The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (15 page)

“I’m
an
expert
locksmith,”
Miss
Withers
told
him.
“I’ve
spent
three
hours
learning
something
about
poisons
from
Max
Van
Donnen,
who
has
forgotten
more
than
the
Medical
Examiner
ever
knew!
He
says
you
can’t
swallow
a
lethal
dose
of
cyanide
without
dying
before
it
gets
to
the
stomach
—
unless
it
’
s
in
a
capsule
.”

“You’re
not
still
hopped
up
about
the
Thorens
suicide?”
The
Inspector
was
very
amused.
“Why,
that’s
the
clearest,
open
and
shut
case
…
”

“Oscar,
did
you
ever
hear
of
a
murder
without
the
ghost
of
a
motive?”

He
shook
his
head.
“Doesn’t
exist,”
he
told
her.
She
nodded
slowly.
“See
you
later,”
she
said.

Miss
Withers
rode
uptown
on
the
subway,
crossed
over
to
Times
Square,
and
came
into
the
offices
of
Arthur
Reese,
Music
Publisher.

The
red-headed
Miss
Kelly
looked
up
with
a
bright
smile.
“Mr.
Reese
is
very
busy
just
now,”
she
said.
Miss
Withers
took
a
chair,
and
stared
around
the
long
office.
It
was
a
scene
of
redoubled
activity
since
her
last
visit,
with
vaudevillians,
song-pluggers,
office
boys
and
radio
artists
rushing
hither
and
yon.
On
the
wall
opposite
her
was
an
enlargement
in
colors
of
the
cover
of
the
new
song,
May
Day
—
by
Art
Reese
.
On
every
desk
and
table
were
stacks
of
copies
of
the
new
song,
May
Day
.

“So
Mr.
Reese
is
a
composer
as
well
as
a
publisher?”
Miss
Withers
asked
conversationally.

Miss
Kelly
was
in
a
friendly
mood.
“Oh,
yes!
You
know,
he
wrote
that
big
hit,
Sunny
Jim,
which
is
how
he
got
started
in
the
music
business.
Of
course,
that
was
before
I
came
here
.
…
”

“When
was
it?”
asked
Miss
Withers.

“Two
years
ago,
at
least.
But
May
Day
is
going
to
be
a
bigger
hit
than
any
of
them.
It’s
going
to
be
the
sensation
of
the
season.
All
the
crooners
want
it,
and
the
contracts
for
records
are
being
signed
this
week.”

Miss
Withers
nodded.
“There’s
a
lot
of
money
in
writing
a
song,
isn’t
there?”

“A
hit
—
oh,
yes.
Berlin
made
a
quarter
of
a
million
out
of
Russian
Lullaby.
”
Miss
Kelly
had
to
raise
her
voice,
as
a
dozen
pianos
in
a
dozen
booths
were
clashing
out
lilting,
catchy
music.
A
door
opened
somewhere,
and
Miss
Withers
heard
a
sister
team
warbling
soft,
close-harmony
…
“I
met
you
on
a
May
Day,
a
wonderful
okay
day,
and
that
was
my
hey-hey
day
…
a
day
I
can’t
forget
.
…
”

“It’s
published
the
first
of
May,”
Miss
Kelly
went
on
chattily.
“And
that’s
why
Mr.
Reese
is
so
busy.
He’s
got
to
go
out
of
town
this
afternoon,
and
I’m
afraid
he
won’t
be
able
to
see
you
today
without
an
appointment.”

“Eh?”
Miss
Withers
started.
“Yes,
of
course.
No,
he
won’t.
I
mean
…
I
mean
…
”
She
rose
suddenly
to
her
feet,
humming
the
lilting
music
of
May
Day
.
It
was
familiar,
hauntingly
familiar.
Of
course,
she
had
read
of
how
popular
tunes
were
stolen.
And
yet
—
suddenly
the
mists
cleared
and
she
knew.
Knew
where
she
had
heard
those
first
few
bars
of
music
—
knew
what
the
meaning
of
it
all
must
be
—
knew
the
answer
to
the
riddle.
She
turned
and
walked
swiftly
from
the
room.

She
rode
down
in
the
elevator
somehow,
and
stumbled
out
of
it
into
the
main
hall.
There
she
stopped
short.
She
could
waste
no
energy
in
walking.
Every
ounce
of
her
strength
was
needed
to
think
with.
The
whole
puzzle
was
assembling
itself
in
her
mind
—
all
the
hundred
odd
and
varied
bits
flying
into
place.
Everything
—

She
stood
there
for
a
long
time,
wondering
what
to
do.
Should
she
do
anything?
Wasn’t
it
better
to
let
well
enough
alone?
Nobody
would
believe
her,
not
even
Oscar
Piper.
Certainly
not
Oscar
Piper.

She
stood
there
until
one
o’clock
struck,
and
the
hall
was
filled
with
luncheon-bound
clerks
and
stenographers.
Her
head
was
aching
and
her
hands
were
icy-cold.
There
was
a
glitter
in
her
eyes,
and
her
nostrils
were
extraordinarily
wide.