The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (32 page)

“I
see,”
said
Miss
Withers,
who
didn’t
see
at
all.
All
she
could
think
of
was
the
damning
fact
that
Will
Alison
was
an
actor,
that
he
stood
just
enough
shorter
than
the
doctor
to
need
high
heels
to
match
Dr.
French’s
height,
that
only
one
person
could
have
dropped
that
tell-tale
cigarette
case
with
its
initials,
W-F-A
.
…

Miss
Withers
then
remembered
that
there
was
a
desk
in
the
library.
Hurrying
there,
she
found
Franzel
busily
engaged
in
going
through
the
drawers.

“You
needn’t
spy
on
me!”
he
hurled
at
her.
“I
don’t
know
anything
about
this.
Why
don’t
you
go
find
that
doctor
—
they
told
him
he
could
go,
but
he’s
still
hanging
around.
He
knows
…
”

“You
mean
you
suspect
Dr.
French?”
she
asked.

Franzel
backed
water.
“I
won’t
say
that
—
but
for
the
last
few
weeks
he’s
been
snooping
around.
He’s
got
wind
of
something,
but
he’s
close-mouthed.”

“Too
bad
you’re
not,”
murmured
Miss
Withers
softly,
as
the
young
man
brushed
past
her.
She
bent
over
the
desk
and
found
that
young
Franzel
had
been
engrossed
in
reading
his
deceased
uncle’s
insurance
policies.

Miss
Withers
emulated
him,
not
without
profit.
The
results
of
her
study
showed
that
Johan
Wurtz
had
carried
twenty-five
thousand
dollars
in
insurance.
“With
double
indemnity
in
case
of
accidental
or
sudden
death,”
she
noted.
All
policies
showed
Franzel
and
Maida
as
joint
beneficiaries.

She
hurried
upstairs,
and
finally
managed
to
get
the
Inspector
to
come
out
into
the
hall.
“Oscar,
listen
to
me!
Here’s
something
—
if
Wurtz
died
from
heart
failure
he’d
leave
$25,000
insurance,
but
if
he
died
from
sudden
or
accidental
death
—
including
murder,
I
assume
—
the
policies
would
be
doubled!”

“So
what?”
said
Piper
cheerily.

Miss
Withers
shrugged,
smiled
sadly,
and
started
out
on
a
new
line
of
endeavor.
Suddenly
she
heard
her
name
called
in
a
familiar
voice.
The
Inspector
was
eager
and
excited.

“Hildegarde!
Come
and
bring
your
notebook!”
She
hurried
down
the
hall
and
into
the
dead
man’s
bedroom.
Against
the
window
Will
Alison
was
standing,
looking
like
a
young
man
who
had
been
recently
in
hell
and
expected
to
return
there.

“Take
his
confession
in
long-hand,”
ordered
the
Inspector
jubilantly.
“He’s
decided
to
make
it
easy
for
himself,
haven’t
you
Alison?”

The
young
man
nodded
woodenly
and
spoke
in
a
rapid
sing-song.
“I,
William
Alison,
of
my
own
free
will
and
volition,
do
hereby
confess
to
the
murder
of
Johan
Wurtz,
alone
and
unaided
…
”

“Wait
a
minute,”
cut
in
Piper.
“Hildegarde,
you’re
not
taking
this
down!”

“Of
course
not,”
said
Miss
Withers
pettishly.
“It’s
stuff
and
nonsense.
This
boy
didn’t
kill
Wurtz,
either
alone
or
with
the
help
of
Maida.
I
can
prove
he
didn’t
do
it.
In
the
first
place
he
wouldn’t
have
made
his
getaway
via
the
back
stairs,
where
the
cigarette
case
was
dropped.
Not
when
there’s
a
neat
little
passage
cut
in
the
adjoining
walls
between
Maida’s
bedroom
and
his
own!”

“What?”

“I
just
went
through
it,
and
spent
some
time
in
the
Alison
house
next
door,”
said
Miss
Withers
calmly.
“It
was
a
very
convenient
idea,
as
well
as
a
romantic
one.
But
love
is
no
crime,
Oscar.
We
must
look
elsewhere
for
our
murderer
…
”
She
heard
the
faintest
of
noises
.
…

Miss
Withers’
voice
trailed
away.
“Unless
I
am
very
much
mistaken,”
she
said
in
a
whisper,
“we
may
look
for
our
murderer
just
outside
the
door
of
this
room!”

“Franzel,
eh?”
Piper
understood
at
once.
With
one
long
stride
he
was
at
the
door,
the
sergeant
close
behind.

No
one
was
in
the
hall
but
Dr.
Peter
French,
who
was
walking
quickly
away.

“Wait
a
minute!”
roared
Piper,
but
the
doctor
couldn’t
wait.
He
turned
and
sprinted
up
the
stairs
to
the
fourth
floor,
and
they
heard
him
pounding
across
the
housekeeper’s
room.

“After
him!”
shouted
the
Inspector.
“To
the
back
door
—
quick!”
There
was
much
hubbub
in
the
halls,
with
detectives
swarming
up
from
the
ground
floor,
shouting
in
the
corridor
…