The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (38 page)

She
had
been
waiting
here
some
time,
hoping
for
the
rental
agent
to
show
up.
There
was
a
sign
on
the
door,
“Gone
to
lunch,
back
in
half
an
hour,”
but
it
didn’t
say
half
an
hour
from
any
set
time.
“Anyway,”
said
Miss
Withers,
“I
don’t
need
a
rental
agent
to
tell
me
whether
or
not
I
like
an
apartment.
I’m
going
upstairs.”

Marcia
Lee
tagged
along.
She
was
living
now
at
the
Martha
Washington,
but
she
hoped
to
find
an
apartment
where
she
could
entertain.
“Entertain
good-looking
young
detective
sergeants?”
Miss
Withers
pressed,
and
struck
home,
because
the
girl
came
as
near
to
blushing
as
girls
ever
come
nowadays.
They
poked
through
the
second
floor
apartment,
praised
the
new
Venetian
blinds,
the
wide
fireplace,
the
big
shining
refrigerator
which,
Marcia
Lee
pointed
out,
would
make
sixty-four
ice
cubes
at
once.

The
schoolteacher
liked
everything
except
the
walls,
which
were
a
somewhat
glaring
shade
of
ivory.
“It
should
be
a
rather
quiet
apartment,
too,”
she
pointed
out.
“Set
well
back
.
…
”

It
was
not
a
quiet
apartment
at
the
moment,
because
the
sirens
were
howling
again.
A
radio
car
went
up
the
street
screaming
bloody
murder.
From
farther
off
other
sirens
took
up
the
sound,
like
hounds
on
a
scent
.
…

Miss
Withers,
who
had
started
to
leap
toward
the
stairs
like
a
firehorse
at
the
first
alarm,
now
held
herself
in
check.
“Let
them
shriek,”
she
said.
“I’m
not
going
to
mess
into
it.”

“But
—
”
Marcia
Lee
said.
“It’s
—
it’s
—
”

Evidently
the
girl
was
more
impressed
and
thrilled
with
the
activities
of
the
force
than
was
Miss
Withers.
“I
used
to
feel
that
way,
too,”
she
confessed.
“But
I’ve
decided
that
the
police
are
a
lot
of
nincompoops.”

“Not
all
of
them!”
Marcia
Lee
said
definitely.
She
edged
toward
the
stair,
started
running
down
so
fast
that
she
tripped
and
slid
the
last
few
steps,
spilling
her
handbag
and
vanity
on
the
floor.
The
schoolteacher
helped
her
up.

“And
the
sergeant
may
not
even
be
on
this
case!”
pointed
out
Miss
Withers.
But
Marcia
Lee
was
gone.
Miss
Withers
waited,
using
all
her
self-control
to
keep
from
rushing
after
the
sirens.

Finally
the
rental
agent,
a
baldish,
gumchewing
young
man,
put
in
an
appearance.

“My
name
is
Leach,
Al
Leach,”
he
said.
“Sorry
I’m
late,
but
on
my
way
back
from
lunch
I
stopped
to
see
the
excitement
up
on
Fifty-seventh.”
Miss
Withers
waited.
“Oh,
it
wasn’t
much,”
he
continued.
“Some
fellow
just
smashed
a
window
at
Vanderbock’s
and
grabbed
an
emerald
ring.”

“Imagine!”
said
Miss
Withers.
“Did
they
catch
him?”

Leach
shook
his
head.
“He
ducked
around
the
corner,
so
a
man
told
me.
But
everybody
says
that
the
police
have
drawn
a
sort
of
dragnet
around
the
whole
section.
When
you
leave
you’ll
have
to
be
searched.”

“Will
I?”
gasped
the
schoolteacher.

“Now
about
the
apartments,”
he
continued.
“The
painters
and
decorators
will
be
finished
in
a
day
or
so.
I
phoned
the
agencies
to
send
every
man
they
could
dig
up.
The
rent’s
eighty-five
on
a
year’s
lease
—
and
if
you
want
any
special
shade
on
the
paint
now’s
the
time
to
say
so.”
Miss
Withers
hesitated,
and
he
cocked
his
head.
“I
could
let
you
have
the
top
floor
a
bit
cheaper
—
say
seventy-five?
It’s
had
a
first
coat
in
a
slightly
darker
tone.”

Miss
Withers
hadn’t
thought
about
going
that
high.
But
it
was
worth
looking
into.
“You
go
right
ahead,”
he
said.
“I
got
to
stay
here
a
minute
and
give
those
painters
hell
for
taking
so
long
for
lunch.”
He
headed
for
the
front
door
where
outside
a
truck
was
backing
up.

Up
the
stairs,
all
three
flights
of
them,
went
Miss
Hildegarde
Withers.
She
opened
the
door
of
the
top
floor
apartment,
and
entered.
Instantly
the
pleasant
smile
with
which
she
had
been
intending
to
greet
her
future
home
was
erased
by
a
quick
gasp.
She
walked
slowly
forward
into
the
big
living
room,
stepping
gingerly
like
a
cat
on
a
damp
floor.