A. Fair - Cats Prowl at Night

“What do you mean, ‘still’?”

“Well, I went with her for a while, and then — well, then I got married.”

“She didn’t like that?”

“Oh, she got married herself within a week or two.”

“But she didn’t like it when you got married?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask her.”

Sellers took the cigar from his mouth. His eyes bored into Belder’s. “Answer questions and quit beating around the bush.”

Belder said, “No. She didn’t like it.”

“Had you seen her since then?”

“Not until she came here.”

“Why did she come?”

“She’d left her husband. She — well, she wanted to see me.”

“Okay, you made a play for her?”

“I–I was glad to see her.”

“Kiss her?”

“Yes.”

“More than once?”

“I — well, perhaps. But that was all of it, just a kiss and — well, hang it, I was glad to see her. Just like you’d be glad to run across any old friend whom you hadn’t seen for a long time.”

“Date her up?”

“No.”

“Tell her you were still married?”

“Yes.”

“She leave you her address?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Locklear Apartments.”

“You been there?”

“No.”

“Called her?”

“No.”

“She ask you to?”

“Well, not exactly. She told me where she was staying.”

“Where did she sit?” Sergeant Sellers asked.

Surprise was on Belder’s face. “I don’t get you.”

“When she was here.”

“Oh, over in that chair, the one Mrs. Cool’s sitting in.”

“That’s pretty well over at the far end of the office,” Sellers said. “Take a look out, Bertha, and tell me what windows you can see across the street.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Belder said. “What bearing does that have on the case?”

Sergeant Sellers explained patiently. “The person who wrote that second letter must have been able to see what was going on here in the office when Dolly Cornish called. I notice there’s an office building across the street. It’s not a wide street. Along in the afternoon, the light would be just right so a person standing in an office across the street could see in here.”

Belder frowned for a moment, then his face cleared. “By George, that’s an idea! You think this person was spying on me from an office in the building across the street?”

Bertha Cool said, “Why monkey with that stuff? You have the answer right here in your office.”

Sellers frowned for her to keep quiet, suddenly switched his point of attack.

“How about the information in this letter. Who do you know who could have known about Dolly being in here on Monday?”

“No one.”

“Your secretary?”

“She doesn’t know anything at all about Dolly Cornish; thinks she’s a business acquaintance.”

“What time was this Dolly person in here Monday?”

“I don’t know, around — oh, I’d say around the middle of the afternoon.” Sergeant Sellers jerked his fingers toward the telephone. “Get her in here.”

“Who?”

“Your secretary.”

Belder raised the receiver on the telephone, said, “Can you come in here a moment, please?”

A second later, when Imogene Dearborne opened the door, Sellers said, “Last Monday — a party by the name of Dolly Cornish. What time was she in?”

“Just a moment, I’ll consult my day-book.”

“She have an appointment?”

“No.”

“All right, take a look at your book.”

Imogene returned to her desk, secured her day-book, opened it, slid her finger down the page. “Mrs. Cornish came in at two-twenty Monday afternoon. She stayed until three-fifteen.”

“She didn’t have an appointment?”

“No.”

“Stranger to you?”

“Yes.”

“Know anything about her business?”

“No. Mr. Belder said not to make any charge.”

Sellers tilted back his head, closed his eyes. “What does she look like?”

“A blonde, good figure, fine clothes, attractive, still young, but sort of — well, sort of scheming and definitely selfish. If she wants something, she gets it.”

Belder said, “I hardly think that’s fair, Miss Dearborne, you—”

“I’m running this,” Sellers interrupted, his head still tilted back, eyes still closed. “She told you she wanted to see Mr. Belder, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And you asked her if she had an appointment?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“She said Mr. Belder would see her if I’d tell him she was here.”

“Belder isn’t very busy,” Sellers said. “That appointment business is just a stall, isn’t it — kind of racket to impress callers?”

“Yes.”

“So you went on in to him and told him a Mrs. Cornish was here?”

“She asked me to announce her as Dolly Cornish; said just to say Dolly Cornish.”

“What did Belder do?”

“Why, he said to send her in, said she was a friend of his.”

“Any emotion?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“What happened when they met each other?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

“Didn’t Belder come to the door?”

“He was part way around the desk as I held the door open for her. I heard him say her name as though he — well, as though he liked the sound of it.”

“And then?”

“I closed the door.”

“See him kiss her?”

Her cheeks flamed. “No.”

“When did you see her next?”

“Three-fifteen — when she came out.”

“Anyone else know she was here?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“No one waiting in the outer office when she came in here?”

“No.”

“Anyone shadow her when she left?”

“I can’t be certain of that, but I would say probably not. There was no one else in the office all the time she was in here.”

Bertha Cool interrupted. “What’s the use of beating around the bush. This is the party you want.”

Sellers frowned warningly at Bertha Cool. “I’m not so certain you’re right on that, Bertha.”

“ I’m certain,” Bertha snapped.

Sellers looked through the window at the building across the street. “There’s some pretty strong evidence in favour of that office-window theory, Bertha.”

Bertha turned to Imogene Dearborne, zipped open her purse, pulled out the typewritten memo she had pilfered from Everett Belder’s files. “Who wrote this?” she demanded, thrusting the paper out at Imogene Dearborne.

“Why — why — why, I guess I did. That was a note I put on Mr. Belder’s—”

Bertha Cool said to Sergeant Sellers, “Let’s have those two letters.”

Sellers wordlessly passed them over.

Bertha Cool spread them out on the table. “Take a look at these, young woman. All written on the same typewriter, weren’t they?”

“I–I don’t know. What are you trying to do?”

Bertha said with cold-blooded callousness, “I’m trying to show you up, you little twerp. You were in love with your boss. You thought he’d marry you if his wife didn’t stand in the way. You wrote those letters to Mrs. Belder. You knew your boss was making a play for the maid. You listened at the door and peeked through the keyhole and knew what went on when Dolly Cornish called. You thought you’d got rid of a wife and two rivals all at once. You wrote those letters to Mrs. Belder and then put on your innocent act around the office. A smug, mealy-mouthed, goddamned hypocrite.”

Imogene Dearborne was crying now. “I didn’t,” she denied wildly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bertha said remorselessly, “Oh, yes, you do. And now I’m going to prove it. Those letters were written by a skilled typist. She used a beautiful, even-spaced, touch system. She wrote ’em on a portable typewriter. It was a Remington portable, about the first model they put out. You have a portable machine, at home. You used it to write these letters. This memo wasn’t written on the machine you’re using in the office. I tricked you into giving me a specimen of the writing on that machine. You admitted that you have a portable at home. Now then, you’d better come clean and tell us—”