The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (40 page)

The
Inspector
listened
to
what
had
happened,
and
shook
his
head.
“You
know,
Hildegarde,
wherever
you
are,
there’s
trouble.
You
breed
it,
like
stagnant
water
breeds
mosquitoes.”

“Hmmp!”
Miss
Withers
started
down
the
stair,
stood
aside
to
let
the
stretcher
go
past
her.
The
Inspector
followed
her,
almost
amused
now.

“It
must
have
been
funny,
though,”
he
observed.
“Your
walking
in
on
that
screwball
painter,
it
could
happen
to
nobody
but
you,
nobody
in
the
world.”

They
came
into
the
lower
hall.
“At
least,”
she
said
tartly,
“you
can’t
blame
me
for
what
happened
up
on
Fifty-seventh
Street
today.
So
lightning
struck
twice
in
the
same
place,
eh?
And
is
your
dragnet
working?”

He
shrugged.
“We
can’t
tell
yet.
I
think
we’ll
get
the
guy
—
in
spite
of
your
tipping
off
the
whole
thing
to
the
papers.”

“I
hope
you
do,”
she
said
sweetly.
Then
her
head
jerked
back,
like
a
startled
horse.
“What?”

Doggedly,
he
repeated
it.
And
she
stood
there,
rigid
with
indignation,
while
the
Inspector
turned
to
confer
with
his
aides
and
with
the
doctor.
There
was
some
question,
it
seemed,
about
the
identity
of
the
ambulance
patient.
“Book
him
at
the
hospital
as
John
Doe
for
the
time
being,”
he
ordered.
“Mains,
you
can
check
with
the
employment
office
and
the
painters’
union
and
find
out
who
he
is.”
He
turned
back
to
Miss
Withers.
“Hey,
where
are
you
going?”

“Home!”
said
that
lady,
very
definitely.

“Well,
you
better
let
me
send
Sergeant
Mains
to
pass
you
through
the
cordon,
or
—
”

“I
want
no
favors
from
you!”
she
snapped.
“The
idea
of
your
thinking
I
blabbed
to
the
papers!”

“Well?”
shrugged
Piper.
“Nobody
knew
about
the
dragnet,
outside
of
the
department,
except
you
and
the
Commissioner.”

“I
knew
—
and
the
Commissioner!
”
she
exploded.
“Of
course,
I
must
be
the
one.
I
have
so
many
reporters
in
my
outer
office,
and
I
’
m
in
politics
and
need
the
good-will
of
the
papers,
and
…
”
The
Inspector
was
trying
to
talk,
but
she
was
not
in
the
mood
to
listen.
“And
all
right
for
you,
Oscar
Piper.
You
stood
me
up
for
dinner
the
other
night.
Well,
now
you
can
stew
in
your
own
juice.
Go
back
to
your
precious
dragnet,
and
see
what
it
brings
you.
And
when
it
fails,
don’t
come
to
me!”

“That,
my
boy,”
said
the
Inspector
slowly,
“is
what
they
call
giving
somebody
a
piece
of
one’s
mind.”
Sergeant
Mains
stood
beside
him,
looking
dubiously
after
the
departing
schoolma’am.
“The
sad
part
about
it
is
that
she’s
right,”
Piper
finished.

Consciousness
of
rectitude
gave
Miss
Hildegarde
Withers
no
inner
feeling
of
satisfaction
whatever
on
her
homeward
march,
which
was
interrupted
for
nearly
twenty
minutes
while
she
stood
in
line
to
have
her
handbag
searched.
The
cordon
was
tight,
no
doubt
about
that.

She
flounced
back
into
her
own
apartment
in
the
west
Seventies,
the
apartment
which
she
had
decided
to
vacate
in
a
month.
In
spite
of
herself
she
spent
the
rest
of
the
afternoon
listening
in
on
the
police
wave-length.
At
six
o’clock
she
turned
back
to
the
regular
news
broadcast
and
heard
an
announcer
declaim
that
today
New
York
had
seen
its
most
spectacular
man
hunt
since
the
capture
of
Two-gun
Crowley
—
a
man
hunt
which
was
by
this
time
admittedly
a
failure.

“I
told
him
so,”
Miss
Withers
snapped
at
her
mirror,
without
pleasure.
By
the
time
she
had
picked
at
her
dinner
and
done
up
the
dishes,
she
was
definitely
uneasy.
Somewhere,
deep
down
in
the
bottom
of
her
mind,
the
schoolteacher
sensed
that
a
signal
light
was
burning,
as
it
had
burned
so
many
times
before,
to
tell
her
that
she
had
missed
something.
It
was
an
angry
red
signal
.
…

At
nine
o’clock
the
boys
cried
an
extra
through
the
streets,
with
headlines

“
COP-KILLER
RETURNS
—
GETS
REST
OF
LOOT.”

There
were
remarks
about
butter-fingered
police,
and
the
need
for
a
shakeup
at
Centre
Street.