The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (25 page)

“Yes,
wasn’t
it?”
Miss
Withers
put
in.
She
approached
the
easel
admiringly.

“Notice,
Oscar,
how
the
artist
smoothed
the
lovely
cobalt
blue
of
the
velvet
cap,
using
his
thumb
as
most
artists
do.

“Thumbprints
in
pigment,
imagine!
And
Dr.
Brotherly
got
permission
from
the
Metropolitan
to
photograph
prints
on
a
genuine
Holbein,
and
on
Monday
afternoon
brought
the
enlarged
print
to
the
auction
galleries
to
compare.
Only
someone
found
him,
interrupted
his
work.
And
the
poor
man
had
barely
time
to
thrust
the
photo
inside
his
shirt!”

Louis
Hamish
went
quietly
on
restoring
the
painting.

“Yeah,”
Piper
put
in.
“Somebody
realized
that
Brotherly
was
wise
and
managed
to
strangle
him
with
a
silk
scarf,
stick
the
body
afterward
into
the
nearest
large
piece
of
furniture.
That’s
the
story,
Hamish.”

“Ingenious,
yes,”
Hamish
admitted.
“But
you
don’t
think
all
this
applies
to
me?”

“You
bought
this
painting,
didn’t
you?
You
were
going
to
buy
the
wardrobe,
and
sneak
the
body
out
…
”

“Please
don’t
shout,
Inspector.
Understand
that
I’m
not
a
collector,
I’m
a
buyer.
I
act
as
agent
for
museums,
galleries
and
private
collectors.”

“Well,
who
hired
you
to
buy
last
night?”

Hamish
looked
at
his
watch.

“The
real
owner
of
the
Holbein
—
if
it
is
one
—
is
on
his
way
down
here
now,
with
the
intention
of
taking
it
on
the
next
plane
for
Chicago.
You
will,
both
of
you,
be
somewhat
surprised
when
you
see
who
it
is,
but
you’ll
realize
that
it
would
be
impossible
for
this
person
to
have
bid
for
it.”

There
was
a
knock
on
the
door,
a
voice
called
“Louis!”

“Ladies
and
gentlemen,
the
murderer
of
Dr.
Brotherly,”
said
Hamish
softly.
He
crossed
the
floor,
swung
open
the
door.
A
man
burst
excitedly
in,
leaving
it
ajar
behind
him.
It
was
Paul
Varden,
auctioneer
of
the
Sutton
Galleries.

“Well,
Louis!
There’s
the
devil
to
pay!”
His
voice
trailed
away
as
he
saw
the
others,
and
his
face
blanched
into
a
guilty
mask.

“Talk,
and
talk
fast!
”
Piper
barked.
“Does
that
picture
on
the
easel
belong
to
you?
Did
you
hire
Hamish
to
bid
it
in
for
you?”

“
Why,
this
—
this
—
”
he
fumbled.
“Who
says
so?”

“Did
you
make
a
telephone
call
to
the
Brotherly
home,
and
send
a
fake
telegram,
all
calculated
to
make
the
family
think
him
alive
and
hiding
from
some
mysterious
Yellow
Peril?”

“I
don’t
know
what
this
is
all
about,
but
I
—
I—”

Hamish
spoke.
“I
had
to
tell
them,
Paul,
old
chap.
I’m
not
going
to
jail
to
save
you.
I
just
admitted
you
were
coming
to
get
your
picture.”

Not
until
then
did
the
fog-horn
voice
of
Mr.
Paul
Varden
return
full
blast.
He
called
upon
everybody
to
witness
that
he
had
come
simply
to
warn
Hamish
about
—
well,
about
the
fuss
the
police
were
making
over
his
having
smuggled
something
out
of
the
auction
room
windows
last
night.

Louis
Hamish
was
back
at
the
easel,
thoughtfully
continuing
with
the
restoration
job
as
if
he
had
no
interest
in
anything
else.
“Stop
looking
at
me!”
Varden
howled
at
the
Inspector.
“I
never
killed
anybody!
You’ve
got
to
believe
me
—
try
the
lie-detector,
try
anything.”

“I’ll
try
frisking
you,”
Piper
said.
A
moment
later
he
took
a
small
package
from
the
auctioneer’s
coat,
a
package
containing
opalescent
globules.

“Mrs.
Brotherly’s
pearls!”
breathed
Miss
Hildegarde
Withers.
Piper
nodded.
“Well,
Mr.
Paul
Varden
—
”
He
took
out
handcuffs,
snapped
them
on
the
wrists
of
the
cringing
auctioneer.
“You’re
taking
a
ride.”

“Yes,
of
course,”
came
an
interrupting
voice.
“But
not
quite
yet,
Oscar.
Haven’t
you
forgotten
something?”

They
all
stared
at
Miss
Withers.
Piper
glared
at
her.

She
pointed
to
the
brown-paper
package.
“I
mean
the
shoes
we
found
in
the
apartment
up
at
the
Hotel
Elleston,
remember?”

Hamish
still
leaned
over
the
painting,
but
his
hand
stopped
in
midair.

“You
see,”
Miss
Withers
continued
conversationally,
“Brotherly
had
to
use
a
magnifying
glass
in
his
comparison
of
the
photograph
with
the
prints
in
the
pigment
of
that
picture.
The
glass
was
broken
in
his
struggle
with
the
murderer,
ground
underfoot.
Police
found
some
fragments
in
the
dead
man’s
rubber
heels,
found
others
on
the
showroom
floor.
Enough
to
make
a
complete
lens,
except
for
one
missing
piece.
Pearls
may
be
planted
in
a
man’s
overcoat
pocket,
but
you
can’t
fake
the
evidence
of
glass
splinters.
So
if
these
bits
in
your
rubber
heels
should
happen
to
match
…
”