The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (14 page)

“I
won’t
be
a
minute,”
promised
Mrs.
Blenkinsop.
She
hastened
out
of
the
door.
Miss
Withers
made
a
hurried
search
of
bureau
drawers,
of
the
little
desk,
the
music
on
the
piano
…
and
found
nothing
that
gave
her
an
inkling.
There
were
reams
of
music
paper,
five
or
six
rejected
songs
in
manuscript
form
…
that
was
the
total.
The
room
had
no
character.

Miss
Withers
sat
down
at
the
piano
and
struck
a
chord.
If
only
this
instrument,
Margie’s
one
outlet
in
the
big
city,
could
speak!
There
was
a
secret
here
somewhere
…
for
the
understanding
eye
and
heart
to
discover.
Miss
Withers
let
her
fingers
ramble
over
the
keys,
in
the
few
simple
chords
she
knew.
And
then
the
canary
burst
into
song!

“Dickie!”
said
the
school
teacher.
“You
surprise
me.”
All
canaries
are
named
Dickie,
and
none
of
them
know
it.
The
bird
sang
on,
improvising,
trilling,
swinging
gaily
by
its
tiny
talons
from
the
bottom
of
its
trapeze.
Miss
Withers
realized
that
there
was
a
rare
singer
indeed.
Her
appreciation
was
shared
by
Pussy,
who
dug
shining
claws
into
the
cover
of
the
bed
and
narrowed
his
amber
eyes.
The
song
went
on
and
on
.
…

Miss
Withers
thought
of
something.
She
had
once
read
that
the
key
to
a
person’s
character
lies
in
the
litter
which
accumulates
beneath
the
paper
in
his
bureau
drawers.
She
hurried
back
to
the
bureau,
and
explored
again.
She
found
two
dance
programs,
a
stub
of
pencil,
pins,
a
button,
and
a
smashed
cigarette,
beneath
the
lining.

She
was
about
to
replace
the
paper
when
she
heard
someone
ascending
the
stairs.
That
would
be
Mrs.
Blenkinsop.
Hastily
she
jammed
the
wearing
apparel
back
in
the
drawer,
and
thrust
the
folded
newspaper
which
had
lined
it
into
her
handbag.
When
the
door
opened
she
was
talking
to
the
still
twittering
canary.

She
took
her
departure
as
soon
as
she
could,
leaving
Mrs.
Blenkinsop
completely
in
the
dark
as
to
the
reasons
for
her
call.
“I
hope
you’re
not
from
a
tabloid,”
said
the
landlady.
“I
don’t
want
my
house
to
get
a
bad
name
.
…
”

Down
the
street
Miss
Withers
paused
to
take
the
bulky
folded
newspaper
from
her
bag.
But
she
didn’t
throw
it
away.
It
was
a
feature
story
clipped
from
the
“scandal
sheet”
of
a
Sunday
paper
—
a
story
which
dealt
with
the
secrets
behind
some
of
America’s
song
hits,
how
they
were
adapted
from
classics,
revamped
every
ten
years
and
put
out
under
new
names,
together
with
photographs
of
famous
song
writers.

But
the
subject
of
the
story
was
not
what
attracted
Miss
Withers’
eagle
eye.
Across
the
top
margin
of
the
paper
a
rubber
stamp
had
placed
the
legend
—
“With
the
compliments
of
the
Hotel
Rex
—
America’s
Riviera
—
Boardwalk.”

“
Dr
.
Bloom?
This
is
Hildegarde
Withers
.
Yes
,
Withers.
I
have
a
very
delicate
question
to
ask
you
,
doctor.
In
making
your
autopsy
of
the
Thorens
girl
’
s
body
,
did
you
happen
to
notice
whether
or
not
she
was
—
er,
enceinte?
It
is
very
important
,
doctor
,
or
I
wouldn
’
t
bother
you.
If
you
say
yes,
it
will
turn
suicide
into
murder
.”

“
I
say
no
,
”
said
crusty
Dr.
Bloom.
“
I
did
and
she
wasn
’
t.”
And
that
was
the
highest
stone
wall
of
all
for
Hildegarde
Withers.

“Where
in
heaven’s
name
have
you
been
hiding
yourself?”
inquired
the
Inspector
when
Miss
Withers
entered
his
office
on
Friday
of
that
week
after
the
death
of
Margie
Thorens.

“I’ve
been
cutting
classes,”
she
said
calmly.
“A
substitute
is
enduring
my
troop
of
hellions,
and
I’m
doing
scientific
research.”

“Yeah?
And
in
what
direction?”
The
Inspector
was
in
a
jovial
mood,
due
to
the
fact
that
both
his
Commissioner
and
the
leading
gangster
of
the
city
were
out
of
town
—
not
together,
but
still
far
enough
out
of
town
to
insure
relative
peace
and
quiet
to
New
York
City.