sake of that girl, I ’ d like to clarify the situation just a bit . … ”
“Okay, okay,” agreed the weary Inspector. And so it was that Dr. Paul Severance looked away from the accusing fingers of three homicide squad detectives to see the equine visage of Miss Hildegarde Withers appearing through the doorway of his consulting room.
“Why, Aunt Martha!” he said, in his mello w voice. “This is good of you. ”
She put him right about the relationship, in no uncertain terms. “I came here, young man, to give you one chance to confess. No, not to the murder . B ut when you found the body of Elsie Pender, why did you feel it necessary to write that phony suicide note?”
He waited a long time to answer. “I didn’t write it,” said Paul Severance finally.
Miss Withers obviously lost all interest in him. She looked for a moment at the sprawled body of Elsie Pender behind the desk, noted the worn but modish dark-brown coat, the pert red hat. She peered down at the suicide note, the obviously contrived suicide note with the glaringly phony signature in typescript.
She picked up and studied the pair of gloves which had passed the nitrate test, the brand-new black suede gloves.
“Satisfied, Hildegarde?” demanded the Inspector. “Because if you ar e , I’d like to get down to headquarters and turn in my report.”
“Quite,” she told him, and obediently followed Piper out of the room, without a backward glance at the suave but perspiring medico surrounded by the three detectives.
But once in the Headquarters car she tapped the Inspector gently on the shoulder. “Oscar, would you do me a favor? Would you send out a broadcast to stop a car driven by a Mr. Vaughan Hemple? As a passenger he has Miss Corinne Lapham, and he’s bound either for Greenwich or for North Carolina.”
“Huh?” was all the Inspector could manage.
“Oh, I don’t mean he should be arrested, exactly. Can’t you hold him as a material witness or whatever it is?”
“I could,” said the Inspector cautiously. “Look, Hildegarde — ”
“And after you arrange that,” she went on, “I wish you’d come with me to the residence of another witness. I haven’t, the address, but your detective who stood at Mrs. Lapham’s door is sure to have it . … ”
The Headquarters car pulled up before a small neat apartment house in the east Sixties. “Look, Hildegarde,” the Inspector burst forth, “I’m stringing along with you because once or twice in the past you’ve been right. But I warn you — ”
“I know what I’m doing,” she told him. And fervently hoped that she did. They came into the little lobby, and the Inspector started to reach for one of the bell-buttons. “Anyone but that,” said Hildegarde Withers hastily. She went him one better by pushing half a dozen buttons. Somebody upstairs clicked the door, and they opened it and started up.
The stairs were dark and narrow, smelling faintly of ancient cabbage, of varnish, and of insecticides. “Here we are,” the schoolteacher said. “3A.”
She paused, about to knock. Then she sniffed , wrinkling her long tilted nose and blinking. “Heavens above, I’m right! ” she whispered softly. Another scent, new and harsh, came through.
“What is this?” exploded the Inspector, and knocked heavily up on the door.
After an appreciable pause it was opened from within by Dr. Parkhill. His froglike face was a human question mark as he saw who it was, but he stepped back and bowed. “Come in, come in!” said the Doctor.
They came into a small living room in which an open fire blazed merrily. “Sit down, please,” Parkhill invit ed them genially. “I had an idea you might want some further information.”
“ Yes,” Miss Withers told him quickly. “Especially since what happened. Or haven’t you heard? Dr. Severance has proved a perfect alibi. He simply couldn’t have murdered the Pender girl.
“He was appearing before a Navy Board from 5 to 7. The
“Okay, okay,” agreed the weary Inspector. And so it was that Dr. Paul Severance looked away from the accusing fingers of three homicide squad detectives to see the equine visage of Miss Hildegarde Withers appearing through the doorway of his consulting room.
“Why, Aunt Martha!” he said, in his mello w voice. “This is good of you. ”
She put him right about the relationship, in no uncertain terms. “I came here, young man, to give you one chance to confess. No, not to the murder . B ut when you found the body of Elsie Pender, why did you feel it necessary to write that phony suicide note?”
He waited a long time to answer. “I didn’t write it,” said Paul Severance finally.
Miss Withers obviously lost all interest in him. She looked for a moment at the sprawled body of Elsie Pender behind the desk, noted the worn but modish dark-brown coat, the pert red hat. She peered down at the suicide note, the obviously contrived suicide note with the glaringly phony signature in typescript.
She picked up and studied the pair of gloves which had passed the nitrate test, the brand-new black suede gloves.
“Satisfied, Hildegarde?” demanded the Inspector. “Because if you ar e , I’d like to get down to headquarters and turn in my report.”
“Quite,” she told him, and obediently followed Piper out of the room, without a backward glance at the suave but perspiring medico surrounded by the three detectives.
But once in the Headquarters car she tapped the Inspector gently on the shoulder. “Oscar, would you do me a favor? Would you send out a broadcast to stop a car driven by a Mr. Vaughan Hemple? As a passenger he has Miss Corinne Lapham, and he’s bound either for Greenwich or for North Carolina.”
“Huh?” was all the Inspector could manage.
“Oh, I don’t mean he should be arrested, exactly. Can’t you hold him as a material witness or whatever it is?”
“I could,” said the Inspector cautiously. “Look, Hildegarde — ”
“And after you arrange that,” she went on, “I wish you’d come with me to the residence of another witness. I haven’t, the address, but your detective who stood at Mrs. Lapham’s door is sure to have it . … ”
The Headquarters car pulled up before a small neat apartment house in the east Sixties. “Look, Hildegarde,” the Inspector burst forth, “I’m stringing along with you because once or twice in the past you’ve been right. But I warn you — ”
“I know what I’m doing,” she told him. And fervently hoped that she did. They came into the little lobby, and the Inspector started to reach for one of the bell-buttons. “Anyone but that,” said Hildegarde Withers hastily. She went him one better by pushing half a dozen buttons. Somebody upstairs clicked the door, and they opened it and started up.
The stairs were dark and narrow, smelling faintly of ancient cabbage, of varnish, and of insecticides. “Here we are,” the schoolteacher said. “3A.”
She paused, about to knock. Then she sniffed , wrinkling her long tilted nose and blinking. “Heavens above, I’m right! ” she whispered softly. Another scent, new and harsh, came through.
“What is this?” exploded the Inspector, and knocked heavily up on the door.
After an appreciable pause it was opened from within by Dr. Parkhill. His froglike face was a human question mark as he saw who it was, but he stepped back and bowed. “Come in, come in!” said the Doctor.
They came into a small living room in which an open fire blazed merrily. “Sit down, please,” Parkhill invit ed them genially. “I had an idea you might want some further information.”
“ Yes,” Miss Withers told him quickly. “Especially since what happened. Or haven’t you heard? Dr. Severance has proved a perfect alibi. He simply couldn’t have murdered the Pender girl.
“He was appearing before a Navy Board from 5 to 7. The
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