She said, “Just a minute, I’ll unlock the door.”

She unlocked the door and opened it a crack, stood staring out at me suspiciously. I kept my face lowered. When she saw my uniform and the telegram in the book, she opened the door six or eight inches. “Where do I sign?” she asked.

“Right on this line,” I told her, shoving the book through the door and handing her a pencil.

She was wearing a rose-colored robe over not very much of anything. I looked through the crack in the open door and could see nothing, so I pushed the door open and walked in.

At first she didn’t get the idea. Then as the light fell on my face, she recognized me. “Morgan!” she cried. “Look out! It’s a detective.”

Morgan Birks, attired in a double-breasted gray suit, was lying on the bed, his ankles crossed, a cigarette in his mouth. I walked over to him and said, “This is an original summons, Mr. Birks, in the case of Sandra Birks versus Morgan Birks. This is a copy of the summons and a copy of the complaint which I hand you herewith.”

He calmly removed the cigarette from his lips, blew smoke at the ceiling, and said, “Pretty smart, aren’t you, buddy?”

Sally Durke came running up behind me, her rose-colored robe trailing out behind her. She had ripped the yellow envelope open and pulled out the fake message. She slammed the book on the floor, tore the telegram in two and flung it at me. “You damn double-crossing stool pigeon,” she said.

“What else?” Birks asked me.

“That’s all.”

“No warrant of arrest?”

“No, this is just a civil case.”

“Okay, buddy. I wish you luck.”

“Thanks,” I said, “and you might call off your dog. I don’t like her bark.”

I turned and started toward the door just as it banged open and Sandra Birks came rushing into the room. Behind her came Alma Hunter, apparently trying to pull her back. And looming behind them, a cigarette in her lips, was the huge form of Bertha Cool.

On the bed, Birks said, “Well, well, well!”

Sandra Birks shouted at him, “You dirty chiseler. So this is the way you’ve been carrying on, is it? This is the little hussy you’ve been squandering your money on. This is the way you treat your marriage vows.”

Birks took the cigarette out of his mouth, yawned and said, “Yes, dearest, this is Sally Durke. I’m sorry you don’t like her. Why didn’t you bring your doctor friend along if you wanted to make the party complete?”

Sandra Birks sputtered indignantly. “You—you—you—”