The Cases of Hildegarde Withers Read Free Page B

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    Beyond his desk was a door. On the glass Reese could read his own name and the word “Private” spelled backwards. As he watched, a shadow blotted out the light, and he heard a soft knock.
    “Yes?” he called out.
    It was plump, red-haired Miss Kelly — excellent secretary, Kelly, in spite of her platinum finger nails. “Miss Thorens is still waiting to see you,” said Kelly.
    She had not held her job long enough to realize just how often, and how long, Margie Thorens had been kept waiting.
    “Oh, Lord!” Reese made his voice properly weary. He looked at his watch, and saw that it was five past five. “Tell her I’m too busy,” he began. Then — “No, I’ll stop in the reception room and see her for just a moment before I go. Bad news for her again, I’m afraid.”
    Miss Kelly knew all about would-be song writers. She smiled. “Don’t forget your appointment with Mr. Larry Foley at five-thirty. G-night, Mr. Reese.” She closed the door.
    Reese resumed his study of the sheet of music. “May Day — a song ballad with words and music by Art Reese, published by Arthur Reese and Company.” He opened the page, found the chorus, and hummed a bar of the catchy music. “I met you on a May day, a wonderful okay day . … ”
    He put the song away safely, and reached into his desk for a large flask of hammered silver. He drank deeply, but not too deeply, and shoved it into his hip pocket.
    The outer office was growing suddenly quiet as the song pluggers left their pianos. Vaudeville sister teams, torch-singers, and comics were temporarily giving up the search for something new to interest a fretful and jaded public. Stenographers and clerks were covering their typewriters. The day’s work was over for them — and beginning for Reese.
    From his pocket he took an almost microscopic capsule. It was colorless, and no larger than a pea. Yet it was potentially more dangerous than a dozen cobras … a dark gift of fortune which had started the whole plot working in his mind.
    Three years ago an over-emotional young lady, saddened at the prospect of being tossed aside “like a worn glove,” had made a determined effort to end her own life under circumstances which would have been very unpleasant indeed for Arthur Reese. He had luckily been able to take the cyanide of potassium from her in time. She was married and in Europe now. There would be no way of tracing the stuff. It was pure luck.
    The capsule was his own idea, a stroke of genius. He rolled it in his fingers, then looked at his watch. It was fifteen minutes past five. The lights of Times Square were beginning to come on, clashing with the lingering dullness of the April daylight. Reese picked up a brown envelope which lay on his desk, crossed to his top-coat and pocketed a pair of light gloves. Then he stepped out into the brilliantly lighted but deserted outer office.
    The first door on his right bore only the figure “i” on the glass. It was unlocked, and he stepped quickly through. It did not matter if anyone saw him, he knew, yet it would be safer if not.
    Margie Thorens leaped up from the piano stool — the room was furnished so that it could be used by Reese’s staff if necessary — and came toward him. Reese smiled with his mouth, but his eyes stared at her as if he had never seen her before.
    There had been a time not so long ago when Arthur Reese had thought this helpless, babyish girl very attractive, with her dark eyes, darker hair, and the hot sullen mouth. But that time was over and done. He steeled himself to bear her kiss, but he was saved from completing that Judas gesture. She stopped, searching his face.
    “Sit down, Margie,” he said.
    She dropped to the stool. “Sit down yourself,” she told him. Her voice was husky. “Or do you have to rush away? Making another trip to Atlantic City this week-end?” Her words dripped with meaning. She played three notes on the black keys.
    “Forget your grouch,” said Reese. “I’ve