The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (37 page)

“Or
a
grab-bag,”
said
the
schoolteacher.
“There’ll
be
complaints.”

“But
we’ll
nab
the
killer
of
Sam
Bodley.”
Pleased
to
think
that
at
last
he
had
something
concrete
to
suggest
to
the
Commissioner,
Oscar
Piper
borrowed
a
nickel
from
Miss
Withers
and
headed
for
the
nearest
phone
booth.

He
was
less
pleased
next
morning
when
he
picked
up
the
paper
and
read
the
story
beneath
the
banner
head,

“COP-KILLER
STILL
AT
LARGE.”

It
was
not
that
the
newspaper
story
was
in
error.
They
had
everything,
from
the
photograph
of
old
Sam
Bodley
face-down
in
the
street
to
an
artist’s
recreation
of
the
killer,
from
Marcia
Lee
Smith’s
description.
They
poked
fun
at
the
bandit
for
taking
the
diamonds
and
missing
the
more
valuable
emerald.
But
the
story
ended
with
a
complete
explanation
of
the
“dragnet,”
which
the
police
were
planning
to
try.

His
cigar
suddenly
went
stale
in
his
mouth.
A
lot
of
good
the
dragnet
would
do,
with
the
quarry
forewarned.
Oscar
Piper
shook
his
head.
It
was
the
first
time
his
old
friend
and
sparring-partner
had
let
him
down.
So
Hildegarde
had
to
go
and
talk
in
front
of
the
reporters!

He
reached
savagely
across
his
desk
and
tore
off
the
top
sheet
of
his
calendar
pad,
on
which
he
had
written
“call
Hildegarde
re:
dinner.”
The
rest
of
the
day
Piper
devoted
to
perfecting
the
dragnet
plan,
for
lack
of
a
better
idea.
When,
toward
five,
Miss
Withers
called
on
the
phone,
he
sent
word
that
he
was
tied
up.

A
rare
thing
it
was
for
the
normally
sunny
Inspector
to
carry
a
grudge
overnight,
but
this
one
grew
and
flourished.
Over
his
desk
was
pinned
the
picture
of
Sam
Bodley
lying
dead
in
the
gutter,
and
that
didn’t
help.
Nor
did
his
temper
take
a
turn
for
the
better
when
two
days
later,
dressed
in
unaccustomed
black,
he
sat
in
the
funeral
parlors
with
a
delegation
from
Headquarters
and
heard
the
last
prayers
for
Sam
Bodley.
During
a
lull
in
the
ceremony
a
well-meaning
captain
—
old
Judd
from
Missing
Persons
—
leaned
over
and
whispered,
“If
you’re
still
stymied
on
this
case,
why
don’t
you
call
in
that
schoolma’am
pal
of
yours?
She
was
a
ball
of
fire
on
that
last
job.”
Piper
nearly
bit
him.

On
Monday,
four
days
after
the
shattering
of
the
jewelers’
window,
Miss
Withers
marched
down
Fifty-seventh
Street
again.
She
noted
in
passing
that
Vanderbock’s
window
was
repaired,
and
that
again
its
glittering
treasures
tempted
the
public,
even
to
the
big
green
emerald
ring
in
the
center
of
the
display.

But
she
had
other
things
on
her
mind
besides
trying
to
help
a
stubborn,
pig-headed
Irishman
out
of
his
muddle.
If
he
wanted
to
play
that
way,
so
be
it.
She
was
determined
on
the
business
in
hand,
which
was
to
find
an
unfurnished
apartment
within
her
means
and
near
the
Sixth
Avenue
subway.

There
was
a
remodelled
brownstone
just
around
the
corner
from
Fifty-seventh
which
had
caught
her
eye
just
before
the
shriek
of
the
sirens
had
led
her
astray
the
other
day.
Now
she
retraced
her
steps,
came
up
past
the
neatly
lettered
sign,
“Unfurnished
apartments
—
newly
decorated
—
agent
on
premises.”
The
door
was
open,
and
the
lower
hall
disclosed
a
jumble
of
painters’
ladders,
wallpaper
rolls,
kegs
and
tubs
and
buckets
of
paint,
and
all
the
canvas,
plaster,
plumbing
equipment
which
could
be
imagined.

In
the
midst
of
all
this
stood
a
young
girl.
She
and
Miss
Withers
spoke
together,
in
one
voice:
“I’m
looking
for
an
apartment
—
are
you
the
agent?”
They
stopped,
blinked,
and
smiled.
Then
the
girl
cocked
her
head.
“Why
—
I
remember
you!
”

It
was
Marcia
Lee
Smith,
the
star
witness
who
had
actually
seen
the
jewel
bandit
in
the
act
of
departing.
They
discussed
the
coincidence
of
meeting
like
this.
“After
all,”
Marcia
Lee
said,
“it’s
the
only
attractive
building
around
here
with
any
vacancies.
I
was
out
looking
the
other
day,
wh
en
it
all
happened.”