The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (41 page)

Much
to
her
surprise,
Miss
Withers
was
not
surprised
at
all
when
her
doorbell
rang
some
time
later,
and
she
found
the
Inspector
outside.
He
was
a
very
tired
and
gray
and
deflated
Inspector.

“Oh,”
she
said.
“Come
in.”

He
hesitated.
“I
thought
of
sending
you
flowers,
only
all
the
florists
are
closed.
And
I
was
going
to
have
a
Western
Union
messenger
come
up
and
sing
you
something,
only
they
don’t
know
the
songs
with
the
right
words.”
He
smiled
wanly.
“You
see,
it
was
the
Commissioner
that
gave
out
that
story
to
the
press.”

“Come
on
in!”
she
insisted.
“For
heaven’s
sake,
come
on
in.”
She
stared
at
him.
“Oscar
Piper,
have
you
eaten
anything
today?”

He
shrugged.
“I
don’t
remember.”
But
he
came
inside,
sank
into
a
chair.
“I’m
not
hungry,”
he
insisted.
“Would
you
be
hungry
if
they
were
going
to
take
away
your
badge
tomorrow
morning?
I’ll
be
back
at
a
precinct
desk,
see
if
I’m
not.”

“No
luck
at
all
with
the
dragnet?”

“None.
We
picked
up
three
or
four
crooks
we’d
been
looking
for,
but
none
of
them
is
up
to
this
sort
of
crime.
And
no
trace
anywhere
of
that
emerald
—
that
hunk
of
green
ice!”

She
fed
him
scrambled
eggs,
made
him
clean
up
the
plate.
She
even
insisted
on
his
smoking
one
of
his
long
greenish-brown
cigars,
a
privilege
hitherto
denied
him
in
her
domain.
Oscar
Piper
stared
unhappily
at
the
smoke
as
it
rose.

“It’s
the
same
crook,”
he
observed.
“With
the
same
twisted
sense
of
humor.
He
made
a
laughing-stock
out
of
me
and
the
entire
force.”

“An
egomaniac,”
agreed
the
schoolteacher.
Now
the
red
bulb
in
the
back
of
her
mind
was
flashing
and
glowing
like
a
neon
sign.
“A
maniac
—
”
She
gulped.
“Oscar!
Suppose
that
your
dragnet
didn’t
fail!
Suppose
that
it
didn’t
catch
your
crook
because
he
rode
through
in
an
ambulance!”

Piper
tensed,
then
relaxed
again.
“I
checked
all
that,
Hildegarde,”
he
told
her.
“The
painter,
you
mean.
No,
he
was
a
real
painter,
registered
and
everything.
And
I
called
Bellevue
and
he
was
really
brought
in
there
to
the
emergency
ward,
booked
for
lead
poisoning.”

“When?”

The
Inspector
thought
it
was
about
an
hour
ago.

She
rose
suddenly
and
headed
for
the
bedroom,
where
her
telephone
was
installed.
Oscar
Piper
puffed
unhappily,
and
she
was
back
before
the
long
gray
ash
had
fallen
from
his
cigar.
“Oscar!”
she
announced,
“Bellevue
released
that
man
twenty
minutes
ago,
to
a
nurse
from
the
Painters’
Union
Clinic!”

“Well?
What’s
wrong
with
that?”

“Nothing
at
all.
Except
that
I
called
Information,
and
there
is
no
Painters’
Union
Clinic.”

The
Inspector
rocked
back
on
his
heels
as
if
he
had
run
into
a
haymaker.
“That
does
it!
Now
I
know
I
ought
to
quit
the
force
and
get
a
job
as
understudy
to
an
idiot!”
He
started
pacing
the
floor.
“We
had
him!
We
had
him,
and
just
because
he
put
on
an
act
with
a
bucket
of
paint
we
sent
him
off
in
an
ambulance
with
our
blessing!
Good
gravy!”

“What
about
the
emerald?”
Miss
Withers
suggested.

“He
swallowed
it,
probably.
Anyway,
it’s
gone
and
so
is
he
…
”

She
shook
her
head.
“A
man
as
smart
as
that
wouldn’t
risk
swallowing
the
jewel,
not
when
he
faced
the
prospect
of
stomach
pumps
at
the
hospital.
No,
Oscar.”

“Well,
then?”

The
red
light
flared
again
in
the
back
of
her
mind,
flared
into
an
electric
sign
as
clear
as
the
messages
which
went
twink
ling
around
the
Times
Building.

“Oscar!
The
deadline
or
dragnet
or
whatever
it
is
—
it’s
all
over?”

He
nodded.
“We
had
to
order
the
men
back
to
their
regular
duty,
after
they’d
all
met
in
the
middle
of
the
area
and
reported
a
blank.”
Miss
Withers
was
grabbing
her
hat.
“Hey
—
”

“Come
on!”
she
cried.
“Get
a
taxi.”

The
taxicab
was
not
necessary,
as
it
developed
that
young
Sergeant
Mains
and
a
Headquarters
car
waited
below.
They
piled
in
and
Miss
Withers
gave
an
address.
“And
please,
no
siren!”
she
begged.
“I
know
you
all
love
the
things,
the
way
small
boys
love
a
whistle,
but
just
this
once
.
…
”