The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (27 page)

A
fat
woman
in
a
shapeless
wrapper
flung
the
door
wide,
and
Piper
was
somewhat
nettled
to
see
Miss
Hildegarde
Withers
sail
past
him.

“Upstairs!”
gargled
the
fat
woman.
They
ran
up
a
thickly-carpeted
stair,
turned,
and
burst
into
a
library
where
every
light
blazed.

It
was
a
long
and
narrow
room,
crammed
with
bookshelves,
tables,
and
massive
chairs.
The
tops
of
the
cases
and
almost
every
available
inch
of
table
space
had
been
given
over
to
tiny
statuettes
of
horses.
One
small
table
was
overturned
and
its
models
scattered
across
the
rich
yellow
rug.

A
man
lay
sprawled
in
the
shadows.

It
was
the
woman
who
spoke,
disjointedly.
“I
heard
the
noise
—
poor
Mister
Wurtz
—
dead
as
a
stone
he
is
…
”

Piper
faced
her.
“You
the
maid?”

“Housekeeper,”
she
said.
“Miss
Emmy
Marvin
is
me.”

Piper
knelt,
ignoring
the
spilled
statuettes.
The
body
was
dressed
in
long
underwear
beneath
a
silk
dressing
gown.
It
was
a
thin
old
body,
the
face
dark
and
puffy,
with
an
imperious
beak
of
a
nose.

The
Inspector
stood
up.
“Phone
for
a
doctor,
Hildegarde
—
he
isn’t
even
dead.”
Piper
motioned
to
the
housekeeper.
“Help
me
get
him
to
that
sofa
over
there.”

There
was
a
telephone
in
the
lower
hall,
above
it
a
card
with
a
list
of
phone
numbers.
One,
outlined
in
red
ink,
was
“Dr.
Peter
French.”
Miss
Withers
dialed
the
number.

Dr.
French’s
voice
was
sleepy,
but
it
changed
at
once
to
a
reassuring
professional
crispness.
“Be
there
in
ten
minutes,”
he
said.
“Meanwhile,
I
want
you
to
dig
out
what
we
call
a
‘capsule,’
a
silk-covered
glass
vial
from
Mr.
Wurtz’
vest
pocket,
and
break
it
under
his
nose.
It
should
revive
him.”

Miss
Withers
hurried
up
the
stairs,
wondering
where
the
sick
man’s
bedroom
might
be.
After
discovering
that
the
only
other
room
on
the
second
floor
was
the
dining-room,
she
hurried
on
up
to
the
third.

She
burst
into
the
first
door
she
found,
and
fumbled
until
she
found
the
light
switch.
Then
as
the
room
was
flooded
with
brilliance,
she
stood
stock-still
and
gaped.

In
the
middle
of
a
large
four-poster
bed
a
young
man
hurriedly
sat
up,
clutching
the
covers
around
him.
His
wispy
red
hair
hung
over
his
forehead.

“Wha-wha
—
”
he
gurgled.

He
turned,
and
with
one
arm
fumbled
beneath
the
pillow.
But
Miss
Withers
backed
swiftly
out
through
the
door,
without
further
delay.
Oddly
enough,
that
young
man
was
wearing
a
white
shirt
and
a
black
bow
tie.

The
next
bedroom
was
far
down
the
hall.
She
entered
a
delicately
feminine
bedroom,
all
white
and
gold.
Bits
of
silk
and
lace
were
scattered
everywhere,
but
the
bed
was
empty.

There
was
one
other
door
in
the
hall,
beside
the
bathroom
which
stood
open.

This
last
was
a
square
cell-like
chamber
with
a
hard-looking
bed,
a
small
chest
of
drawers,
and
no
decoration
except
a
pair
of
pied
majolica
stallions
who
reared
at
each
other
on
the
bedside
table.

There
was
a
worn
brown
suit
on
a
chair
back,
and
in
a
pocket
Miss
Withers
discovered
the
tiny
tube
for
which
she
was
searching.
As
she
drew
it
from
the
pocket
a
voice
spoke
behind
her.

“Stick
up
your
hands!”

She
whirled
to
face
a
bedraggled,
sandy-haired
young
man
whose
lower
lip
trembled
with
excitement.
His
hand
held
a
very
ugly-looking
automatic
pistol.

“Stuff
and
nonsense!”
snapped
Miss
Withers.
“Let
me
take
this
capsule
down
to
the
sick
man
in
the
library
…
”

“Huh?”

“Mr.
Wurtz
has
had
an
attack!”
she
advised
him.
“If
you
know
what’s
good
for
you,
young
man
…
”

She
advanced
toward
the
door,
hoping
that
she
showed
none
of
her
inner
panic.

“Wurtz?”
echoed
the
young
man.
“My
uncle?”
He
looked
amazed.

The
young
man
stood
back
out
of
the
way.
“It
isn’t
loaded,
anyway,”
he
told
her
with
a
faint
grin.
“See?”
He
pointed
the
gun
at
the
ceiling
and
pulled
the
trigger.
Then
he
dropped
his
jaw
in
surprise
as
the
room
echoed
to
a
resounding
explosion.