The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (24 page)

They
went
speeding
northward
in
a
squad
car.
The
car
stopped
momentarily
at
25
Barrow
Street,
where
it
developed
that
Bianca’s
door
was
locked.
There
was
a
card
sticking
out
of
the
mail
box,
bearing
the
message,
“Sorry
Johnny
’phone
you
later
oceans
love,
Bee.”

The
note
gave
him
no
joy,
for
it
was
written
on
the
back
of
an
engraved
card
bearing
the
name
“Louis
Hamish,
buyer,
antiques
and
objets
d’art,
241
East
34th
Street.”

“She
wrote
she
had
a
job
she
was
crazy
about,”
the
young
man
said,
glowering.
“Objets
d
’
art
my
foot!”

“That
address
is
obviously
his
office,”
Miss
Withers
counseled
as
they
got
back
into
the
squad
car.
They
turned
eastward
from
the
Village,
cut
to
Lexington
and
rolled
north
into
a
region
of
art
shops,
print
framers,
and
secondhand
bookstores.
There
was
a
brass
plate
outside
the
doorway
of
a
residence
on
the
corner
—
“Louis
Hamish”
nestling
among
the
other
plates.

“One
moment,”
cried
Miss
Withers.
“I
mustn’t
forget
my
props.”

She
was
back
in
a
moment,
carrying
a
brown-paper
package.
Then
they
went
up
the
stairs,
down
the
hall
to
a
door
with
another
brass
plate.
There
was
no
answer
to
Piper’s
insistent
knock.

“We
can
kick
it
down,”
John
Charles
Robbins
suggested.

And
then
the
door
of
the
studio
was
suddenly
flung
open
in
their
faces,
closed
again
as
the
figure
of
a
pretty,
slick-ha
ired
girl
emerged
to
face
them.

“Johnny!”
she
cried
happily.
“But
you
shouldn’t
have
come
here
—
only
I
am
glad
to
see
you!”
She
started
as
if
to
kiss
or
to
be
kissed,
but
Johnny
Robbins
wasn’t
having
any.

“Tell
me
one
thing,
just
one,”
Johnny
blurted.
“Have
you
been
here
all
night?”
His
tone
was
brittle.

Bianca’s
cheeks
flamed.
“Yes,
of
course.
I
tried
to
’phone
the
hotel
I
thought
you’d
be
at.
I
left
a
note
at
home.”

But
Cadet
Robbins
wasn’t
listening.
Saying
some
things
in
deep
bitterness
of
spirit,
the
Army
turned
on
its
hee
l
and
made
a
dignified
retreat.

Bianca
started
to
re-enter
the
studio.

“Come,
Oscar,”
said
Miss
Withers,
and
they
pushed
inside
after
the
girl.
Then
they
stopped.

They
were
in
a
big,
square
room,
almost
totally
unfurnished.
‘
From
a
big
skylight
in
the
ceiling
light
poured
down
on
an
enormous
easel,
which
held,
securely
faste
ned
to
it,
a
small
picture
of
a
bewhiskered
young
man
in
a
blue
hat.

Before
that
easel,
on
a
high
stool,
perched
a
little
old
man
in
a
big
apron,
wearing
a
jeweler’s
eye-piece.
He
held
razor
blades,
a
tiny
sponge,
a
handful
of
brushes
and
a
bottle.

At
one
side,
stretched
out
in
a
camp
chair
and
sipping
a
cup
of
coffee,
was
a
drowsy
man
with
the
long-beaked
face
of
an
eagle.
He
looked
up
at
the
newcomers
without
interest.
“Nice
to
see
you,
Inspector.
But
we’re
busy
right
now
—
and
I’ve
told
you
everything
I
know
about
last
night.”

“Yeah?”
said
the
Inspector,
with
definite
belligerence.

Hamish
snapped
his
fingers.
“All
right,
Etienne.
Come
back
in
half
an
hour
when
we
can
concentrate.”

Hamish
took
his
place
on
the
stool.
“Go
on,
I’m
listening.”

Miss
Withers
whispered
swiftly
to
the
Inspector.
“Yes
—
well,
Mr.
Hamish,
I’d
like
to
know
just
how
long
it
has
been
since
you
paid
a
visit
to
the
home
of
the
late
Dr.
Brotherly?”

The
man
dabbed
lovingly
with
the
sponge.
“The
answer
is
easy,”
he
said.
“Never.”

Again
the
Inspector
allowed
himself
to
be
prompted.
“What
you
say
sort
of
clinches
things,
Hamish.
The
one
who
killed
Brotherly
knew
him
well
enough
to
know
that
he
bought
a
green
Buddha
some
weeks
ago,
but
not
well
enough
to
know
that
Brotherly
had
fifty
of
the
things
at
home!”

“Go
on,”
Hamish
said
wearily.
“I
have
an
appointment,
but
it
can
wait.”

“You
see,”
Piper
continued,
“this
Dr.
Brotherly
had
stumbled
across
what
he
thought
might
be
a
valuable
painting
on
display
in
the
auction
rooms.
He
was
all
set
to
pawn
his
wife’s
pearls
so
he’d
have
funds
enough
to
outbid
everybody
else.
But
first
he
wanted
to
check
up
on
his
guess.
It
was
a
clever
idea,
too.”