The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (23 page)

14.
Sung
porcelains,
pair

15.
Georgian
Dining
Table

16.
T’ang
Horse

17.
Painting,
Man
in
Blue
Hat

18.
Painting,
Nude
by
F.
Van
Brown

19.
Mahogany
Wardrobe,
Victorian

The
phone
rang,
and
Piper
answered.
Looking
up,
he
said:
“You
may
be
interested
to
know
that
the
last
purchase
Brotherly
made
at
the
Sutton
Galleries
was
three
weeks
ago,
when
he
bought
a
Buddha
made
of
green
malachite!”

“A
clue,
anyway.
That’s
what
this
case
needs.”

“What
this
case
needs
is
—
”
Piper
stopped
as
a
white-haired,
stooped
old
man
appeared
in
the
doorway
without
being
announced.
“Oh,
come
on
in,
Max!
You
know
Miss
Withers,
don’t
you?”

Max
Van
Donnen
expressed
guttural
delight
at
the
meeting.
“I
had
results,”
he
told
the
Inspector.
He
produced
a
square
of
black
cardboard,
upon
which
had
been
neatly
glued
some
shreds
of
broken
glass.

“From
the
rubber
heels
of
the
dead
man,”
Piper
explained
to
his
guest.
“Plus
some
bits
of
glass
my
boys
picked
up
in
the
corner
of
the
auction
showroom,
where
the
wardrobe
stood.
Well,
Max,
did
you
get
enough
to
send
out
to
the
opticians?”

The
lab
expert
shrugged.
“Enough,
Inspector,
to
show
that
diss
iss
not
broken
spectacles,
like
we
thought.
It
is
on
ly
part
of
a
magnifying
glass!”

“Thanks,
Max.
Rotten
luck.
We
can
trace
eyeglasses,
but
not
magnifying
glasses
.
…
”

He
looked
up,
surprised.
“Where’re
you
off
to,
Hildegarde?”

“The
Metropolitan
Museum,
if
you
must
know.”

He
grinned
at
her.
“Going
to
check
that
fingerprint
with
the
mummies
up
there
at
the
museum?”

“Something
like
that,
yes.”
And,
afire
with
new
excitement,
the
schoolteacher
hurried
out.

Dismissing
her
taxi
on
the
Avenue,
Miss
Withers
ran
up
the
steps
of
the
Metropolitan
Museum
of
Art.
Straight
to
the
information
desk
she
went.
Two
minutes
later
she
was
in
another
taxi,
headed
back
to
Centre
Street.

She
burst
in
upon
the
Inspector
without
ceremony.
“No
wonder
your
men
couldn’t
trace
that
fingerprint!”
she
announced
happily.
“Oscar
Piper,
do
you
know
whose
it
is?”

“Huh?”
The
Inspector
squared
his
shoulders.
“Who
is
the
guy
and
where
can
we
nab
him?”

“The
name,”
said
Miss
Hildegarde
Withers
gently,
“is
Holbein.
Hans
Holbein,
and
you
might
be
able
to
dig
him
up
in
Utrecht
Cemetery,
Holland,
where
he’s
been
for
some
hundreds
of
years.”

“Hildegarde,
are
you
out
of
your
wits?”

There
was
a
knock
at
the
door,
and
the
desk
sergeant
put
his
head
in.
“Excuse
me,
Inspector,
but
that
Boy
Scout
is
here
again,
and
he
—
”

“I’ve
just
got
to
see
you,”
announced
a
tall,
obviously
unhappy
young
man,
pushing
his
way
through
the
doorway.
He
was
clad
in
the
dress
uniform
of
a
cadet
at
the
United
States
Military
Academy
at
West
Point.

Piper
reddened.
“Now
look
here,
I
told
you
to
go
to
the
Bureau
of
Missing
Persons,
didn’t
I?”

“Yes,
sir,
I
know.”
The
stalwart
youth
stood
at
attention.
“But
they
say
a
person
isn’t
missing
officially
for
forty-eight
hours.
They
told
me
to
come
back
tomorrow
or
the
next
day.”

“Well,
why
don’t
you,
Mr.
—
?”

“Cadet
Robbins,
sir.
John
Charles
Robbins.
You
see,
I
can’t
come
back
then.
I
have
to
go
back
to
the
Academy
with
the
rest
of
the
Glee
Club
on
the
last
train
tonight,
or
I’ll
get
demerits
enough
to
keep
me
from
getting
my
second-lieutenant’s
bar
at
graduation
this
June.
And
I’m
scared,
sir
—
I’m
scared
pink.
Because
if
something
hadn’t
happened
to
her
she’d
have
met
that
train
last
night!”

Miss
Hildegarde
Withers
suddenly
pricked
up
her
ears.

“The
girl-friend’s
name
is
Bianca
Riley,
perhaps?”

He
nodded.
“And
she
didn’t
come
to
her
apartment
at
all
last
night,
because
I
’phoned
every
hour.”
Then
he
stopped.
“How
did
you
know,
ma’am?”

“I
didn’t,”
Miss
Withers
said
shortly.
“But
I
have
an
excellent
imagination.
Coming,
Oscar?
This
is
serious.
Didn’t
you
catc
h
the
name?
It’s
Bianca
Riley!”