The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (7 page)

“I
get
the
whole
thing,
”
Piper
was
saying,
as
they
sat
in
a
night
coffee
pot
a
block
from
Headquarters.
“Except
one
thing.
Why
did
you
make
me
send
out
a
broadcast
for
this
Vaughan
kid?
We
picked
him
and
his
parents
up
and
made
them
madder
than
wet
hens,
all
for
nothing.”

“Corinne
wasn’t
with
him,
then?”

Th
e
Inspector
shook
his
head.
“With
him!
Listen,
that
gal’s
been
busier
than
a
one-armed
paperhanger.
She’s
retained
a
criminal
lawyer
and
the
Pinkertons
in
behalf
of
her
precious
Doc
Severance,
called
up
two
senators
and
an
assemblyman,
and
practically
kicked
down
the
front
door
of
the
Tombs.”
He
sighed.
“All
between
nine
and
eleven
p.m.”

“I
knew
she
loved
him,”
murmured
Hildegarde
Withers.
“Some
men
are
like
that,
blast
them.”

The
End

T
HE
soft
A
pril
rain
was
beating
against
the
windows
of
Arthur
Reese’s
private
office,
high
above
Times
Square.
Reese
himself
sat
tensely
before
his
desk,
studying
a
sheet
of
paper
still
damp
from
the
presses.
He
had
just
made
the
most
important
decision
of
his
life.
He
was
going
to
murder
the
Thorens
girl.

For
months
he
had
been
toying
with
the
idea,
as
a
sort
of
mental
chess
problem.
Now,
when
Margie
Thorens
was
making
it
so
necessary
that
she
be
quietly
removed,
he
was
almost
surprised
to
find
that
the
idle
scheme
had
reached
sheer
perfection.
It
was
as
if
he
had
completed
a
jigsaw
puzzle
while
thinking
of
something
else.

Beyond
his
desk
was
a
door.
On
the
glass
Reese
could
read
his
own
name
and
the
word
“Private”
spelled
backwards.
As
he
watched,
a
shadow
blotted
out
the
light,
and
he
heard
a
soft
knock.

“Yes?”
he
called
out.

It
was
plump,
red-haired
Miss
Kelly
—
excellent
secretary,
Kelly,
in
spite
of
her
platinum
finger
nails.
“Miss
Thorens
is
still
waiting
to
see
you,”
said
Kelly.

She
had
not
held
her
job
long
enough
to
realize
just
how
often,
and
how
long,
Margie
Thorens
had
been
kept
waiting.

“Oh,
Lord!”
Reese
made
his
voice
properly
weary.
He
looked
at
his
watch,
and
saw
that
it
was
five
past
five.
“Tell
her
I’m
too
busy,”
he
began.
Then
—
“No,
I’ll
stop
in
the
reception
room
and
see
her
for
just
a
moment
before
I
go.
Bad
news
for
her
again,
I’m
afraid.”

Miss
Kelly
knew
all
about
would-be
song
writers.
She
smiled.
“Don’t
forget
your
appointment
with
Mr.
Larry
Foley
at
five-thirty.
G-night,
Mr.
Reese.”
She
closed
the
door.

Reese
resumed
his
study
of
the
sheet
of
music.
“May
Day
—
a
song
ballad
with
words
and
music
by
Art
Reese,
published
by
Arthur
Reese
and
Company.”
He
opened
the
page,
found
the
chorus,
and
hummed
a
bar
of
the
catchy
music.
“I
met
you
on
a
May
day,
a
wonderful
okay
day
.
…
”

He
put
the
song
away
safely,
and
reached
into
his
desk
for
a
large
flask
of
hammered
silver.
He
drank
deeply,
but
not
too
deeply,
and
shoved
it
into
his
hip
pocket.

The
outer
office
was
growing
suddenly
quiet
as
the
song
pluggers
left
their
pianos.
Vaudeville
sister
teams,
torch-singers,
and
comics
were
temporarily
giving
up
the
search
for
something
new
to
interest
a
fretful
and
jaded
public.
Stenographers
and
clerks
were
covering
their
typewriters.
The
day’s
work
was
over
for
them
—
and
beginning
for
Reese.

From
his
pocket
he
took
an
almost
microscopic
capsule.
It
was
colorless,
and
no
larger
than
a
pea.
Yet
it
was
potentially
more
dangerous
than
a
dozen
cobras
…
a
dark
gift
of
fortune
which
had
started
the
whole
plot
working
in
his
mind.

Three
years
ago
an
over-emotional
young
lady,
saddened
at
the
prospect
of
being
tossed
aside
“like
a
worn
glove,”
had
made
a
determined
effort
to
end
her
own
life
under
circumstances
which
would
have
been
very
unpleasant
indeed
for
Arthur
Reese.
He
had
luckily
been
able
to
take
the
cyanide
of
potassium
from
her
in
time.
She
was
married
and
in
Europe
now.
There
would
be
no
way
of
tracing
the
stuff.
It
was
pure
luck.