The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (17 page)

“Sure,”
he
said.
“And
I’m
crazy
about
you,
too.”
He
paused,
and
his
eyes
very
imperceptibly
narrowed.
“How
old
are
you,
Kelly?”

“Twenty,”
she
said
wonderingly.
“Why?”

“Nice
age,
twenty,”
said
Reese,
taking
a
deep
breath.
“Well,
Kelly
—
here
we
are.”

Reese
had
a
stateroom
on
the
Atlantic
City
Special,
and
Kelly
was
naturally
pleased
and
excited
by
that.
She
was
greener
than
he
had
thought.
Well,
he
owed
this
to
himself,
Reese
thought.
A
sort
of
reward
after
a
hard
week.
It
was
a
week
ago
today
that
—

“What
are
you
thinking
of?”
asked
Kelly.
“You
look
so
mad.”

“Business.”
Reese
told
her.
He
took
a
hammered
silver
flask
from
his
pocket.
“How
about
a
stiff
one?”
She
shook
her
head,
and
then
gave
in.

He
took
a
longer
one,
because
he
needed
it
even
worse
than
Kelly.
Then
he
took
her
hungrily
in
his
arms.
“I
mustn’t
let
him
know
how
green
I
am,”
thought
Kelly.

The
door
opened,
and
they
sprang
apart.

A
middle-aged,
fussy
school
teacher
was
coming
into
the
stateroom.
Both
Kelly
and
Reese
thought
her
vaguely
familiar,
but
the
world
is
full
of
thinnish
elderly
spinsters.

“This
is
a
private
stateroom,”
blurted
Reese.

“Excuse
me,”
said
Hildegarde
Withers.
When
she
spoke,
they
knew
who
she
was.

She
neither
advanced
nor
retreated.
She
had
a
feeling
that
she
had
taken
hold
of
a
tiger’s
tail
and
couldn’t
let
go.

“Don’t
go
with
him,”
she
said
to
Kelly.
“You
don’t
know
what
you’re
doing.”

Kelly,
very
naturally,
said,
“Why
don’t
you
mind
your
own
business?”

“I
am,”
said
Miss
Withers.
She
shut
the
door
behind
her.
“This
man
is
a
murderer,
with
blood
on
his
hands
.
…
”

Kelly
looked
at
Reese’s
hands.
They
had
no
red
upon
them,
but
they
were
moving
convulsively.

“He
poisoned
Margie
Thorens,”
said
Miss
Withers
conversationally.
“He
probably
will
poison
you,
top,
in
one
way
or
another.”

“She’s
stark
mad,”
said
Arthur
Reese
nervously.
“Stark,
staring
mad!”
He
rose
to
his
feet
and
advanced.
“Get
out
of
here,”
he
said.
“You
don’t
know
what
you’re
saying
.
…
”

“Be
quiet,”
Miss
Withers
told
him.
“Young
lady,
are
you
going
to
follow
my
advice?
I
tell
you
that
Margie
Thorens
once
took
a
week-end
trip
with
this
man
to
Atlantic
City
—
America’s
Riviera
—
and
she’s
having
her
high
school
class
as
honorary
pall-bearers
as
a
result
of
it.”

“Will
you
go?”
cried
Reese.

“I
will
not.”
There
was
a
lurch
of
the
car
as
the
train
got
under
way.
Shouts
of
“all
aboard”
rang
down
the
platform.
“This
man
is
going
to
be
arrested
at
the
other
end
of
the
line
—
arrested
for
murdering
Margie
Thorens
by
giving
her
poison
and
then
dic
tating
a
suicide
note
to
her
as
—”

Reese
moved
rather
too
quickly
for
Miss
Withers
to
scream.
She
had
counted
on
screaming,
but
his
hands
caught
her
throat.
They
closed,
terribly
.
…

The
murderer
had
only
one
thought,
and
that
was
to
silence
forever
that
sharp,
accusing
voice.
He
was
rather
well
on
to
succeeding
when
he
heard
a
clear
soprano
in
his
ear.
“Stop!
Stop
hurting
her,
I
tell
you!”

He
pressed
the
tighter
as
the
train
got
really
under
way.
And
then
Kelly
hit
him
in
the
face
with
his
own
flask.
She
hit
him
again.

Reese
choked,
caught
the
flask
and
flung
it
wildly
through
the
window,
and
dropped
his
victim.
He
was
swearing
horribly,
in
a
low
and
expressionless
voice.
He
shoved
Kelly
aside,
stepped
over
Miss
Wit
hers,
and
tore
out
into
the
cor
ridor.
The
porter
was
standing
there,
worried
and
a
little
scared
about
the
sounds
he
had
heard.
Reese
threw
him
aside
and
trampled
on
him.
He
fought
his
way
to
the
vestibule,
and
found
that
a
blue-clad
conductor
was
just
closing
up
the
doors.

Reese
knocked
him
down,
and
leaped
for
the
end
of
the
platform.

One
foot
plunged
into
the
recess
between
train
and
platform,
and
his
hands
clawed
at
the
air.
He
fell
sidewise,
struck
a
wooden
partition
which
bounded
the
platform,
and
scrambled
forward.