The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (13 page)

On
Tuesday,
the
fourth
day
after
the
death
of
Margie
Thorens,
Miss
Withers
telephoned
to
Inspector
Piper,
demanding
further
information.
“Ask
Max
Van
Donnen
how
long
the
girl
could
have
lived
after
taking
the
poison,
will
you?”

But
the
old
German
laboratory
expert
had
not
analyzed
the
remains,
said
Piper.
Dr.
Bloom
had
summarized
the
findings
of
the
autopsy
—
and
Margie
Thorens
had
died
an
instant
death.
In
her
vital
organs
was
a
full
grain
of
cyanide
of
potassium,
one
of
the
quickest
known
poisons.

“She
couldn’t
have
taken
the
poison
and
then
written
the
note?”
asked
Miss
Withers.

“I
mpossible,”
said
the
Inspector.
“But
what
in
the
name
of—”

Miss
Withers
had
hung
up.
Again
she
had
struck
a
stone
wall.
But
too
many
stone
walls
were
in
themselves
proof
that
something
was
a
little
wrong
in
this
whole
business.

That
afternoon
Miss
Withers
called
upon
a
Mrs.
Blenkinsop,
the
landlady
who
operated
the
rooming
house
in
which
Margie
Thorens
had
lived.
She
found
that
lady
fat,
dingy,
and
sympathetic.

“I
read
in
the
papers
that
the
poor
darling
is
to
be
sent
home
to
her
aunt
in
Albany,
and
that
her
class
is
to
be
let
out
of
high
school
to
be
honorary
pallbearers,”
said
Mrs.
Blenkinsop.
“Such
a
quiet
one
she
was,
the
poor
child.
But
it’s
them
that
runs
deep.”

Miss
Withers
agreed
to
this.

“Do
you
suppose
I
could
see
her
rooms?”

“Of
course,”
agreed
the
landlady.
“Everything
is
just
as
she
left
it,
because
her
rent
was
paid
till
the
end
of
April,
and
that’s
a
week
yet.”
She
led
the
way
up
a
flight
of
stairs.
“You
know,
the
strangest
thing
about
the
whole
business
was
her
going
off
and
making
no
provision
for
her
pets.
You
’d
a
thought
—
”

“Pets?”

The
landlady
threw
open
a
door.
“Yes’m.
A
fine
tortoise
shell
cat,
and
a
bird.
A
happy
family
if
ever
I
saw
one.
I
guess
Miss
Thorens
was
lonesome
here
in
the
city,
and
she
gave
all
her
love
to
them.
Feed
and
water
’em
I’ve
done
ever
since
I
heard
the
news
…
”
She
snapped
her
fat
fingers
as
they
came
into
a
dark,
bare
room
furnished
with
little
more
than
the
bare
necessities
of
life.
It
was
both
bedroom
and
sitting
room,
with
the
kitchenette
in
a
closet
and
a
bath
across
the
hall.
One
large
window
looked
out
upon
bare
rooftops.
One
glance
told
Miss
Withers
that
the
room
existed
only
for
the
rented
grand
piano
which
stood
near
the
window.

Mrs.
Blenkinsop
snapped
her
fingers
again,
and
a
rangy,
half-grown
cat
arose
from
the
bed
and
stretched
itself.
“Nice
Pussy,”
said
Mrs.
Blenkinsop.

Pussy
refused
to
be
patted,
and
as
soon
as
she
had
made
sure
that
neither
visitor
carried
food
she
returned
to
her
post
on
the
pillow.
Both
great
amber
eyes
were
staring
up
at
the
gilt
cage
which
hung
above
the
piano,
in
the
full
light
of
the
window.
Inside
the
cage
was
a
small
yellow
canary,
who
eyed
the
intruders
balefully
and
muttered,
“Cheep,
cheep.”

“I’ve
got
no
instructions
about
her
things,
poor
darling,”
said
the
landlady.
“I
suppose
they’ll
want
me
to
pack
what
few
clothes
she
had.
If
nobody
wants
Pussy,
I’ll
keep
her,
for
there’s
mice
in
the
basement.
I
don’t
know
what
to
do
with
the
bird,
for
I
hate
the
dratted
things.
I
got
a
radio,
anyhow
.
…
”

The
woman
ran
on
interminably.
Miss
Withers
listened
carefully,
but
she
soon
saw
that
Mrs.
Blenkinsop
knew
less
about
Margie
Thorens
than
she
did
herself.
The
woman
was
sure,
she
insisted,
that
Margie
had
never
had
men
callers
in
her
room.

More
than
anything,
Miss
Withers
wanted
to
look
around,
though
she
knew
the
police
had
done
a
routine
job
already.
She
wondered
if
she
must
descend
to
the
old
dodge
of
the
fainting
spell
and
the
request
for
a
glass
of
water,
but
she
was
saved
from
it
by
a
ring
at
the
bell
downstairs.