The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (8 page)

The
capsule
was
his
own
idea,
a
stroke
of
genius.
He
rolled
it
in
his
fingers,
then
looked
at
his
watch.
It
was
fifteen
minutes
past
five.
The
lights
of
Times
Square
were
beginning
to
come
on,
clashing
with
the
lingering
dullness
of
the
April
daylight.
Reese
picked
up
a
brown
envelope
which
lay
on
his
desk,
crossed
to
his
top-coat
and
pocketed
a
pair
of
light
gloves.
Then
he
stepped
out
into
the
brilliantly
lighted
but
deserted
outer
office.

The
first
door
on
his
right
bore
only
the
figure
“i”
on
the
glass.
It
was
unlocked,
and
he
stepped
quickly
through.
It
did
not
matter
if
anyone
saw
him,
he
knew,
yet
it
would
be
safer
if
not.

Margie
Thorens
leaped
up
from
the
piano
stool
—
the
room
was
furnished
so
that
it
could
be
used
by
Reese’s
staff
if
necessary
—
and
came
toward
him.
Reese
smiled
with
his
mouth,
but
his
eyes
stared
at
her
as
if
he
had
never
seen
her
before.

There
had
been
a
time
not
so
long
ago
when
Arthur
Reese
had
thought
this
helpless,
babyish
girl
very
attractive,
with
her
dark
eyes,
darker
hair,
and
the
hot
sullen
mouth.
But
that
time
was
over
and
done.
He
steeled
himself
to
bear
her
kiss,
but
he
was
saved
from
completing
that
Judas
gesture.
She
stopped,
searching
his
face.

“Sit
down,
Margie,”
he
said.

She
dropped
to
the
stool.
“Sit
down
yourself,”
she
told
him.
Her
voice
was
husky.
“Or
do
you
have
to
rush
away?
Making
another
trip
to
Atlantic
City
this
week-end?”
Her
words
dripped
with
meaning.
She
played
three
notes
on
the
black
keys.

“Forget
your
grouch,”
said
Reese.
“I’ve
got
news.”

“You’d
better
have!”
She
swung
on
him.
“You’ve
got
to
do
something
about
me.
I’m
not
going
to
sit
out
in
the
cold.
Not
with
what
I’ve
got
on
you,
Lothario
.”

She
had
raised
her
voice,
and
he
didn’t
want
that.
“Good
news,”
he
said
hastily.
Her
eyes
widened
a
little.
“Oh,
it’s
not
the
Tennessee
song.
That
stuff
is
passé
.
But
I
finally
got
Larry
Foley
to
listen
to
May
Day
,
and
he
thinks
it’s
great.
Another
Echo
in
the
Valley
,
he
says.
So
I’m
going
to
publish
it.
He’s
willing
to
plug
it
with
his
band
over
the
air,
and
he’ll
make
a
play
to
get
it
in
the
picture
he’s
going
to
do
in
Hollywood.
You’re
a
success!
You’re
a
song
writer
at
last!”

Margie
Thorens
looked
as
though
she
might
fall.
“It’s
all
true,”
he
assured
her.
As
a
matter
of
fact
it
was.
Reese
had
known
that
it
would
be
easier
to
tell
the
truth
than
to
invent
a
lie.
And
it
wouldn’t
matter
afterward.
“I’m
rushing
publication,
and
there’ll
be
a
contract
for
you
in
the
morning.”

She
was
still
dizzy.
“You
—
you’re
not
going
to
horn
in
as
co-author
or
anything?
Truly,
Art?”

“You
look
dizzy,”
he
said.
He
pulled
out
his
flask.
“How
about
a
drink
to
celebrate?”

Margie
shook
her
head.
“Not
on
an
empty
stomach,”
she
pleaded.
“I’d
like
a
glass
of
water,
though.”

The
carefully
designed
plan
of
Arthur
Reese
rearranged
itself,
like
a
shaken
kaleidoscope.
He
hurried
to
the
water-cooler
in
the
corner,
and
after
a
second’s
pause
returned
with
a
conical
paper
cup
nearly
full.
“This
will
fix
you
up,”
he
told
her.

Margie
drained
it
at
one
gulp,
and
he
breathed
again.
He
looked
at
his
watch,
and
saw
that
it
was
five-twenty.
The
capsule
would
hold
for
four
to
six
minutes
.
…

“Better
still,”
he
rushed
on.
“I
got
an
idea
for
a
lyric
the
other
day,
and
Foley
likes
it.
If
you
can
concoct
a
good
sobby
tune
to
go
with
it
…
”

He
fumbled
at
his
pockets.
“I’ve
lost
the
notes,”
he
said.
“But
I
can
remember
the
lyric
if
you’ll
write
it
down.”
He
handed
her
a
yellow
pencil
and
the
brown
envelope
which
held
her
rejected
manuscript
of
Tennessee
Sweetheart
.
“It
begins
—
Good-bye,
good-bye
—
”