The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (12 page)

Piper
nodded.
He
took
a
glittering
gadget
from
his
pocket.
“Can
you
identify
this,
Mr.
Reese?”

Reese
studied
the
watch.
“On
first
glance,
I
should
say
that
it
was
Margie’s.
But
I
wouldn’t
know
…
”

“You
wouldn’t
know,
then,
if
it
was
usually
on
time?”

Reese
was
thoughtful.
“Of
course
I
wouldn’t.
But
Margie
was
usually
on
time,
if
that
is
anything.
I
said
when
she
phoned
me
yesterday
morning
that
I’d
see
her
if
she
came
in
at
quarter
to
five,
and
on
the
dot
she
arrived.
I
was
busy,
and
she
had
to
wait.”

The
Inspector
started
to
put
the
watch
back
into
its
envelope,
but
Miss
Withers
held
out
her
hand.
She
wrinkled
her
brows
above
it,
as
the
Inspector
put
his
last
question.

“You
don’t
know,
then,
anything
about
any
private
love
affairs
Miss
Thorens
might
have
had?”

“Absolutely
not.
I
don’t
even
know
where
she
lived,
or
anything
except
that
she
came
from
somewhere
upstate
—
Albany
I
think
it
was.
One
of
her
attempts
at
song-writing
was
titled
Amble
to
Albany
.”

Piper
and
the
music
publisher
walked
slowly
out
of
the
office,
toward
where
a
wicker
basket
was
being
swiftly
carried
through
a
broken
door
by
two
brawny
men
in
white.
Miss
Withers
lingered
behind
to
study
the
wrist
watch
which
had
been
Margie
Thorens’.
It
was
a
trumpery
affair
with
a
square
modernistic
face.
Miss
Withers
found
it
hard
to
tell
time
by
such
a
watch.
She
noted
that
the
minute
hand
pointed
to
five
before
the
hour,
and
that
the
hour
hand
was
in
the
exactly
opposite
direction.
She
put
it
safely
away,
and
hurried
after
the
Inspector.

With
the
departure
of
the
mortal
remains
of
Margie
Thorens,
the
offices
of
Arthur
Reese
and
Company
seemed
to
perk
up
a
bit.
The
red-haired
Miss
Kelly
returned
to
her
desk
outside
Reese’s
office,
wearing
a
dress
which
Miss
Withers
thought
cut
a
bit
too
low
in
front
for
business
purposes.
The
clerks
and
stenographers
were
permitted
to
fill
the
large
room
again,
somewhere
a
man
began
to
bang
very
loudly
upon
a
piano,
and
an
office
boy
rushed
past
Miss
Withers
with
a
stack
of
sheet
music
fresh
from
the
printer’s.

“Well,
we’ll
be
off,”
said
the
Inspector
suddenly,
in
her
ear.

Miss
Hildegarde
Withers
jumped.
“Eh?
Well
what?”

“We’ll
leave.
This
case
is
plain
as
the
nose
—
I
mean,
plain
as
day.
Nothing
here
for
the
Homicide
Squad.”

“Naturally,”
said
Miss
Withers.
But
he
r
thoughts
were
somewhere
else.

The
Inspector
had
learned
to
heed
her
suggestions.
“Anything
wrong?
You
haven’t
found
anything
that
I’ve
missed,
have
you?”

Hildegarde
Withers
shook
her
head.
“That’s
just
the
trouble,”
she
said.
“I’m
beginning
to
suspect
myself
of
senility.”

“Tell
me
,
”
said
Miss
Withers
that
evening
,
“just
what
are
the
clues
which
spell
suicide
so
surely?”

“First,
the
locked
door
to
insure
privacy
,
”
said
the
Inspector
.
“
Second
,
the
suicide
note,
for
it
’
s
human
nature
to
leave
word
behind
.
Third
,
the
motive
—
in
this
case
,
melancholy
.
Fourth
,
the
suicide
must
be
an
emotional
,
neurotic
person
.
Get
me?”

“Clear
as
crystal
,
”
said
Hildegarde
Withers
.
“But
granted
that
a
girl
chooses
to
die
in
darkness,
why
does
she
write
a
suicide
note
in
darkness?
And
why
does
she
bend
a
pencil?”

“But
the
pencil
wasn
’
t
bent
!”

“Exactly!”
said
Hildegarde
Withers
,
thoughtfully
.

To
all
intents
and
purposes,
that
ended
the
Thorens
case.
Inspector
Oscar
Piper
turned
his
attention
to
weightier
matters.
Medical
Examiner
Bloom
reported,
on
completion
of
the
autopsy,
that
the
deceased
had
met
death
at
her
own
hands
through
taking
a
lethal
dose
of
cyanide
of
potassium,
probably
obtained
in
a
college
or
high
school
laboratory,
or
perhaps
from
a
commercial
orchard
spray.

Miss
Hildegarde
Withers
attended
to
her
usual
duties
down
at
Jefferson
School,
and
somewhere
in
the
back
of
her
mind
a
constant
buzzing
continued
to
bother
her.
The
good
lady
was
honestly
bewildered
by
her
own
stubbornness.
It
was
perfectly
possible
that
the
obvious
explanation
was
the
true
one.
For
the
life
of
her
she
could
think
of
no
other
that
fit
even
some
of
the
known
facts.
And
yet
—