The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (20 page)

The
colored
boy
had
pulled
out
all
the
drawers
on
the
left
side
of
the
big
wardrobe,
but
the
full-length
door
on
the
right
eluded
him.
George,
with
keys
and
screwdriver,
fought
at
the
tightly
wedged
door,
mumbling.
Mr.
Hamish
whispered
again
to
his
secretary,
who
immediately
raised
her
hand.
“Don’t
bother,
please.
All
Mr.
Hamish
wants
is
the
wood,
and
it
mustn’t
be
scratched.”

“That
will
do
then,
George.
You
may
relax.
Now,
ladies
and
gentlemen,
do
I
hear
fifty
dollars?
Thirty
dollars
once,
thirty
dollars
twice
…
”

He
raised
his
hammer
hastily,
but
before
it
could
fall
there
was
the
screech
of
metal
as
something
gave
way
under
the
pressure
of
the
screwdriver
in
the
hands
of
the
persevering
colored
boy.

Time
stood
still
for
a
second
or
a
century,
and
the
room
was
so
silent
that
in
the
back
row
Miss
Hildegarde
Withers
could
hear
the
tick
of
the
old-fashioned
watch
pinned
to
her
bosom.

The
wardrobe
door
was
wide
open,
disclosing
the
large
cavity
within.
No
—
not
a
cavity,
for
slowly
and
with
infinite
weariness
the
plump
body
of
a
man,
his
face
a
dreadful
blackish
purple,
came
sliding
out.
Stiff
and
wooden,
it
sprawled
and
bumped
down
the
steps
of
the
auction
platform
and
slid
to
a
contorted
rest
against
the
ankles
of
the
people
in
the
front
row.

Like
heat
lightning
on
a
summer
night
were
the
flares
of
the
official
photographers,
and
the
heavy,
resolute
tread
of
detectives
echoed
dully
in
the
empty
auction
hall.
There
were
louder
echoes
from
the
galleries’
offices
at
the
rear,
into
which
the
crowd
had
been
herded
without
ceremony.

“For
no
reason!”
Auctioneer
Varden
was
complaining.
“These
people
can’t
be
involved
in
any
way,
because
whoever
put
the
body
into
that
wardrobe
must
have
done
it
when
it
was
downstairs
in
the
showrooms
during
the
week
.
…
”

“Louis
Hamish,
Hotel
Elleston,”
wrote
down
the
placid
sergeant
in
charge,
who
was
going
through
the
crowd
with
his
notebook.

“Bianca
Riley,
25
Barrow
Street,”
said
the
pretty
secretary.
Every
moment
or
so
she
looked
down
at
the
tiny
jeweled
watch
on
her
wrist.

“The
young
man
will
wait,”
said
a
comforting
voice
beside
her,
and
the
girl
looked
up
into
the
friendly,
equine
visage
of
a
middle-aged
spinster.

Bianca
smiled
in
spite
of
herself.
“I
—
I’m
afraid
not.
His
train
—
the
train
is
due
in
just
four
minutes.”

“All
right,
folks,”
the
police
sergeant
announced.
“The
Inspector
will
see
you
now.
One
at
a
time
into
the
next
room
.
…
”

The
name
on
the
glass
of
the
door
was
“Joel
Klaus,
Manager”
but
at
the
wide
polished
desk
of
Mr.
Klaus
sat
Oscar
Piper,
a
large
unlighted
cigar
in
his
mouth
and
a
stern
expression
on
his
face.
He
whirled
to
face
his
first
victim,
and
then
the
cigar
dropped.
“Hildegarde!”

“Yes,
Oscar,”
said
Miss
Withers.
The
two
old
sparring-partners
faced
each
other
warily.
“Was
the
dead
man
a
Doctor
Brotherly?”

He
nodded.
“Doctor
Carl
Brotherly,
collector.
Identified
by
staff
of
the
galleries
as
regular
customer.
Married,
lives
at
33
Denton
Place.”

“I
know,”
Miss
Withers
said.
“I
was
over
t
here
this
afternoon.
Mrs.
Broth
erly
retained
me
to
find
her
husband.
He’d
been
missing
three
days,
but
called
up
in
the
morning
and
left
a
message
telling
her
not
to
worry.

“Her
brother,
who
lives
with
them,
insisted
that
she
shouldn’t
call
the
police.
She
didn’t
want
to,
either,
because
it
appears
that
Brotherly
took
her
pearls
to
be
strung
when
he
left
home
.
…
”

There
was
a
knock
on
the
hall
door,
and
the
Inspector
spoke
briefly
to
a
Headquarters
detective.
Then
he
faced
Miss
Withers
again.
“Doc
Bloom’s
been
here,”
he
announced.
“Says
Brotherly
died
of
strangulation
by
the
silk
scarf
that
was
around
his
neck.
What’s
more,
he
died
at
least
forty-eight
hours
ago!
So
there’s
no
use
holding
those
people
in
there.”
He
gave
orders
to
the
sergeant.