Nipped in the Bud Read Free

radio and television comic. Your memory, Oscar …”
    “Sure, sure! Junior Gault, the radio sponsor who got tired of being ribbed on his own program and did something about it with a blunt instrument.” Piper sat up straight. “How come you’re so interested?”
    “It’s a very mild interest, Oscar. You wrote me about the case at the time, and even sent me some laudatory press clippings. I gathered you handled the investigation personally, and that it was one of your major triumphs?”
    The inspector nodded, almost complacently. “I knew from the first moment that Gault was guilty. His alibi didn’t stand up for ten minutes, and almost as soon as we arrested him he made a confession. No rubber-hose stuff either, so don’t go getting any ideas.”
    “Relax, Oscar. I have no intention of trying to upset any applecarts; my days of sleuthing are over. And if it’s too much trouble getting me admitted to the courtroom, no matter. I can while away my lonely hours here in town by going up to the American Museum of Natural History and studying their sea shells. Since I’ve been out in California I’ve become something of an amateur conchologist, you know.” She reached into her handbag and produced visual evidence. “Here is a Hairy Triton I found at Malibu, unusually well-marked. This is a Ravenal’s Scallop, and the spotted one is a Junonia.”
    “Snail shells, yet!” muttered Oscar Piper, with ill-concealed distaste. Something had to be done for poor old Hildegarde, and soon. If he could only keep aflame this one feeble flicker of interest in her old-time pursuits…. He reached for the telephone and dialed a number. “John Hardesty, please. Piper, Headquarters. Hello, who’s this? … What? You people keep banker’s hours, don’t you? Where’s John, out getting warmed up for the big court job tomorrow? … What?” He listened for a moment, said “Judas!” and hung up. “No dice, Hildegarde.”
    “Oh, dear. No seats left?”
    “No trial. That was one of the other assistant D.A.’s. He says that Hardesty is going to get up in court tomorrow and ask for a postponement.”
    “But why?”
    “The fellow either didn’t know or couldn’t tell me over the phone.”
    “Oscar, is it true that Sam Bordin is the defense attorney?”
    Piper nodded. “With all the Gault dough, Junior would only hire the best. Further proof that he’s guilty, as if we needed any. Innocent men don’t retain Bordin, a legal magician who’s a combination of Darrow and Steuer …”
    “With a dash of John J. Malone, who never lost a client either?”
    “You’ve heard of him, then. Yeah.” Piper sighed. “The trial can be set back on the docket for thirty or maybe sixty days, but Bordin will be hoping to get a nol-pros. Somebody’s slipped up somewhere.” He shook his head, scowling.
    “Well, Oscar,” said Miss Withers, shrugging, “let me know sometime how it all comes out.” She edged toward the door again. “And do give me a ring when you’re not so tied up. I’ll be at the Barbizon.”
    “Sure, sure,” said Oscar Piper. “Just for my own satisfaction I’d like to get the lowdown on this new development. Hardesty will probably be dropping in at the club tonight as usual, and I’ll twist his arm.”
    But Miss Withers and the poodle were gone. The inspector gnawed on his cold cigar for a moment, then cleared his desk by shoving all the official papers helter-skelter into a top drawer. In three minutes he was on an uptown subway.
    “Botheration!” remarked Miss Hildegarde Withers somewhat later that evening. She had just lowered her angular frame into a steaming tub, and of course there was no surer way on earth to make a telephone ring. Swathed in an insufficient towel, she made her moist and dripping way out into the little hotel bedroom, stepped over Talleyrand, picked up the offending instrument and said wearily, “Yes, Oscar?”
    “How’d you know it was me?” was the blank response.
    “ I ,” she