Bertha Cool said, “Let’s take a look in the bedroom, then we’ll talk.”

Sandra Birks opened the bedroom door. A chalked outline on the carpet showed where the body had lain. A section had been sawed from the door, a small square piece cut out of the wood.

“What’s that?” Bertha Cool wanted to know. “Where the bullet was imbedded?”

“Yes.”

“Are they sure the bullet came from that gun?”

“That’s what they’re going to find out.”

Bertha Cool said, “Where did she get the gun?”

“That’s what I can’t understand. I’m absolutely certain she didn’t have one yesterday morning.”

Bertha Cool looked at me. Her eyes were steady, thoughtful, and filled with rebuke.

“Where’s your brother?” she asked.

Sandra Birks shifted her eyes. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Where was he when the shooting occurred?”

“In his room, I guess. He was supposed to be there.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Had his bed been slept in?”

“No, he evidently hadn’t retired.”

“Rather late for him to be up, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Cool asked.

“I don’t know,” Sandra said with a flare of temper. “I was out myself. Of course, if I’d known my husband was going to be shot, I might have planned the evening differently. But no one told me; therefore, I didn’t sit by my brother’s bedside to see what time he retired or what his plans were.”

“Anything else?” Mrs. Cool asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Is there anything else you want to say?”

“Why?”

“Because,” Bertha Cool said calmly, “it’s costing you money to talk to me. If you want to spend your money trying to stand between your brother and the consequences of his act, it’s all right with me. I’ll listen as long as you want to talk, dearie.”

Sandra had been talking with that swift, vehement articulation which a woman of her type uses when she’s putting on a counter offensive, trying to cover something up. Now her eyes showed puzzled surprise. “What do you mean, standing between him and the consequences of his act?”

Bertha Cool said, “You know what I mean, dearie. Your brother murdered your husband,” and then, as Sandra Birks started to say something, she turned to me and said, “Come on, Donald, let’s take a look through the other rooms. I suppose the police have messed things up like hell, but we’ll look around anyway.”

She started walking before she was finished talking. Her huge figure moved slowly and majestically through the door, and I followed along behind.

Sandra Birks was standing in the middle of the floor, her eyes clouded with thought.

“You talked with Bleatie in the other bedroom, Donald?” Bertha Cool asked.

“Yes.”

“Show me where it is.”