“I’ve thought it out,” Sandra said.

Mrs. Cool handed me the cloth padding, and said, “Wrap it up, Donald. Tie it good and tight, and then bring it back.”

I took plenty of time wrapping the bundle. I made a good job of it. I found some string in a drawer in the kitchenette and put in lots of knots. I’d just finished tying it when imperative knuckles banged on the door and a voice said, “Open up.”

I left the package on the table, put my hat over it, and called to Sandra Birks, “There’s someone at the door.”

She walked from Bleatie’s room to the door of the apartment. The man on the outside was pounding on the panels again before she had the door open.

Two plain-clothes men pushed into the room. One said, “Okay, sister, the jig’s up.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“The gun that killed Morgan Birks was the gun that killed Johnny Meyer, and Johnny Meyer, just in care you don’t know it, was the Kansas City detective who had been working on the organized rackets. He was to go before the grand jury and blow the lid off. He never got there. He was last seen alive with a good-looking frail. He was found the next morning with three slugs in his chest. The K. C. police broadcast photomicrographs of the bullets, and warned all police officers to be on the lookout for the gun.

“Now then, sister, suppose you start talking.”

Sandra Birks stood very straight, very white, and very frightened.

Bertha Cool came out from Bleatie’s bedroom. The second plain-clothes man said to Sandra, “Who are these people?”

“We’re detectives,” Bertha Cool said.

“You’re what?”

“Detectives.”

The man laughed.

Bertha Cool said, “Private detectives, investigating this thing at Mrs. Birks’ request.”

“Get out,” the officer ordered.

Bertha Cool settled herself complacently in a chair. “Throw me out,” she invited.

I glanced significantly at my hat and the newspaper package on the table. “I’ll leave,” I said.

Bertha Cool caught my eye as I picked up my hat and the newspaper-wrapped package.

“I’m within my rights,” she said. “If you want to arrest Mrs. Birks, go ahead. If you want to talk with her, go ahead. But I’m here, and I’m going to stay here.”

“You just think you’re going to stay here,” the officer roared, pushing toward her belligerently.

Sandra Birks silently held the door open for me. As the two officers converged on Bertha Cool, I slipped out into the corridor. I didn’t dare wait for the elevator. I sprinted for the stairs, and went down them two at a time. I slowed down halfway down the last flight, walked casually across the lobby as though I had a bundle of laundry with me, and gained the sidewalk. The police car was parked in front of the place.