The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (30 page)

“Never
mind
showing
me
the
way
up,”
said
the
hoarse
voice.

Miss
Marvin
stared
after
him,
with
a
certain
surprise.
Dr.
French
was
wearing
heels
almost
as
high
as
a
woman’s
on
the
neat
brown
brogues
which
were
disappearing
up
the
staircase.

“Vanity!”
observed
Miss
Marvin
to
herself.
“Imagine
him
wanting
to
be
took
for
a
taller
man!”

She
went
quietly
on
with
her
labors,
which
for
the
moment
consisted
of
using
the
vacuum
on
the
hall
carpet.

The
doorbell
rang
again,
and
the
housekeeper
put
the
vacuum
aside
and
hurried
along
the
hall,
wiping
her
forehead.
She
flung
open
the
door,
and
gibbered
like
an
idiot.

There
on
the
step
stood
Dr.
Peter
French,
glasses,
plaid
coat,
and
all.
“Good
morning,
Marvin,”
he
said,
cheerfully,
before
he
saw
the
look
on
her
face.
His
voice
was
clear,
and
he
wore
no
muffler.

“Oh,
God!”
cried
Miss
Emmy
Marvin.
“I’m
—
I’m
crazy,
I
am!
Doctor,
I
tell
you
as
God
is
my
judge,
fifteen
minutes
ago
I
let
you
in
through
this
door
—
and
you
ain’t
gone
out
yet!”

The
soft
face
of
Dr.
Peter
French
hardened
suddenly,
and
his
arm
thrust
her
rudely
aside.
He
went
up
the
stair
in
four
great
strides,
turned,
and
raced
up
the
second
flight.

His
feet
pounded
in
the
hall
as
he
headed
for
the
door
of
Johan
Wurtz’
room.
A
door
crashed
open,
and
then
Dr.
French
stopped
short.

Johan
Wurtz
lay
in
his
narrow
bed
beside
the
two
pied
majolica
horses.
But
never
again
would
he
handle
their
pottery
figures,
for
around
his
thin
throat
had
been
tied
the
cord
of
his
dressing
gown,
so
tightly
that
the
silken
rope
was
almost
hidden
in
the
flesh.

Dr.
French
went
out
into
the
hall
to
meet
the
housekeeper,
who
was
puffing
up
the
stairs.
When
she
saw
his
face
she
screamed.

“Take
hold
of
yourself,”
he
snapped
at
her.
“Get
down
to
the
telephone
and
call
the
police
—
call
Inspector
Piper
at
Headquarters
and
tell
him
that
it’s
happened!”

“No,
we’ve
got
nothing
to
hold
you
for,”
Piper
told
Dr.
French
some
time
later.
The
doctor
was
pathetically
relieved.

“I’ll
wait
down
in
the
library
with
Maida,
if
I
may,”
he
suggested.
“We
—
we’re
engaged
to
be
married.”

“Okay,”
said
Piper.
The
house
swarmed
with
detectives,
but
Miss
Hildegarde
Withers
moved
quietly
to
and
fro
among
them,
on
mysterious
errands
of
her
own.

She
approached
the
Inspector.
“Oscar,
what
do
you
make
of
this?
I
found
it
in
the
bathroom
upstairs.”
She
showed
him
a
hand
towel,
stained
with
pinkish-brown.
“It’s
grease
paint.
Some
one
touched
up
his
makeup
in
the
bathroom
after
doing
in
the
old
man!”

“And
he
got
in
disguised
as
the
doctor!”
Piper
plunged
in.
“That
accounts
for
the
high
heels
Miss
Marvin
saw
him
wearing
—
and
the
hoarse
voice
…
”

Miss
Withers
nodded
slowly.
“Oscar,
do
you
happen
to
know
if
Mr.
Alison
next
door
happens
to
be
an
actor
by
profession?”

Piper
stared
at
her.
“We
can
find
out!”

“Boys,
get
Sergeant
Krim
here
right
away,”
roared
the
Inspector.

Finally
a
broad-shouldered
young
officer,
wearing
a
very
self-satisfied
smile,
came
into
the
dead
man’s
bedroom,
which
happened
to
be
the
place
Piper
had
chosen
for
a
headquarters.

“No
fingerprints
anywhere,”
said
Sergeant
Krim.
“But
I
did
find
this
on
the
rear
staircase
…
”

He
held
out
a
silver
cigarette
case.
It
bore
a
monogram,
and
the
initials
were
W-F-A.

“William
F.
Alison,”
said
the
Inspec
tor
slowly.
“Go
get
him,
Krim.”

“Huh?”

“Next
door,
sergeant.
He
lives
there.”
Piper
gestured
with
his
thumb.

“Okay,
Inspector.”
The
sergeant
hurried
away.

“He
made
his
getaway
down
the
rear
stair
just
as
the
real
doctor
came
in
the
front,”
Piper
decided.
“A
lot
of
nerve
the
guy
had,
but
of
course
he
knew
the
housekeeper
was
in
the
front
hall,
and
that
Maida
and
her
precious
brother
wouldn’t
be
awake
yet.
But
to
get
to
that
rear
stair
he
had
to
go
up
to
the
fourth
floor,
through
the
housekeeper’s
rooms,
and
down
—
because
the
rear
stair
doors
are
blocked
up
on
the
second
and
third
floors.”