Murder on the Blackboard Read Free Page A

will wash up all traces and disappear. This is no ordinary crime, Oscar Piper. The murderer knew what he was doing, and he waited for me to go home!”
    The Inspector threw his cigar away. “Where’s the body?”
    She pointed. “Got a gun, Oscar?”
    He shook his head. “You know I haven’t carried a gat since I took off my uniform.”
    “Well, then you can take my umbrella,” she offered. Stealthily, they approached the schoolhouse.
    One dim bulb was burning, as usual, above the entrance to the main hall. They came into the building, with its musty smells of chalk-dust and humanity. Quickly Miss Withers led the way down the long hall toward the rear—past the door of 1B and down to the Teachers’ Cloakroom.
    The door was still closed. Inspector Piper listened outside it for a moment, and then thrust it open. He stepped back quickly out of range, but nothing happened.
    A second later he found the light switch. There was a long, silent pause, and then he whirled on Miss Withers.
    “Hildegarde! Is this your idea of humor?”
    The room, Miss Withers saw to her amazement, was empty—as calm and quiet as it had ever been.
    There was only the flapping curtain, blown by the breeze which came in through an eight-inch opening at the top of the window. The couch, on which Anise Halloran’s body had lain, was not only empty, but its cotton print covering was orderly and neat.
    Miss Withers pointed toward it. “There! There’s where it was!”
    Piper came closer. He took the couch cover in his fingers and inspected it closely. “Nonsense! You say that she had been bleeding? Well, there hasn’t been time for anybody to wash stains out of this cover and get it dry. There’s not a sign of blood.”
    Miss Withers shook her head doggedly. “I don’t care. I saw what I saw. I’m not given to hallucinations. Nor do I indulge in the flowing bowl. You know that, Oscar. And I say that there was a dead body here less than ten minutes ago.”
    “Where could it go?” The Inspector drew a thin dark cigar from his pocket. “A corpse doesn’t get up and wander about, as a rule. Unless this girl was only wounded, and managed to come to herself and get out of here …”
    Miss Withers shook her head. “She was dead, sure enough. Her face—yes, she was dead. I can see her yet—with her face so calm and peaceful under that gaping wound. She must have died without knowing what struck her, Oscar …”
    “Not necessarily. Fiction to the contrary, there is complete relaxation of all muscles in the face—and body, too—immediately after death, and it lasts till rigor mortis sets in. All expression leaves the face of a corpse within a few minutes—seconds, even. But go on. Try to remember …”
    “She lay there, with her head toward the window.”
    “How was she dressed? Coat on?”
    “I—I don’t remember. Yes, I guess so. She had on a hat, I know that. It was a dark helmet that fitted the head, and it was drawn a little back to show the forehead.”
    Piper nodded. “I see. They couldn’t have got her out of that window … no, that’s as far as it opens. Well, your dead body is still in this building somewhere, and so is the murderer unless he—or she—made a getaway damn recently.”
    “Nobody made a getaway. I watched the hall while I was here, and the main and only door wasn’t out of my sight while I was across the street.”
    “Good.” The Inspector rubbed his hands. “I’m beginning to think you’re right. Maybe the body was parked here for awhile. But why, I don’t see … nor how the murderer managed not to leave a blood stain on the couch …”
    “Wait,” interrupted Miss Withers. “I think I’ve got it! There was something white under the body—I thought it was a towel, and it puzzled me. Now I know. The murderer intended to take the body away and leave no trace. He had it pillowed on newspapers!”
    “Insulated, huh?” The Inspector chewed his cigar. His voice was tense and eager, for all its