The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (43 page)

There
was
a
difficult
pause.
“That’s
too
bad,”
said
the
man
with
the
gun.
“Sorry
you
recognized
me,
copper.
Because
now
I’ve
got
to
knock
you
over,
and
I
wasn’t
going
to
do
that
…
”

Oscar
Piper
may
have
been
worried,
but
he
did
not
show
it.
“You
haven’t
nerve
enough
to
shoot.”

“I’ve
got
more
nerve
than
you,”
Swinston
told
him,
and
looked
it.
Miss
Withers,
who
had
been
edging
imperceptibly
toward
the
front
window,
realized
that
of
all
the
tough
spots
they
had
ever
been
in,
this
was
about
the
toughest.

The
Inspector’s
body
was
as
tense
as
a
coiled
spring,
but
he
kept
his
voice
easy.
“Come
on,
Joe,
where
did
you
stash
the
emerald?”

Swinston
didn’t
take
the
bait.
“What
good
would
it
do
you
to
know,
copper?
You
aren’t
going
looking
for
that
hunk
of
green
ice
.
…
”
His
mouth
was
smiling,
but
his
eyes
squinted
narrowly,
and
he
tightened
in
preparation
for
the
recoil
of
the
gun.
It’s
now
or
never,
said
Hildegarde
Withers
to
herself,
and
grasped
the
cord
of
the
Venetian
blind.
It
fell
with
a
most
terrific
clatter.
Swinston,
caught
off
guard,
turned
and
fired
blindly.
At
almost
the
same
instant
he
was
kicked
most
deftly
in
the
stomach
by
Oscar
Piper,
who
had
his
own
ideas
about
the
amount
of
courtesy
which
should
be
extended
to
cop-killers.

“Not
exactly
sporting,
Oscar,
but
well-timed,”
observed
the
schoolteacher,
as
the
Inspector
slipped
bracelets
on
the
writhing
bandit.

He
looked
up
at
her.
“You
all
right?”

“It’s
about
time
you
wondered,”
she
told
him,
eyeing
the
neat
round
hole
in
the
wall
beside
her
left
ear.
But
what
interested
her
most
was
the
sequence
of
events
down
on
the
sidewalk.
The
Inspector
came
up
beside
her
at
the
window,
and
they
both
stared
down,
wide-eyed.

Far
below
them,
beside
the
Headquarters
car,
Sergeant
Mains
was
em-
bracing
Marcia
Lee
Smith.
And
a
curious
embrace
it
was,
for
he
had
her
arm
pinned
behind
her
back
and
was,
at
the
moment,
twisting
it.

“When
the
shot
went
off
she
tried
to
swing
a
sap
on
me!”
complained
the
bewildered
young
sergeant
later,
as
they
waited
at
the
curb
for
the
Black
Maria,
prisoners
handcuffed
together.

Piper
grinned.
“You’ve
been
monkeying
with
a
buzz
saw,
Romeo.
This
dame
is
the
one
who
drove
the
getaway
car,
in
blonde
wig
and
glasses.
Then
she
hopped
out
and
came
back
to
give
us
a
wrong
steer
on
the
description
of
her
boy
friend.
Didn’t
you,
honey
chile?”

Marcia
Lee
swore
at
him
in
a
south
Brooklyn
accent.
“Don’t
talk,”
Joe
Swinston
told
her.

“You’ll
talk,”
the
Inspector
said,
“when
we
find
that
emerald.”
He
suddenly
jumped
as
something
cold
and
wet
was
dropped
into
his
hand
by
Miss
Hildegarde
Withers,
who
had
lingered
in
the
apartment
for
a
moment
while
he
was
shoving
his
captive
down
the
stair.
“What
the
blazes
—
”

“Of
course,”
Miss
Withers
said.
“Mr.
Swinston
here
has
just
the
type
of
mind
that
would
’
see
humor
in
hiding
the
emerald
—
the
green
ice
—
where
he
did.
I
should
have
figured
it
out
sooner.”
She
pointed
to
what
Piper
held
gingerly
in
his
hand.

They
all
looked
down
and
saw,
by
the
pale
light
of
the
street
lamp,
a
melting
ice
cube
in
which
glittered
a
big
square
drop
of
green
fire.

The
End

Mystery Fiction

from St. Swithin

http://www.stswithin.com

An asterisk beside a name identifies the author as an Edgar Award winner, though not necessarily for the work listed. The awards were bestowed to American authors by the Mystery Writers of America beginning in 1946.

Stuart Palmer,
Murder on Wheels
: Miss Hildegarde Withers, the schoolteacher-detective, matches her wits against an unknown X, armed only with the gift of common sense and a cotton umbrella. One youth is dead, and his twin brother moves under a cloud. Then death rolls past again while Miss Withers faces the problem of the Driverless Roadster, the Man Who Wore Two Neckties, and the Symptoms of Bathtub Hands.

Stuart Palmer,
Four Lost Ladies
: Love-starved Harriet Bascom was dressed for the occasion…unmentionables trimmed with Chantilly lace; the sheerest of dark, flattering nylons; a daringly décolleté gown with a Paris label. ... It was her armor. She was dressed to kill but instead—someone killed
her
! And she was only the first victim! “Full of fun and delightful people. A really terrific plot.”—The Chicago Daily News

Helen Reilly,
The Farmhouse
: The shadow of a ruthless killer creeps over a quiet countryside as fear and suspense mount steadily and explode in a crashing climax.

Helen Reilly,
The Dead Can Tell
: “All kinds of amorous accords and discords get in play when love lies a’ bleeding in the shape of a much hated, but very beautiful wife and extortionist. Her death, believed to be accidental, is investigated by McKee—and leads him a fine whirl. Those involved—New York’s rotogravure highlights, society and politicians alike, play mum...A fast paced story, handled with velvet.”—
Kirkus