The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (10 page)

In
two
minutes
Reese
was
laughing
with
the
elevator
boy
on
his
way
down.
In
five
more
he
stepped
out
of
the
men’s
room
at
the
Roxy
Grill,
washed
and
groomed,
and
with
the
paper
cup
and
the
folded
paper
which
had
held
poison
and
capsule
all
gone
forever
via
the
plumbing.
When
the
big
clock
above
the
bar
pointed
to
ten
of
six,
Reese
had
already
stood
Larry
Foley
his
second
round
of
drinks.
He
was
softly
humming
May
Day
.

Inspector
Oscar
Piper
called
Spring
7-3100
before
he
put
on
his
slippers
.
“Anything
doing
,
Sergeant?”

“Nothing
but
a
lousy
suicide
of
a
dame
up
in
Tin
Pan
Alley
,
”
the
phone
sergeant
said
.
“Scrub
woman
found
her
,
and
the
precinct
boys
are
there
now.”

“I
’
ll
stop
in
and
have
a
loo
k
in
the
morning
,
”
decided
the
Inspector
.
“These
things
are
all
alike
.
”

The
morrow
was
a
Saturday,
and
Miss
Hildegarde
Withers
was
thus
relieved
of
the
necessity
of
teaching
the
young
how
to
sprout
down
in
Jefferson
School’s
third
grade.
But
if
she
had
any
ideas
of
lying
abed
in
luxurious
idleness,
they
were
rudely
shattered
by
the
buzzing
of
the
telephone.

“Yes,
Oscar,”
she
said
wearily.

“You’ve
often
asked
me
how
the
police
can
spot
a
suicide
from
a
murder,”
Piper
was
saying.
“Well,
I’m
on
the
scene
of
a
typical
suicide,
perfect
in
every
detail
but
one
and
that
doesn’t
matter.
Want
to
have
a
look?
If
you
hurry
you’ll
have
a
chance
to
see
the
stiff
before
she
goes
to
the
morgue.”

“I’ll
come,”
decided
the
school
teacher.
“But
I
shall
purposely
dawdle
in
hopes
of
missing
your
exhibit.”

Dawdle
as
she
did,
she
still
rode
up
the
ten
stories
in
the
elevator
and
entered
the
offices
of
Arthur
Reese,
Music
Publisher,
before
the
white-clad
men
from
the
morgue
arrived.
Her
long
face,
somewhat
resembling
that
of
a
well-bred
horse,
made
a
grimace
as
the
Inspector
showed
her
the
broken
lock
of
the
little
reception
and
music
room,
and
what
lay
beyond.

“Scrub
women
came
in
at
midnight,
and
found
the
door
locked.
They
got
the
night
watchman
to
break
it,
since
it
couldn’t
have
been
locked
from
the
outside,
and
thought
somebody
was
ill
inside
or
something.
Somebody
was.
The
medical
examiner
was
out
on
Long
Island
over
that
latest
gang
killing,
and
couldn’t
get
here
till
a
couple
of
hours
ago,
but
he
found
traces
of
cyanide
on
her
mouth.
The
autopsy
will
confirm
it,
he
says.”
Miss
Withers
nodded.
“She
looks
awfully
—
young,”
she
said.

“She
was,”
Piper
told
her.
“We’ve
checked
up
on
the
kid.
Ran
away
from
an
Albany
high
school
to
make
her
fortune
as
a
song-writer,
so
she’s
even
younger
than
you
thought.
Been
in
New
York
five
months
and
got
nothing
but
rejections.
Yesterday
afternoon
she
got
another
one
and
she
waited
until
everyone
else
had
gone,
and
bumped
herself
off.
Left
a
suicide
note
on
the
piano,
too.”
The
Inspector
handed
over
the
brown
envelope.
“Wrote
it
on
the
envelope
which
held
the
bad
news
—
her
rejected
manuscript.
And
notice
how
firm
and
steady
the
writing
is,
right
to
the
last
word
almost.”

Miss
Withers
noticed.
She
bent
to
squint
over
the
rhymed
note.
She
saw:

“Good-bye,
good-bye
I
cry

A
long
and
last
good-bye

Good-bye
to
Broadway
and
the
lights

Good-bye
sad
days
and
lonely
nights

I’ve
waited
alone

To
sing
this
last
song
Good-bye
.
.

.
.

.
.

.
.

.
.”

She
read
it
through
again.
“She
didn’t
sign
it,”
Piper
went
on.
“But
it’s
her
handwriting
all
right.
Checks
with
the
manuscript
of
the
rejected
song
in
the
envelope,
and
also
with
a
letter
in
her
handb
ag
that
she
was
going
to
mail.”

“A
letter?”
Miss
Withers
handed
back
the
envelope.
But
the
letter
was
a
disappointment.
It
was
a
brief
note
to
the
Metropolitan
Gas
Company,
promising
that
a
check
would
be
mailed
very
shortly
to
take
care
of
the
overdue
bill,
and
signed
“Margery
Thorens.”