The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (11 page)

Miss
Withers
gave
it
back.
She
took
the
tiny
handbag
that
had
been
the
dead
girl’s,
and
studied
it
for
a
moment.
“She
had
a
miniature
fountain
pen,
I
see,”
said
the
school
teacher.
“It
writes,
too.
Wonder
why
she
used
a
pencil?”

“Well,
use
it
she
did,
because
here
it
is.”
Piper
handed
her
the
long
yellow
pencil
which
had
laid
on
the
floor.
The
school
teacher
looked
at
it
for
a
long
time.

“The
picture
is
complete,”
said
Piper
jovially.
“There’s
only
one
tiny
discrepancy,
and
that
doesn’t
matter.”

Miss
Withers
wanted
to
know
what
it
was.
“Only
this,”
said
the
Inspector.
“We
know
the
time
she
died,
because
she
smashed
her
wrist
watch
in
her
death
throes.
That
was
five
minutes
to
six.
But
at
that
hour
it’s
pretty
dark
—
and
this
is
the
first
time
I
ever
heard
of
a
suicide
going
off
in
the
dark.
They
usually
want
the
comfort
of
a
light.”

“Perhaps,”
said
Miss
Withers,
“perhaps
she
died
earlier,
and
the
watch
was
wrong?
Or
it
might
have
run
a
little
after
she
died?”

The
Inspector
shook
his
head.
“The
watch
was
too
badly
smashed
to
run
a
tick
after
she
fell,”
he
said.
“Main
stem
broken.
And
she
must
have
died
after
dark
because
there
was
somebody
here
in
the
offices
until
around
five-thirty.
I
tell
you
…
”

He
was
interrupted
by
a
sergeant
in
a
baggy
blue
uniform.
“Reese
has
just
come
in,
Inspector.
I
told
him
you
said
he
should
wait
in
his
office.”

“Right!”
Oscar
Piper
turned
to
Miss
Withers.
“Reese
is
the
boss
of
this
joint,
and
ought
to
give
us
a
line
on
the
girl.
Come
along
if
you
like.”

Miss
Withers
liked.
She
followed
him
into
the
outer
office
and
through
a
door
marked
“Arthur
Reese,
Private.”
The
Inspector
introduced
her
as
his
stenographer.

Reese
burst
out,
a
little
breathlessly,
with,
“What
a
thing
to
happen
—
here!
I
came
down
as
soon
as
I
heard.
What
a
—
”

“What
a
thing
to
happen
anywhere,”
Miss
Wi
thers
said
under
her
breath.

“Poor
little
Margie!”
finished
the
man
at
the
desk.

Piper
grew
suddenly
Inspectorish.
“Margie,
eh?
You
knew
her
quite
well,
then?”

“Of
course!”
Reese
was
as
open
as
a
book.
“She’s
been
hounding
the
life
out
of
me
for
months
because
I
have
the
reputation
of
sometimes
publishing
songs
by
beginners.
But
what
could
I
do?
She
had
mor
e
ambition
than
ability
.
…
”

“You
didn’t
know
her
personally,
then?”

Reese
shook
his
head.
“Naturally,
I
took
a
friendly
interest
in
her,
but
anyone
in
my
office
will
tell
you
that
I
never
run
around
with
would-be
song
writers.
It
would
make
things
too
difficult.
Somebody
is
always
trying
to
take
advantage
of
friendship,
you
know.”

“When
did
you
last
see
the
Thorens
girl?”
Piper
cut
in.

Reese
turned
and
looked
out
of
the
window.
“I
am
very
much
afraid,”
he
said,
“that
I
was
the
last
person
to
see
her
alive.
If
I
had
only
k
nown
…
”

“Get
this,
Hildegarde!”
commanded
Piper.

“I
am
and
shall,”
she
came
back.

“Several
weeks
ago,”
began
Reese,
“Margie
Thorens
submitted
to
me
a
song
called
Tennessee
Sweetheart
,
in
manuscript
form.
It
was
her
fifth
or
sixth
attempt,
but
it
was
a
lousy
—
I
beg
your
pardon,
a
terrible
song.
Couldn’t
publish
it.
Last
night
she
came
in,
and
I
gave
her
the
bad
news.
Made
it
as
easy
as
I
could,
but
she
looked
pretty
disappointed.
I
had
to
rush
off
and
leave
her,
as
I
had
an
appointment
for
five-thirty
with
Larry
Foley,
the
radio
crooner.
So
I
saw
her
last
in
the
reception
room
where
she
died
—
it
must
have
been
five-thirty
or
a
little
earlier.”

Miss
Withers
whispered
to
the
Inspector.
“Oh,”
said
he,
“how
did
you
know
that
the
Thorens
girl
died
in
the
reception
room?”

“I
didn’t,”
admitted
Reese
calmly.
“I
guessed
it.
You
haven’t
got
that
cop
standing
guard
at
the
broken
door
for
exercise.
Anyway,
I
was
a
few
minutes
late
for
my
date
because
of
the
rain,
but
I
met
Foley
at
about
twenty
to
six.
He’ll
testify
to
that,
and
fifty
others.”