The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (34 page)

“I
will,”
agreed
Miss
Withers,
“if
you’ll
tell
me
why
you
sleep
with
your
clothes
on.”

“It
saves
time
dressing
and
undressing,”
said
Franzel
solemnly.
“Besides,
I’m
afraid
I’d
had
a
few
drinks
…
”

“I’ll
send
you
a
physiology
text,
with
pictures
of
a
drunkard’s
liver
in
color,”
she
promised
him.
“Come,
Oscar
—
we
haven’t
had
breakfast
and
it’s
almost
tea
time.”

“I
am
hungry,”
he
admitted.
“I’m
so
hungry
I
could
eat
a
horse!”

Miss
Withers
held
out
to
him
a
single
carved
lump
of
bright
rose
quartz.
“Try
this?”
she
invited.

The
End

F
EW
and
far
between
were
the
passers-by
in
Manhattan’s
Fifty-seventh
Street
that
rainy
Saturday
afternoon,
but
still
not
few
enough
for
the
purpose
of
the
man
in
the
tan
raincoat.
He
loitered
until
the
glint
of
brass
buttons
had
disappeared
inside
the
cigar
store
on
the
corner,
and
then
pulled
his
hat
over
his
eyes
and
strolled
casually
toward
the
glittering
windows
of
Vanderbock
et
Cie.,
Jewelers,
founded
Paris
1890.

He
paused
there
briefly,
and
then
passed
hurriedly
on,
leaving
behind
him
one
neatly-wrapped
brick,
one
smashed
plate
glass
window,
and
no
diamonds.

As
the
burglar
alarms
let
go
with
a
nerve-paralyzing
clatter,
the
man
in
the
raincoat
ran
out
into
the
street
and
leaped
lightly
to
the
side
of
a
small
shiny
roadster
which
happened
to
be
rolling
conveniently
along
there,
driven
by
what
was
later
described
as
“a
blonde
dame
with
sun-glasses.”
The
roadster
picked
up
speed,
but
then
from
the
cigar
store
on
the
corner
rushed
a
uniformed
officer,
shouting
“Halt!”
and
fumbling
with
the
clutch
of
his
holster.
There
was
the
sharp
dry
slap
of
a
pistol
shot.
Brass
buttons
collapsed
on
the
wet
pavement,
and
with
a
screech
of
tortured
rubber
the
car
rounded
the
corner
and
disappeared
north
toward
the
park.

The
burglar
alarms
continued,
and
then
the
wail
of
sirens
swelled
the
ear-splitting
din.
A
radio
car
slammed
on
its
brakes
beside
the
crumpled
figure
in
the
gutter,
but
the
doctor
who
jumped
down
out
of
the
following
ambulance
shook
his
head
and
said
“Dead
on
arrival.”
Fifty-seventh
Street
drama
was
now
only
another
paragraph
on
the
police
teletype.

Humanity
appeared
in
considerable
numbers,
blocking
the
street
and
trampling
in
the
broken
glass
outside
the
jewelers’
window.
Precinct
detectives
were
very
busy,
and
then
stood
back
as
a
sharp-nosed
lieutenant
from
Uptown
robbery
detail
took
charge.
And
finally
nothing
less
than
a
big
black
limousine
from
Headquarters
appeared,
from
which
climbed
a
wiry,
gray
little
Irishman
with
a
gold
badge
cupped
in
his
right
hand.
The
murder
of
a
police
officer
in
the
line
of
duty
is
taken
very
seriously
by
the
force.

The
lieutenant,
who
had
been
staring
gloomily
into
the
looted
window,
now
turned
and
saluted.
“Grosskopf,
lieutenant
—
robbery
detail,”
he
introduced
himself.

“Inspector
Piper.
And
Sergeant
Mains,”
said
the
man
from
downtown,
waving
at
the
curly-headed
but
extremely
serious
youngster
who
had
driven
the
car.
“We’re
only
kibitzing,
lieutenant.
Go
right
ahead.”

“It’s
simple
smash-and-grab,”
the
lieutenant
said.
“Like
the
other
cases
we’ve
been
having.
Only
this
time
old
Sam
Bodley
had
to
get
blasted
as
they
were
making
their
getaway.”

“Some
day
these
jewelers
will
learn
to
use
safety
glass,”
Piper
observed.
“Any
witnesses?”

Lieutenant
Grosskopf
shrugged,
and
pointed
inside
the
store.
“There’s
the
doorman
at
Carnegie,
and
a
dame,”
he
said,
making
it
clear
that
he
was
unimpressed
with
the
showing.
The
Inspector
moved
toward
the
door,
and
then
winced
as
a
clear
and
familiar
feminine
voice
sounded
above
the
noise
of
the
crowd.

“Yoo
hoo!
Oscar!”

The
Inspector
turned,
as
if
to
seek
shelter,
but
it
was
too
late.
Pushing
through
the
ranks
of
the
curious,
ducking
beneath
the
rope
barrier
to
the
detriment
of
her
somewhat
amazing
hat,
came
a
lean,
angular
lady
brandishing
a
black
cotton
umbrella.
“Oscar,
I
simply
must
tell
you
—
”