Sergeant Sellers was all wet in fixing the time the trap gun was set as being around three in the afternoon, because the bat was flying around, and that bats only fly at night unless they’ve been disturbed. The shades were all drawn, which made the house pretty dark. Bats fly at dusk. Sergeant Sellers should have known this. Because he didn’t, he got his time element all wrong.
Oh yes, in regard to the death of Harlow Milbers. It is quite obvious that since Nettie Cranning couldn’t have foreseen the accident to Josephine Dell which took place after that death, they would hardly have planned to kill Harlow Milbers, since, in the ordinary course of things, they could not have subsituted the last pages of the will. Questioning Miss Dell, I found that Harlow Milbers was quite fond of genuine maple sugar, that his cousin occasionally sent him bits of maple sugar from his Vermont farm, that on the morning in question, a small package of maple sugar had been received in the mail, and Harlow Milbers had eaten most of it. But there was still a small piece left in his desk drawer. I feel quite certain that an analysis of this piece will show that Christopher Milbers had attempted to realize on an inheritance by speeding the demise of his crotchety cousin.
Because you weren’t available, I turned the facts over to Sergeant Sellers, giving him an opportunity to solve two murder mysteries so that there would be quite a feather in his cap. To say that the sergeant was elated was putting it mildly.
And, oh yes, I almost forgot. Josephine Dell was very grateful indeed. She executed a power of attorney to the firm, giving us half of whatever we are able to get from the insurance company, and also agreeing to pay us ten per cent. of any amounts which she might receive under the will of Harlow Milbers in the event we are able to prove the real contents of that will.
I think this covers everything. You will find the assignments enclosed herewith in due form. I have drawn them myself so as to make certain of their legality. No one seems to know just where you are. I am going to wait until the last possible minute before taking a plane back to San Francisco. It is necessary that I be at the Mare Island Navy Yard promptly on time. You understand that we are at war, and that discipline must be maintained. While I can’t mention it publicly and have nothing official to go on,
I have reason to believe we are about to start out on what will doubtless prove a very unwelcome little surprise party for Mr. Jap.
I am indeed sorry I missed seeing you, but Elsie will type this out, and I think you will find that you can count on the co-operation of Sergeant Sellers.
Bertha Cool laid the letter down on the desk, fished in the envelope, and brought out the assignments duly executed by Josephine Dell and witnessed by two nurses in the sanitarium.
“Fry me for an oyster,” Bertha Cool said.
She reached for a cigarette, but her trembling hands fumbled with the lid of the office humidor.
Bertha heard a commotion in the outer office; then the door burst open. She heard Sergeant Sellers’ booming voice saying, “Nonsense, Elsie. Of course, she’ll see me. My God, after what she’s done for me, I feel like a partner in the firm.”
Sergeant Sellers stood in the doorway, a vast hulk of beaming amiability.
“Bertha,” he said, “I want to apologize to you. I got a little rough with you, and then, by God, you make me feel like a heel. You heap coals of fire on my head. You give me a chance to crack the two biggest murder cases of my entire career, and you and that nervy little partner of yours step aside so that I can take the credit. I just want to shake hands with you.”
Sergeant Sellers came barging across the office, his hand outstretched.
Bertha got to her feet, gripped Sergeant Seller’s hand. “Things work out all right?” she asked.
“Just exactly as you and Donald blocked them out for me. Bertha, if there’s ever anything you want from the police department, anything that I can do for you, all you’ve got to do is to say so. I think you understand that. I—I—dammit, come here.”
Sergeant Sellers threw a big arm around Bertha Cool’s massive shoulders, tilted her chin with his big ham-like hand, and kissed her on the mouth. “There,” he said, releasing her. “That’s the way I feel.” Bertha Cool dropped weakly into a chair.
“Can me for a sardine,” she said weakly. “I’m just a poor fish.”
THE END
Bats Fly at Dusk Page 20
