it.”
“What’s the address?”
Bertha took a piece of paper, scribbled an address on it, said, “His apartment is 825. It’s one of those places where you have to be announced. Private switchboard and all that kind of stuff. Just wait until the next time Bob Elgin wants something out of me.”
I said, “Perhaps he was just grouchy at being disturbed by the telephone.”
“He tried to stall us,” Bertha said. “Fancy that, lover, the nerve of him trying to stall Bertha Cool!”
“Perhaps he wanted to go back to sleep.”
“Well, it’s time for him to get up. I’ve done too damn much for him.”
“What did you ever do for him, Bertha? It might help if I knew.”
“I squared a rap for him once, and believe me it took some squaring. I damn near lost my licence over that. But that’s something you don’t need to know. It’s better if you don’t. You beat it on up there, lover.”
I said, “Okay, here’s something you can do while I’m gone.”
“What?”
I said, “The police are closing the case. They’re giving everyone a clean bill of health. Now this suitcase with a bullet in it belonged to Minerva Carlton. I want you to get hold of Stanwick Carlton and persuade him that, as the husband of the dead woman, he should demand that suitcase from the authorities. When he gets it, persuade him that you want to take it for a little while for evidence.”
“What for?” Bertha asked.
I said, “I want to follow the course of that bullet.”
Bertha’s eyes glittered. “I get you,” she said.
I said, “Stanwick Carlton is a big, tough guy, but he isn’t half as tough as he thinks he is. He’d love to have someone pull a mother act with him.”
“I’ll clutch him to my bosom and let him sob his heart out,” Bertha said.
“Be a mother to him,” I told her. “You won’t mind putting on a mother act, will you, Bertha?”
“Hell,” Bertha said, “if it’ll bring us in any money, I’ll be his grandmother.”
Nine
The apartment house had originally been built to cater to the type that wanted to make an impression. The front of the place looked like a million dollars. There was an ornate lobby with a desk and a private switchboard. A solemn-faced clerk took care of both and there was even a lift boy clad in blue livery with gold braid and the crest of the apartment house embroidered on the collar and sleeves.
The clerk looked up as I came in. I said, “Mr. Elgin, please.”
“Robert Elgin?”
“Yes.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“Yes.”
“Your name, please.”
“Lam.”
The clerk turned to the switchboard, stabbed a plug into one of the receptacles, waited a moment until the light went off, then said, “A Mr. Lam to see you. He says you’re expecting him... Thank you.”
He pulled out the plug, slipped off the earphones, said, “You may go up. Apartment 825.”
The lift boy took me up, stopped the lift and indicated the apartment.
The place was just as I had expected it would be, plenty of swank in front and all cut up into small apartments. Bob Elgin stood in the doorway, wearing a dressing-gown, pyjamas, and a look of complete, utter weariness. I don’t think I have ever seen a man who looked so thoroughly tired; not the fatigue of exhaustion, but simply a complete and utter weariness with himself, his surroundings, his life and his job.
He had a cigarette dangling listlessly from loose lips. It was as though the mouth simply didn’t have strength enough to hold the cigarette up, but let it dangle at an angle that emphasized the utter weariness of his features.