I brought her the cigarettes, held a match, and when she motioned toward an ottoman, slid it toward her. She elevated her feet, kicked off her slippers, twisted in the chair until she found a comfortable position, settled herself, and said, “Go ahead.”

I told her everything I knew.

She said, “You should have telephoned me before you went to bed. You should have let me know right away.”

“But he hadn’t been killed then,” I said. “I only got the phone call—”

“Oh, the murder,” she interrupted. “To hell with the murder. The police can take care of that, but this gang that kidnaped you and wanted to get in touch with Morgan Birks sounds like ready money to me. You passed up a bet there. You—” The telephone rang.

She sighed. “Donald, go get me that telephone. You can pull the jack out and plug it in here. There’s a long extension cord on it. Hurry before they hang up, dear.”

I ran into the bedroom, followed the extension cord to the wall plug, pulled it out, handed the telephone to Mrs. Cool, and plugged into the living room connection.

She picked up the receiver, said, “Bertha Cool talking,” and waited.

I could hear the rattle of the diaphragm in the receiver as words poured into Bertha Cool’s ear. The twinkling eyes indicated she was enjoying the conversation.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked at length.

The receiver made more noise, and Bertha Cool said, “I’d want five hundred dollars, cash money. After that, I’ll probably want more. I can’t guarantee anything. . . . Well, you’ll have to get it, dearie. . . . Safety deposit boxes mean nothing to me. They’ll seal them anyhow. . . . All right, dearie. Fifty dollars will be all right until tomorrow. . . . I’ll keep him under cover. Yes, I hadn’t better come over there right away. Wait until the police get done. There’s no need of antagonizing them. What time is it now? . . . All right. Let’s say an hour or an hour and a half. You wait there for me unless they take you to headquarters. I don’t think they will.”

She hung up, and her lips twisted in a smile of satisfaction.

“Sandra Birks,” she said.

“Wants you to investigate her husband’s death?”

“Wants me to take care of Alma Hunter. They’re arresting her.”

“They got a crust!” I said. “He was trying to choke her, and—”

“Don’t be so sure,” she said. “Morgan Birks was shot in the back.”

“In the back!” I exclaimed.

“Uh huh. He was evidently trying to get out the door when he was shot. The bullet went completely through and imbedded itself in the door. Reconstructing the position of the body from the direction of the wound, the police figure he had his hand on the doorknob and was trying to get out when he was shot in the back.”