The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (26 page)

She
didn’t
need
to
go
on.
Hamish’s
eagle-face
was
sleepy
no
longer.
He
turned
on
the
stool,
and
there
was
a
gun
in
his
hand.

“I
was
afraid
that
I
didn’t
make
the
story
stick,”
he
admitted.
“But
it
was
worth
trying.
Don’t
move,
Inspector.
I’m
a
fair
shot.”
He
took
the
picture
from
the
easel,
tucked
it
under
his
arm.

“Just
sit
tight,”
he
said
evenly.
“I
only
want
to
exit.
Want
to
come,
Bianca?”

She
looked
at
him
as
she
might
have
at
a
lizard.
“I
thought
you
were
innocent!”
she
cried.

He
shrugged.
“Sorry
to
disillusion
you.”
Hamish
stopped.

“Dear
me,
but
this
is
a
situation,”
Hamish
paused
to
say.
“I
need
at
least
ten
minutes,
and
somehow
I
don’t
think
you’ll
be
sporting
enough
to
give
me
a
head
start.
Perhaps
I
ought
to
shoot
one
of
you,
so
you’ll
be
busy
calling
a
m
bulances?”

“You
can’t
get
by
with
this,
Hamish!”
Piper
exploded.

“Yes?
And
why?”

“Ask
the
man
who
stands
in
the
doorway
behind
you!”

Louis
Hamish
didn’t
bat
an
eye,
the
gun
kept
steady.
“An
old
trick,
quite
unworthy
of
you,
Inspector.”
He
took
another
step
back
…

He
had
stepped
into
the
arms
of
a
tall
young
man
in
uniform,
who
held
him
neatly
while
the
inspector
swung
a
cruelly
efficient
fist
to
the
pit
of
his
stomach.
And
then
it
was
over;
handcuffs
changed
hands.

“I
had
to
come
back,
Bee,”
Johnny
Robbins
was
saying,
“to
tell
you
I
was
sorry
for
saying
…
”
She
seemed
to
be
sorry,
too,
and
glad.

“What
I
want
to
know
is,”
Piper
demanded
of
the
schoolteacher,
“where
you
got
those
shoes!
Without
them
we’d
be
nowhere.”

“Exactly,
Oscar.”
Miss
Withers
picked
up
the
painting
from
the
floor,
dusted
it
off,
and
replaced
it
on
the
easel.
“But
I
have
a
confession
to
make.
The
shoes
aren’t
Hamish’s
and
they
haven’t
any
glass
splinters
in
them.
I
bought
them
at
the
shoe
shop
on
the
corner,
but
they
served
just
as
well.”

The
expression
on
the
face
of
Mr.
Louis
Hamish,
as
the
schoolteacher
said
later,
was
worth
the
whole
trouble
of
the
case.
It
was
really
too
bad
that
Bianca
Riley
and
her
soldier
weren’t
noticing
anything
at
the
moment.

The
End

“
A
ND
people
think
they
must
go
to
the
country
to
find
peace
and
quiet!”
Inspector
Oscar
Piper
gestured
toward
the
lonely
curves
of
Riverside
Drive,
glistening
wet
under
the
street
lamps.

It
was
well
after
midnight,
an
unwonted
hour
for
both
the
grizzled
Inspector
and
the
angular
school
teacher
who
was
his
best
friend
and
severest
critic.
But
Miss
Hildegarde
Withers
had
finally
persuaded
him
to
attend
a
performance
of
chamber
music,
for
the
good
of
his
soul,
and
it
had
continued
late.

“Manhattan
is
never
really
quiet
or
peaceful,
Oscar,”
Miss
Withers
told
him.
“Sometimes
it
is
hushed
—
but
only
with
the
hush
that
comes
just
before
the
crescendo
movement
of
a
Wagnerian
opera.”

Suddenly
a
light
flashed
on
in
the
second
story
window
of
a
sober
brownstone
house.

“There,
Oscar!”
said
the
school
teacher.
“If
we
only
knew
what
scene
is
being
played
in
that
lighted
room
above
us!
Perhaps
it
is
a
lovers’
meeting,
or
a
bitter
quarrel.
Perhaps
an
assassin
waits
…
”

The
Inspector
snorted.

“I
can
imagine
what’s
going
on
in
that
house
because
I
know
the
place
and
the
old
codger
who
lives
there.
Johan
Wurtz
is
the
name
—
retired
brewer.
A
hundred
to
one
that
he
got
up
to
take
some
bicarbonate
of
soda
.
…
”

The
Inspector
was
rudely
interrupted
by
a
shrill
trumpet-like
scream
which
exploded
from
a
window
above
them.

“Help!
Police!
Poli-i-i-i-ice!”
It
was
a
woman’s
voice
—
a
woman
who
leaned
from
the
second
story
window.

The
Inspector
spat
out
his
cigar
and
made
a
dive
for
the
door
of
the
brownstone
house.

He
leaned
on
the
bell,
and
when
the
door
opened
he
flashed
his
badge.
“What’s
going
on
here?”