Cool & Lam 15 - Beware the Curves

you can. This is going to be one hell of a night!”
    I beckoned to Bertha, and we pushed our way through the crowd.
    “Now what?” Bertha asked.
    “Now,” I said, “we go to our own ballistics expert in Pasadena and find out what the hell I’ve dug up in the garden.”
    “It’s a .38 caliber Colt revolver,” Bertha said.
    “Probably the murder weapon. That means one of us has got to be called as a witness.”
    “Oh, my God!” Bertha said.
    We drove to Pasadena where one of the best legal physicists in the country has his office. We started him working on the gun. Within half an hour he had the number of the gun, and within another hour we had the answer.
    The gun had been purchased by Helen Manning six years ago.
    I hung up the phone and turned to Bertha. “This,” I said, “is going to be in your province, Bertha. You’re going to have to take a babe apart.”
    “Who?”
    “Helen Manning.”
    “That bitch!” Bertha said.
    “Can you take her apart?”
    “I’ll take her apart,” Bertha promised. “I’ll have her sawdust stuffing spilled all over the floor of her apartment.”
    “Let’s go,” I told her.

CHAPTER 20 …

    I pressed the buzzer on Helen Manning’s apartment.
    “Who is it?” she called through the doorway in dulcet tones.
    “Donald Lam,” I said.
    “Just a minute, Donald.”
    She waited a moment, then laughed and said, “I was just in the shower. Let me put something on.”
    Bertha and I waited for about five minutes; then the door opened.
    The clothes she had put on were fluffy, semitransparent and good-looking. She raised her eyes to mine and said demurely, “You’ll have to pardon my appearance, Donald, I just came out of the bath and— Who’s this?”
    Bertha Cool barged on into the room like a fortified tank moving in on an enemy front line of entrenchments.
    “I’m Bertha Cool,” she said. “I’m a detective. Cut out the lollygagging and get the hell down to business.
    “Sit over there where I can look at you.”
    Bertha kicked the door shut with her heel.
    “What the hell was the idea of shooting Karl Endicott?” she demanded.
    Helen Manning fell back. Her hand went to her throat; her eyes were wide. “What in the world are you talking about?”
    “You know what I’m talking about,” Bertha said. “You went down to see Endicott the day he was killed. You took your gun with you, didn’t you, dearie?
    “When you were so nasty nice on the witness stand today, when you were billing and cooing with that romantic-looking district attorney down there, you didn’t tell him the whole story. You didn’t tell him about having bought a gun, did you?
    “Well, I’ll tell you all about that gun, dearie. You bought that gun down at a sporting goods store in Santa Ana , and it was a nice little .38 caliber Colt revolver. You bought it two days before Karl Endicott was murdered. You haven’t had it in your possession since Karl Endicott was murdered.
    “Now, won’t that be nice to tell the district attorney?”
    Helen Manning said, “Why you... I didn’t... I never—”
    “Don’t tell me you didn’t,” Bertha screamed at her. “You’re not showing your goddam legs to some impressionable man now. You’re talking to a woman who knows all the tricks. And don’t pull that business of being a little lady with me. You were sleeping with Karl Endicott and you didn’t mind his getting married as long as you were the number one mistress, but when he ran somebody else in and relegated you to the number two position you went off your trolley.”
    “I... I —” Helen Manning started to sob.
    “That’s right, go ahead and bawl,” Bertha said. “Keeps you from having to look in my eyes. But it isn’t going to do you any good. When you get your tears all dried up you’re going to be facing Bertha Cool, not Donald Lam. Now cut out the waterworks and give me the low-down before I decide to really get tough .“
    “What... what do you want?”
    “What happened the night Endicott was murdered?”
    “I... I don’t know.”
    “The hell you don’t,” Bertha said. “You told Mrs. Endicott all about Karl sending John Ansel up into the Amazon on a trip from which he wasn’t supposed to return. You really spilled your guts there. And she had to go and spill the story to her husband. That put the fat in the fire and the husband telephoned for you. That’s my best guess. Anyway you were there the night he was murdered. You were there when John Ansel