The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (42 page)

They
cut
south
along
Central
Park
West,
red
lights
blazing,
and
then
left
at
the
Circle
.
…
And
then
they
were
outside
the
remodelled
brownstone,
with
its
“Unfurnished
Apartments”
sign.
“Wait
here,”
ordered
Piper,
looking
at
the
sergeant.
Miss
Withers
was
already
pushing
up
the
steps,
and
he
hurried
after
her.
The
front
door
was
half
open,
and
in
the
lower
hall
with
its
muddle
of
equipment
one
pale
light
bulb
gleamed.
Most
particularly
did
it
gleam
down
upon
Miss
Marcia
Lee
Smith,
who
seemed
a
bit
startled.

“Still
looking
for
the
rental
agent?”
quizzed
the
schoolma’am.

Marcia
Lee
gasped,
blinked,
and
answered.
“Oh,
it’s
you!
I
—
why
—
I
—
”
She
was
peering
toward
the
door.
“You
’member
when
we
were
here
this
afternoon?
And
I
spilled
my
bag?
Well,
I
lost
eighty-five
dollars
somehow.
I
must
have,
because
it’s
gone.
You
didn’t
see
it,
did
you?”

Miss
Withers
said
that
it
had
been
years
since
she
had
seen
that
much
money
all
at
one
time.
The
Inspector
pushed
into
the
scene.
“What
makes,
anyway?”

“You
remember
Miss
Smith,”
said
the
schoolteacher.
“She
and
I
were
looking
for
apartments
the
other
day,
and
we
met
again
today.
Our
paths
are
always
crossing.”

“You
haven’t
seen
anybody
hanging
around
upstairs?”
Piper
demanded
of
the
girl.

“I
haven’t
been
upstairs,”
the
girl
admitted.
“It
was
so
dark
and
lonesome
—
I
had
just
about
decided
I’d
run
along
home
and
come
back
and
look
for
my
money
in
the
morning.”

“A
very
good
idea,”
agreed
Miss
Withers.
“It’s
a
bit
late
for
you
to
be
out.
But,
by
the
way
—
”
she
lowered
her
voice
—
“there’s
a
friend
of
yours
outside
in
the
car.”

The
Inspector
was
already
on
his
way
up
the
stair,
and
Miss
Withers
hurried
along
after
him.
They
approached
the
top
floor
apartment
on
tiptoe,
entered
softly
in
the
wake
of
the
round
beam
cast
by
Piper’s
flashlight.
The
big
living
room
was
empty,
except
for
the
half-dried
puddles
of
paint
not
yet
cleared
away.
The
kitchen,
the
bath,
the
bedroom,
the
closets
—
all
empty.

“Maybe
we’re
too
late,”
Piper
said.
“Maybe
he’s
been
and
gone,
with
the
emerald.”
But
Miss
Withers
thought
not.
They
began
to
search.
An
empty
apartment
offers
few
hiding
places.
Piper
looked
under
the
drain
in
each
bit
of
plumbing.
He
looked
up
the
flue
of
the
fireplace,
and
behind
the
Venetian
blinds.
He
even
raised
each
window,
making
sure
that
the
emerald
had
not
been
hung
outside
on
a
thread.

Finally
they
both
admitted
failure.
“I
wonder,”
Miss
Withers
began,
“if
we
might
not
get
some
information
from
that
girl.
Of
course
she’s
outside
talking
to
your
handsome
sergeant.”

Of
course
she
was
—
they
could
look
down
from
the
window.
But
even
as
Piper
started
to
lead
the
way
out
of
the
place,
Miss
Withers
froze.
“My
ankles!”
she
whispered.
“They
feel
a
draft.”

Oscar
Piper
halted,
looking
dubious.
“Oscar,
the
back
door!
Somebody
just
opened
it
…
”
she
insisted.

He
nodded.
Then,
motioning
her
to
stay
behind
him,
Oscar
Piper
went
softly
back
into
the
apartment.
He
crossed
the
living
room,
came
into
the
kitchen.
The
rear
door
was
closed
and
locked,
but
that
didn’t
prove
anything.
He
started
to
turn
.
…

“Up!”
came
a
voice
behind
him.
“Up
high
—
higher
than
that!”
The
bathroom
door
opened,
and
a
man
came
out,
a
smallish
man,
no
more
than
five
feet
six.
He
was
in
his
middle
thirties,
and
his
mouth
was
twisted
in
a
curious
smile.
He
held
an
automatic
pistol
in
his
right
hand.

“Back
up!”
was
the
order.
“Now
go
on
—
both
of
you!”
It
was
the
mad
painter,
only
he
wasn’t
really
mad.
It
was
the
jewel
thief,
the
murderer
of
Sam
Bodley,
the
man
in
the
tan
raincoat
who
had
jumped
so
lightly
to
the
waiting
car
.
…

“Don’t
make
any
moves,
copper!”
he
said.

“What
do
you
think
this
will
get
you?”
asked
Inspector
Piper
slowly,
as
he
backed
into
the
living
room.
“Why
don’t
you
drop
that
gun
and
give
yourself
up?
I
know
you.
You’re
Joe
Swinton
…
Swinnerton?
…
Swinston,
that’s
it!”