The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (21 page)

“With
Brotherly
dying
two
days
ago,
it
certainly
knocks
the
skids
from
under
your
story
about
the
telephone
call
.
…
”

“Does
it,
Oscar?”
Miss
Withers
tapped
a
pencil
against
her
teeth.
“On
the
contrary,
I
should
say
that
it
makes
it
much
more
interesting.”

“I’ve
got
something
interesting,
too,”
Piper
told
her.
“Something
we
found
while
searching
the
body,
tucked
inside
his
shirt.”

“Not
the
string
of
pearls?”

“No,
nothing
like
that.
It
was
this.”
And
the
Inspector
produced
a
photograph,
enlarged
to
post-card
size,
of
a
fingerprint.
It
showed
signs
of
having
been
crumpled,
then
straightened.

The
schoolteacher
frowned.
“But
—
he
was
a
rich
collector
of
art
objects,
not
a
detective!”

“This
is
no
police
print,”
Piper
told
her.
“Amateur
photo.
My
guess
is
that
somebody
stole
something
out
of
Brotherly’s
collection
and
he
was
trying
to
solve
the
case
himself
from
a
print
they
left.
Anyway,
we’ll
check
it
soon
enough.”

They
came
out
into
the
hall,
stood
aside
to
let
white
uniformed
men
go
by
with
their
big
wicker
basket
destined
for
the
Morgue.
“Which
means
that
I’ve
got
to
dig
up
the
next
of
kin
and
take
them
down
to
give
formal
identification.
Want
to
tag
along,
Hildegarde?”

Miss
Withers
would
forego
the
pleasure.
She
passed
down
the
stairs
and
out
of
the
place.
Somehow
her
case
was
slipping
out
of
her
fingers
—
her
first
real
private
case.

She
turned
westward
at
the
corner,
leaving
Madison
Avenue
and
its
crowd
of
curious
spectators.
Fifty-second
Street
was
dark,
deserted
except
for
an
empty
sedan
of
great
age
and
equally
great
prestige
which
waited
against
the
curb.
Deserted
—
and
as
Miss
Withers
immediately
noticed,
unlocked.
That
in
itself
was
odd,
and
Miss
Withers
was
interested
in
odd
things.
She
peered
inside
.
…

Then,
to
her
amazement,
she
heard
somebody
signaling
her,
in
a
low
whistle.
Looking
all
around,
she
saw
nothing
but
office
buildings
on
the
corner,
the
long
deserted
street
of
apartments.

The
whistle
came
again,
and
an
urgent
cry,
“Bianca!”

Then
she
looked
up,
and
caught
a
momentary
glimpse
of
a
face
at
a
high
window.
As
she
stared,
there
came
swiftly
down
to
her
a
dark
object
tied
to
a
cord,
as
a
spider
drops
from
its
web.

Miss
Withers
caught
it
blankly,
felt
the
loosened
string
descend
after
it.
She
was
holding
a
faded,
nondescript
painting
not
ten
inches
square!

Before
she
could
make
any
decision
about
what
to
do
with
this
manna
sent
from
Heaven,
the
thing
was
taken
from
her
grasp.
It
was
the
secretary,
Bianca
Riley,
and
she
was
very
out
of
breath
from
running.
“Oh,
thank
you!”
cried
the
girl.
“I
should
have
been
here,
but
I
simply
had
to
try
to
make
a
telephone
call.
How
in
the
world
—
”

“Just
what
is
this?”
Miss
Withers
demanded.
“Second-story
job?”

The
Riley
girl
was
amused.
“Of
course
not!
That’s
the
rear
window
of
the
auction
rooms
up
there!
The
police
wouldn’t
let
us
take
away
even
the
small
articles
Mr.
Hamish
purchased
at
the
sale
tonight,
so
we
just
had
to
do
something.
Isn’t
red
tape
stupid?
You
see,
Mr.
Hamish
simply
insists
on
personally
taking
away
what
he
buys
.
…
”

“He
seems
an
opinionated
gentleman,
this
employer
of
yours.”

Bianca,
clutching
the
picture
to
her
heart,
said,
“He’s
the
wisest,
kindest
man
in
the
world.
No
matter
what
anybody
says.”

“Even
if
he
keeps
you
working
after
hours
when
you’re
expecting
a
young
man
on
the
train?”
But
the
meddlesome
schoolteacher
did
not
get
an
answer
to
this,
for
there
were
footsteps
behind
her.
They
were
joined
by
a
tall,
weary
man
with
an
eagle
face.

He
looked
at
the
schoolteacher,
seemed
to
take
in
the
situation
without
batting
an
eye.
“Oh,
good
evening.
You’ll
excuse
us
—
”
And
as
he
motioned,
Bianca
Riley
slid
behind
the
wheel
of
the
car.

Hamish
started
to
get
into
the
car.
“Drive
on,
Bianca,”
he
ordered.