Puzzle of the Red Stallion (29 page)

“We sure did!” agreed the inspector happily, and sprinted for the jailhouse steps.

T
HE HEADLINES OF THE
RACETRACK MURDER flared and were almost instantly forgotten. Inspector Oscar Piper received gratifying commendations from his superiors and then slowly found himself sliding into that state of uneasy apprehension which is the lot of a Tammany cop in a non-Tammany administration. Miss Withers’s life returned to its usual calm, broken only when the little wire-haired terrier, Dempsey, distinguished himself by giving battle to a massive Great Dane on the street, who with one bite very nearly put an end to the career of the rash little gladiator.

It was on Dempsey’s first long walk after he came home from the pet hospital that Miss Withers invited—perhaps the word should be “wheedled”—the inspector to join them.

“It’s true there’s nothing much doing down at Centre Street in this hot weather,” he admitted. “But what in the world have you got to show me that you’re so excited about?”

She refused to enlighten him. “‘Yours not to reason why, yours but to do or die …’” she told him. They walked several blocks southward and then down Sixty-fifth Street.

“Say, I’ve been here before!” protested the inspector. Then he saw the Thwaite stables and the auctioneer’s flag which hung outside. There was a white and official notice on the door—“Sheriffs Sale—County of New York” …

“I thought it might be amusing to see some of our suspects of last month in a different light,” Miss Withers said. “There’s still an untied clue or two….” She led the way inside while Dempsey wriggled joyously at the strange alien odors of horse, and the inspector followed a little gingerly.

It was like no other auction that Miss Withers had ever seen. No more than a dozen wooden chairs had been placed, in rows of four, across the central runway between the stalls. At the rear was a table. A man in a soiled white linen suit was standing by the table talking to Mrs. Thwaite.

Five or six idlers had wandered in and were sprawled in the chairs waiting for something to happen. Miss Withers motioned the inspector to a seat in the last row. It was nearly ten o’clock in the morning.

On either side of them horses moved restlessly in their stalls. Miss Withers recognized Salt, the little gray mare on whom Latigo had ridden after Barbara Foley. Now she held her head low and her ribs stood out like a washboard.

Dr. Thwaite came in, stared hard at the inspector and Miss Withers and took a seat on one side. His wife carried a silver-capped crop and with it she kept slapping at her high leather boots as if annoyed at her own legs. She stalked up and down in front of the first row.

The auctioneer put out his cigarette. “All right,” he said suddenly in a hoarse and tired voice. “Let’s get going.” He knocked on the table. “Quiet, everybody….”

The only sound was made by the colored boy, High-pockets, as he opened the door of a stall at the end of the line. He led out a big red thoroughbred, brought him almost to the auctioneer’s table.

Siwash tossed his head, rolled brown eyes at the unaccustomed sight of so many humans in his stable. For some reason or other he had not been curried that morning and his hocks, mane and tail were at a stage halfway between close-clipped and flowing. Still he looked like a lot of horse.

The man from the sheriff’s office made hurried sing-song announcements. Here was the horse. Anybody could look at him. He was a thoroughbred, although papers would not be given with him unless transfer charges were paid. There was a lien of $225 against the horse, at which figure bids could start….

Miss Withers was the only person who got up to inspect Siwash, leaving the inspector to hold Dempsey’s leash. She fancied that the red horse recognized her, for he did brighten as she stroked his nose. He even made a friendly grab for her hat, which bore a bunch of imitation grapes. As she went back to her seat he whinnied faintly. That cinched it as far as Miss Withers was concerned.

“Do I hear a bid?” demanded the auctioneer.

Miss Withers said, in a quavery voice, that she would offer two hundred and thirty dollars. The inspector stared at her in blank wonder.

“Well, it’s my own money!” she told him. “I won it at Beaulah Park….”

Maude Thwaite, with a hard look at the unexpected intruder, said, “Two-fifty!”

“Two hundred and fifty dollars once!” began the auctioneer hastily. And then the outer doors opened and Barbara Foley came in, followed by Latigo Wells. He wore a new suit, Miss Withers noticed, and carried a guitar case.

“Two hundred and sixty!” snapped Miss Withers. She motioned to Barbara. “You’re just in time to rescue your horse,” said the schoolteacher. “Sit down….”

Barbara smiled. “We can’t sit down. But it was nice of you to think of telling me about this. After all, we get everything bid above the amount of the lien. If I had any use for a race horse, I’d try to do something about it. But we haven’t, have we, Latigo?”

The rangy young man shook his head. “No use for hosses at all.”

“We’ve got to get down to the broadcasting station now,” Babs went on gaily.

“Then you’re not going to bid on your own horse?” Miss Withers said blankly. The auctioneer was shouting that the horse was going, going, gone to Mrs. Thwaite for two hundred and eighty-five, so Miss Withers blurted out a hasty “Two-ninety.”

“Of course not!” Babs said. “Artists don’t need horses. You must listen in on us some Monday morning….”

“Listen in?” Miss Withers gasped.

Babs nodded proudly. “We—just us—are the Drygulch Duetizers—every Monday over WOOF. We’ll be at WJZ as soon as we pick just the right sponsor. Listen in. Our theme song is ‘Red River Valley.’”

“You know it,” Latigo reminded her. “It goes—‘Come an’ sit by my side if you love me, do not hasten to bid me adoooo …’”

“I know it—” began Miss Withers. Then, “Three hundred and ten dollars!” she shouted. “Good-bye, you two, and good luck!” she called after Latigo and Barbara.

“We got good luck!” Barbara sang back merrily, displaying her ring finger. There were two rings on it, one bearing a diamond chip as big as a minute, and the other a plain platinum band.

“It happens even to radio artists!” Miss Withers whispered complacently to the inspector. “At last I have my happy ending—at least,” she corrected, “I have a happy ending if you can advance me fifty dollars.” She pawed hastily in her purse. “I seem to be over my head already, Oscar.”

The inspector started so unexpectedly that Dempsey barked and tried to jump up on his lap.

“Good Lord,” Piper said, “I’ve only got ten dollars with me.”

“Give!” said Miss Withers desperately. Mrs. Thwaite, in accents bitter as gall, was bidding three hundred and twenty-five from her seat in the front row.

“Three twenty-six!” cried Miss Withers. She leaned toward her partner. “Oscar, do something! We can’t let that big beautiful horse go into the hands of that woman! She’ll make a hack of him—break his spirit and his heart. She’ll rent him out to every heavy-handed newcomer, bring out saddle sores on his back and ribs on his sleek sides! Oscar, we can’t let him go to her!”

The inspector shook his head. “Hildegarde, you’re plain nuts. But—” He hesitated and was lost. “Stall!” he counseled. “Raise her a dollar a crack while I promote some thing.” He dashed away.

Mrs. Thwaite was a little desperate. She raised the ante to the tune of three hundred and seventy and scowled as Miss Withers gave a plaintive “Three seventy-one!”

The inspector was on the telephone in the deserted office. “Spring 7-3100,” he called—the most famous telephone number in the world. “Gimme the top floor and hurry!” he rasped as Centre Street answered.

One minute and four seconds later the short waves went out over Manhattan Island…. “Calling car 69 … calling car 69…. Go to Thwaite Academy—West 65th Street—see officer in charge about a
Code 300
…. That is all!”

“That’s us!” yelped Officer Shay. He kicked at the starter while the sergeant took out his notebook. “Say, what’s a
Code 300
?”

“Riot call,” said Sergeant Greeley. The little flivver raced away from the curb. Two minutes later it screeched to a stop before the door of the Thwaite stables.

“I don’t see no riot!” complained Shay.

“Come on in anyway,” ordered the sergeant. The inspector was in the doorway gnawing at the wreckage of a cigar.

“How much money you boys got on you?” he demanded. “Gimme!”

They produced fourteen dollars and fifty-six cents. “Not enough,” Piper said sadly. “I should have sent for the Wall Street detail.”

“What’s the trouble?” Greeley wanted to know. The inspector told him.

“Hey!” said Shay. “That’s the dame who wouldn’t stand for us being bounced out to Brooklyn!”

“Yeah! That’s the dame that spoke a good word for us after we pinched her sorta unnecessarily!” agreed Greeley. He rubbed his jaw. “There ought to be something we could do….”

“Three hundred and ninety-five dollars!” cried Miss Withers desperately. She had just four hundred in her purse. “How much did you raise, Oscar?” He gave it to her.

“If that woman goes on—” said Miss Withers. Maude Thwaite was going on. She bid four hundred. She made it clear she’d bid double that for Siwash, if pressed.

“Four hundred and one!” Miss Withers offered. By this time the auctioneer suspected that something was up. He knew it for certain when two very large and husky officers in uniform came down and sat in the front row, one on either side of Mrs. Maude Thwaite.

“Four hundred and five!” cried Maude Thwaite, slashing at her boots for all she was worth.

Miss Withers bid four hundred and ten in a faint voice. It was almost every cent she had, counting contributions.

Everybody waited for Maude Thwaite to say four hundred and twenty-five, but she hesitated. In spite of herself she was listening to the conversation which Officers Shay and Greeley were exchanging over her head. She listened and suddenly froze.

“A lerzy stable!” Greeley was saying.

“It sure is. We got to get hold of the Board of Health! Just
smell
the place!” agreed Shay.

“And look at the hay around here! Boy, what a fire hazard! Violation of Ordinances Five, Seventy-six and Five ninety-nine of section four!” Greeley announced.

“In a residential district, too,” Shay said. “And how they treat their horses…. Boy, what a case the S.P.C.A. boys have got here!”

“Four—” began Mrs. Thwaite. Her voice died away to a low croak.

“Four hundred and ten dollars I’m bid—four-ten once, four-ten twice …” The auctioneer looked at Mrs. Thwaite, hesitating….

“If she bids four twenty-five I’m frozen out,” Miss Withers gasped.

“It’s a cinch there’s traces of hoof and mouth disease in this place,” Sergeant Greeley suddenly said in an unnecessarily loud voice. If Maude Thwaite meant to bid anything she changed her mind.

“Sold! To the lady in the funny—I mean, in the green hat, for four hundred ten dollars!”

The two radio officers got up. “Nice place, eh?” observed Sergeant Greeley pleasantly. Maude Thwaite said nothing at all, but she quietly and calmly broke her silver-mounted riding crop over one knee.

“You could eat offen the floor,” agreed Officer Shay. “Shall we scram?” Greeley offered his arm and Shay took it with a bow.

They gave a wide salute to Miss Withers and hurried toward the door before she could find the proper words to thank them.

“The nag is yours,” said Inspector Oscar Piper. “And now would you mind telling me what in the world you’re going to do with a big red pet of a race horse? You can’t race him, and you don’t want to ride him, do you?”

“Heaven forbid!” said Miss Hildegarde Withers. “I’ve got a better idea than that.” She told the inspector what it was. At first he said it was impossible, and then he said he’d never heard of anybody giving the department a gift like that, but perhaps—

Anyway, before the first red and yellow leaves came tumbling down that autumn, Miss Hildegarde Withers let a bouncing little wire-haired terrier lead her into the stretches of Central Park where she stopped for a while to watch Officer Casey posting to the swift and even trot of a new mount.

Faster than any saddle horse on the bridle path, doomed to a life filled with blood-stirring workouts, pleasant comradeship with men in uniform, and much-proffered sugar and carrots from kind old ladies, Siwash had settled well into the pleasant routine of a happier world. Already as a result of much good departmental oats his stomach had lost something of its extreme leanness, but he still bent his neck to leave a wet mark on the boot of the mounted officer who bestrode him and ran sideways at the breakaway.

Officer Casey saluted as he went rocketing past the angular schoolteacher and the small barking dog. There was a tiny brass plate on the cantle of his saddle bearing the inscription “
Siwash,
presented to the department by Miss Hildegarde Martha Withers, Honorary Life Member, Patrolmen’s Benefit Association.”

Miss Withers couldn’t read the inscription, but she knew it by heart. “After all,” she said to the inspector as she dropped into his office at Centre Street later that afternoon, “what better use could I have made of money that wasn’t, strictly speaking, my own?”

Inspector Oscar Piper was busily rearranging the grim murder exhibits which filled the cabinets of his office. He pushed a sash-weight farther toward the wall, moved aside a garnet hat-pin which had once been Miss Withers’s own property.

There was just room enough for an odd weapon, rusty but unstained with blood, which had been contrived out of a horseshoe and a hoe. Beside it was a man’s sock and a toy air pistol.

The inspector nodded absent-mindedly. From a drawer of his desk he took an envelope containing a briar pipe. “Wish I knew what to do with this,” he observed to Miss Withers. “And I thought it was going to be Exhibit Number One!” He dropped it on the table.

Miss Withers shook her head sadly. “Anyway, the case seems to be successfully closed without that clue,” she observed. “I received this in the mail today….”

She showed the inspector a square official envelope. It contained a blue ticket and a terse invitation under a date line of “Ossining, New York.”