No Tea for the Sergeant
Belder, visibly excited, seated himself across from Bertha. “We’ve got it,” he said.
“Got what?”
“You remember my telling you about a young woman I’d helped to land a job in San Francisco?”
Bertha gave the question frowning consideration. “Another woman?”
“Not another one. The one we were talking about. The one whose letter you saw.”
“Oh. The one who called you Sindbad?”
“That’s the one.”
“What about her?”
“She’s going to help out.”
“In what?”
“In giving me enough money to clean up this judgment. She’s been making a good salary, putting it away, and making an investment here and there. She’s got twenty-three hundred dollars in the savings bank. I can raise the other two hundred dollars. Go ahead and close the deal with Nunnely.”
“How did you get in touch with this woman,” Bertha asked. “By telephone?”
“No. She was down here on a trip in connection with her job. She telephoned me and I ran over to her hotel. I’ve been trying to get you. The money’s in San Francisco, and she’s arranging to have it sent down here by wire. We’ll be able to close the deal by ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Bertha said, “You certainly have plenty of women in your life!”
“What do you mean by that, Mrs. Cool?”
“Exactly what I said.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Cool, but this young woman is really not ‘in’ my life.”
“Twenty-three hundred bucks of her money is going to be.”
“That’s different.”
“You’re damned right it is,” Bertha said. “Who’s your barber?”
“I— What?”
“Who’s your barber?”
“Why — I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
“Neither do I,” Bertha said. “I just wanted to know, that’s all.”
“What difference does it make?”
“It might make a lot. Do you go to one shop regularly?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Belder hesitated for a moment, then said, “It’s the Terminal Tonsorial Parlour near the Pacific Greyhound bus station.”
“Go there regularly?”
“Yes.”
“Been going there quite a long while?”
“Yes. Really, Mrs. Cool, I don’t understand why you’re asking this.”
“There’s nothing secret about this, is there?”
“Good heavens, no.”
“No objection to coming right out and telling anyone where you get your hair cut?”
“Good Heavens, no! What’s the idea? Are you crazy, or am I?”
Bertha grinned. “It’s all right. I just wanted to make certain there wasn’t anything secret about it. You aren’t having any business dealings with the proprietor of the shop, are you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Own any interest in the shop?”
“No. Mrs. Cool, will you please tell me the reason for asking these questions?”
“I’m trying to find out the reason why it should make a damned bit of difference where you get your hair cut.”
“But it doesn’t.”
“It shouldn’t.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. What’s this about another letter?”
Belder’s manner showed complete exasperation. He hesitated as though trying to let Bertha see he was debating whether to walk out or let her see the letter. After a few minutes he took a sealed envelope from his pocket. Bertha extended her hand. He gave it to her and she turned it over and over in her fingers.
“When did this come?”
“In the mail that’s delivered about three o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Your mother-in-law see this letter?”
“She did, and Carlotta did. Trust Carlotta.”
Bertha said musingly, “Same sort of typewriting. Letter addressed to your wife, marked Personal and confidential! ” She raised her voice, “Oh, Elsie—” Through the door came the muffled sound of a clacking typewriter. Bertha Cool picked up the telephone receiver and said to Elsie Brand, “Put on the kettle again, Elsie. We’ve got another letter.”
Bertha replaced the telephone, kept studying the envelope. “Well,” she said, “we’ll have to get something to put in this — same sort of envelope as the other was — a plain, stamped envelope. I’ll have to dig up another advertisement from the fur company.”
“Couldn’t we put something else in this?”
“Don’t be silly,” Bertha said. “If your mother-in-law sees two personal envelopes addressed Personal and confidential, and one of them contains an ad for the fur company and the other one an invitation to contribute to the Red Cross, she’ll smell a rat right then and there. Only thing to do is to make it appear it’s a slick advertising stunt on the part of the furrier, and they got her name on the mailing list twice.”
“That’s right,” Belder admitted. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“What’s new at your house?” Bertha asked.
“Nothing new. Just the same old seven and six. Police detectives trooping over the place, messing around and asking questions. Mrs. Goldring crying. Carlotta snooping on me every minute of the time.”
“What’s she snooping on you for?”
“I don’t know.”
Bertha lit a cigarette.
“What caused you to ask about my barber?” Belder asked.
“It seems to worry you.”
“It doesn’t worry me. I’m simply curious, that’s all.”
“What was the reason you didn’t want to tell me who your barber was?”
“Why, there’s no reason on earth.”
“Then why did you stall around about it?”
“Don’t be silly. I didn’t stall around. I simply wanted to know what was behind the question. I’m not objecting. I was trying to find out why you asked me.”
“I just wanted to know. What’s the name of this girl — the one that’s going to put up the money?”
“Mamie Rosslyn.”
“What does she do?”
“She has complete charge now of the advertising for a big San Francisco Department store. She’s moved right up to the top.”
“What does Dolly Cornish have to say about her?”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“Have you told Dolly this Rosslyn woman is going to put up some money for you?”
“Why, no. Why should I?”
“Why shouldn’t you?”
“I fail to see any reason why I should.”
“How long is she going to be in town?”
“Who, Dolly Cornish?”
“No. The Rosslyn girl.”
“She’s taking the train to-night and is sending the money down by telegram tomorrow. That’s what I wanted to see you about particularly. I want you to get in touch with Nunnely and make certain the thing doesn’t get away from us. It’s particularly important that we get the judgment cleaned up before noon tomorrow.”
Elsie Brand opened the door. “The water’s boiling.”
Bertha shoved back her creaking swivel chair, heaved herself to her feet. “Well,” she announced, “here’s where we violate some more postal regulations.”
The teakettle over on Elsie Brand’s desk was boiling briskly. Underneath it the electric plate cast a deflected red glow down upon the magazine which Elsie had placed under the plate to protect her desk.
Bertha, holding the envelope in her thumb and forefinger, stalked over to the teakettle, saying to Belder over her shoulder, “Lock the door.”
Bertha bent over the teakettle, skilfully applying the flap to the live steam, concentrating on the task at hand.
Elsie Brand hurriedly pushed against her desk, sending her office chair shooting back on well-oiled casters.
“What is it?” Bertha asked without looking up.
“The door,” Elsie Brand said, and started running.
Bertha glanced up. A black shadow was blotted against the frosted glass on the outside of the door, the shadow of broad shoulders, the silhouettes of a grim profile, a long cigar clamped at a slight upward angle. Belder was standing at Bertha’s shoulder intently gazing down at the letter. Elsie Brand had her hand extended to throw the lock on the door.
“Damn it,” Bertha blazed at Belder. “I told you to lock that door. I—”
Elsie Brand’s hand touched the lock.
The shadow on the frosted glass moved. The knob turned, just as Elsie’s fingers touched the lock.
In a panic, Elsie flung her weight against the door in a futile attempt to keep it closed.
Sergeant Sellers shouldered the door and looked through the open segment at the figures over by Elsie’s desk, took in the teakettle, the electric plate, Bertha Cool’s indignation, Everett Belder’s consternation.
Wordlessly, and without taking his eyes from Bertha and Belder, Sellers slid his hand along the jamb of the door until he came to the spring lock. His forefinger snapped it back and forth. He said to Elsie, without looking at her, “What’s the idea? Trying to keep me out?”
“I was just closing the office,” Elsie Brand said hastily. “Mrs. Cool was tired and didn’t want to see anyone else.”
“I see,” Sellers observed. “Going to have a pot of tea, I suppose?”
“Yes.” Elsie Brand’s acquiescence was just a bit too quick and enthusiastic. “That’s right. We were just going to have tea. Quite frequently we have tea. I—”
“That’s swell,” Sellers observed. “Count me in. Put an extra cup in the pot, Bertha. Go ahead and close the office, Elsie.”
Sellers entered the room and Elsie Brand, glancing helplessly at Mrs. Cool, pushed the door shut.
Bertha said, “My God, you cops are all alike. The smell of food brings you around like flies. It doesn’t make any difference what time of day it is — morning, noon, afternoon or night—”
“That’s right,” Sellers interpolated. “Only I didn’t know there was going to be food. I thought it was just tea. Food makes it that much better. Got some nice assorted cookies, Bertha? The kind with sweet fillings in the centre? I love those.”
Bertha glared at him.
“Don’t let your water boil away,” Sellers said. “Go ahead and get your tea, Bertha.”
Bertha glanced at Elsie. “Where is the tea, Elsie?”
“Why, I–I— gosh, Mrs. Cool, come to think of it, I think we used up the last yesterday. I remember now, you told me to get some more, and I forgot it.”
“Damn it,” Bertha blazed. “Can’t you ever remember anything? That’s twice you’ve forgotten things. I told you positively to get some more tea yesterday afternoon. I remember using up the last and throwing the carton away.”
“I remember it now,” Elsie admitted shamefacedly. “I forgot it this morning.”
Grinning Sellers sat down. “Oh, well,” he said, “get out the cups and saucers and I’ll see if I can promote some tea.”
“I suppose you carry a package of it around in your pocket.”
“I’ll get some,” Sellers promised, adjusting himself to a comfortable position in one of the office chairs, and pulling a cigar from his pocket. “Go right ahead, Bertha. Bring out the cups and saucers, Elsie.”
Elsie glanced at Bertha.
Bertha said, “On second thought I’ve changed my mind. If we haven’t any tea, I’m not going to wait for you to promote some. I’m sick and tired to death of—”
“Okay, okay,” Sellers interrupted. “Let’s see the cups and saucers, Bertha. Where do you keep them?”
“I told you I’m not going to use them.”
“I know, but I’m interested in them.”
“Well, stay interested then. I have other things to do. Come on, Mr. Belder. We’ll finish that matter we were going to discuss when we were interrupted.”
“Might as well finish it right now,” Sellers said.
“Thank you. My clients prefer privacy. Strange of them, I’m certain, but somehow they do. A sort of subconscious clinging to the obsolete rights of an American citizen.”
Sellers kept grinning good-naturedly. “No cups and saucers, er, Bertha?... Mrs. Goldring told me there’d been another letter come for Mrs. Belder. Thought I might find you here, Belder. Of course, if you have that letter in your pocket, I’ll just take it along. It may be valuable as evidence.”
“You and who else?” Bertha blazed. “After all, there are certain Federal regulations that rate just a little higher than you smart-Aleck cops. If a letter’s addressed to Mrs. Belder, you can’t—”
“Come, come, Bertha. Don’t run up a blood-pressure over it. If you’re so touchy about the Federal regulations, what were you about to do?”
“I was about to cook a pot of tea,” Bertha all but shouted, “and I guess as yet there’s no law says you can’t cook a pot of tea in your own office.”
“You’d be surprised about that,” Sellers told her. “City ordinances concerning cooking — zoning ordinances concerning places where meals or refreshments are habitually furnished, given away, or—”
“I guess I could cook a client a cup of tea without having to take out a restaurant license.”
“That ‘habitually furnished’ covers a lot of ground,” Sellers said, still keeping his affable smile. “Elsie works here. Evidently you serve tea at this time every day.”
Bertha’s angry glare didn’t disturb the Sergeant’s serene complacency.
“Now then,” he went on, turning to Belder, “if you’ve received another poison-pen letter and were getting ready to steam it open, just cut me in on the party.”
“How the hell do you get that way?” Bertha said. “Bursting into my office and—”
“Take it easy, Bertha. Don’t scream. Your office is open to the public. I dropped in. I’d been out at Belder’s house just checking up on a few details. I talked with Mrs. Goldring, who’s naturally much concerned over the whole affair, and is trying to convince me there’s some reason for her daughter’s absence. A reason that isn’t connected with the death of Sally Brentner. Trying to think back over recent events in order to see if there wasn’t some clue to her daughter’s disappearance, Mrs. Goldring remembered that there had been two letters in the mail marked Personal and confidential. She suggested that we might go through the mail, find them, and see if they offered a clue. We did it. We found only one of the envelopes.”
“I didn’t feel like taking the liberty of opening Mrs. Belder’s mail, but I saw no reason why we couldn’t hold the envelope up to a strong light and see what was inside. I arranged a cardboard funnel, put it over a hundred-and-fifty-watt light, held the envelope over the funnel and saw that the envelope contained only the advertisement of a furrier. A little closer inspection convinced me that the envelope had been opened. I remembered there had been two poison-pen letters; that you tried to hold one out on me; that you didn’t have the envelope it came in. Mrs. Goldring was much put out because she couldn’t find the letter that had come this afternoon marked Personal and confidential. Putting two and two together, I thought I might make a guess as to where the envelope might be, and where Everett Belder might be. I come up here and find you grouped around a teakettle, brewing tea with no tea-cups, no teapot, and no tea leaves.”
“Now, Bertha, as one detective to another, what would you think if you were in my position?”
“Oh, hell,” Bertha said wearily to Belder. “Let him in on it.”
“That’s better,” Sellers grinned. “After all, Belder, I’m protecting you as far as your mother-in-law is concerned. I haven’t told her anything about that second letter. Incidentally, you’ll probably be interested to know that your mother-in-law thinks you’d been having an affair with Sally, either got tired of her, or Sally was standing in your way, keeping you from taking on another mistress. She thinks you got rid of her and she’s beginning to have a horrible suspicion that you may have made away with your wife.”
“Made away with my wife!” Belder shouted. “Made away with Mabel! Good God! I’d give my right hand if I could locate her right now. Bertha can tell you that I’m putting across a deal that—”
“Shut up,” Bertha interrupted. “He’s just trying to get your goat to make you start talking. That’s an old police trick, playing you against your mother-in-law, and your mother-in-law against you.”
“Why stop him from talking, Bertha? Is he concealing something?”
“A fat chance anybody stands of concealing things with you opening purses, breaking into offices, and egging his mother-in-law into hysterics. Hell, no! All I’m trying to do is to keep his mouth shut so you can’t run back to the mother-in-law and tell her what Belder said about her.”
Sellers said affably, “Well, you’ve got to admit it was a swell try, Bertha. I shouldn’t have tried it when you were here. I think I’d have got somewhere with it if you hadn’t butted in.”
Belder faced Sellers angrily. “I don’t know how much of this stuff a citizen has to take from the police department.”
“Quite a bit,” Sellers told him, “particularly when wives disappear shortly after former sweethearts, who are pretty well heeled, have called on the husband. You’d be surprised, Belder, how many times wives have ‘simply disappeared’ or gone to visit relatives and haven’t returned. Well, no, I won’t say it in that way. It sounds as though I were accusing you of something. I’m not. I’m only investigating. It’s your mother-in-law who’s made the accusation.”
“There he goes again,” Bertha interrupted. “Don’t let him get your goat, Belder. Let’s get this letter opened and see what it says.”
Bertha raised some papers on Elsie’s desk, picked up the envelope which she had hastily concealed as Sellers opened the door. Sellers settled back in the chair, puffing cigar smoke contentedly, watching operations.
Bertha loosened the adhesive on the flap with steam, inserted a lead pencil near the upper part of the flap, and rolled it down under the flap.
“Rather neat,” Sellers commented. “Shows long practice.”
Bertha refused to be baited.
Belder said nervously, “I think I should be the first to read this. There may be something—”
Sellers came up out of the chair with the smooth, easy motion of an athlete. Belder jerked the letter from Bertha’s wrist.
“Naughty, naughty,” Sellers said. “Drop it.”
Belder tried to jerk away. Sellers increased his pressure on the man’s wrist, suddenly whipped around, throwing his elbow over Belder’s arm. His other hand caught the back of Belder’s hand, and pressed it down with the leverage of a locked forearm.
Belder’s fingers loosened. The letter fluttered to the floor. Sellers beat Bertha to it, his shoulders striking against Bertha as they both grabbed for the letter.
“Damn you,” Bertha said.
“Always pick up things for a lady,” Sellers observed, and returned to his chair carrying the letter, the cigar still clamped in his mouth.
“Well,” Bertha said, “go ahead and read it.”
“I’m reading it.”
“Read it out loud.”
Sellers merely grinned. He read the letter with avid interest, folded it and put it in his pocket. “Ain’t we got fun!” he observed.
Bertha said, “Damn you. You can’t bust in my office and pull high-handed stuff like that. You let me see that letter.”
Sellers said, “You have the envelope, Bertha. I’d suggest you put in another circular from the furrier and make as good a job of sealing it up again as you did on the other. Not that I give a damn. I’m simply trying to fix it so your client’s home life won’t be quite so disagreeable. Mrs. Goldring was very much interested in that trick of putting the hundred-and-fifty watt light in the cardboard cone and holding a letter against it. She’ll be laying for this envelope, waiting to pounce on it. About the first question she’ll ask Belder is whether he has it in his pocket. Well, I’ve got to be getting on.”
Sellers got up, reached across Elsie Brand’s desk, and calmly tapped ashes from the end of his cigar with his little finger.
Belder turned to Bertha Cool.
“Can’t we do something about this? Doesn’t a citizen have some right?”
Bertha didn’t say anything until the door closed. “He caught us red-handed,” Bertha said bitterly. “He had us over a barrel — and how well he knew it. Damn him.”
Belder’s voice held the dignity of cold rage. “Well, Mrs. Cool. I think that is just about the last straw. You’ve bungled everything in this case from the time you started on it. If you had used ordinary skill in shadowing my wife, we’d have known exactly where she went. I gave you a letter in strictest confidence, and you let that letter fall into the hands of the police. I come to you with a third letter which may contain most important information, and you let that get whipped out from under your nose. I had misgivings about hiring a woman detective in the first place. Sergeant Sellers wouldn’t have imposed on a man in this way.”
Bertha looked through the man, her forehead furrowed in thought. She gave no indication that she had heard a word Belder said.
Belder marched stiffly to the door and followed Sergeant Sellers out into the corridor.
Elsie Brand looked sympathetically at Bertha Cool. “Tough luck,” she said. “But after all, it wasn’t your fault.”
Bertha might not have heard her. Her eyes were slitted into level-lidded concentration. “So that’s it.”
“What?” Elsie asked.
“They think Belder murdered his wife, and Belder spent that morning at the barber shop. I remember when he came in. It was cold. A raw wind was just blowing away a heavy fog. Belder was wearing an overcoat and hadn’t been shaved. He left me in front of his house. When I arrived at his office, he was shaved, massaged, manicured, and had had his hair trimmed. So that’s why that woman wanted to know about his barber. That barber shop is his only alibi, and if there’s a hole in it — then he has no alibi.”
Bertha sailed into her private office and grabbed her hat and purse.