The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (19 page)

“Here’s
the
one,”
said
Hildegarde
Withers
calmly.
From
behind
the
desk
she
took
up
a
paper-wrapped
bundle.
Stripping
the
newspapers
away,
she
brought
out
a
gilt
cage,
in
which
a
small
yellow
bird
blinked
and
muttered
indignantly.

Miss
Withers
put
it
on
the
desk.
“That
was
Margie
Thorens’
family,”
she
said.
“One
of
her
only
two
companions
in
the
long
days
and
nights
she
spent,
a
bewildered
little
girl,
trying
to
make
a
name
for
herself
in
an
adult’s
world.”
She
clucked
to
the
little
bird,
and
then,
as
the
ruffled
feathers
subsided,
Miss
Withers
began
to
whistle.
Over
and
over
again
she
whistled
the
first
bar
of
the
unpublished
song
hit,
May
Day
.

“I
met
you
on
a
May
day
.
…
”

“Who-whew
whew-whee
whee
whee,”
continued
Dickie
happily,
swelling
his
throat.
On
through
the
second,
through
the
third
bar
.
…
The
Inspector
gripped
the
table
top.

“Reese,
you
said
yourself
that
you
never
called
on
Miss
Thorens
and
never
knew
where
she
lived,”
said
Hildegarde
Withers
triumphantly.
“Then
I
wish
you’d
tell
me
how
her
canary
learned
the
chorus
of
your
unpublished
song
hit!”

Arthur
Reese
started
to
say
something,
but
there
was
nothing
to
say.
“I
talked
to
a
pet
store
man
this
morning,”
said
Miss
Withers,
“and
he
said
that
it’s
perfectly
possible
to
teach
a
clever
canary
any
tune,
provided
he
hears
it
over
and
over
and
over.
Well,
Dickie
here
is
first
witne
ss
for
the
prosecution!”

Arthur
Reese’s
shrill
hysterical
laughter
drowned
out
anything
else
she
might
have
said.
He
was
dragged
away,
while
the
canary
still
whistled.

“I’m
going
to
keep
him,”
said
Miss
Withers
impulsively.
She
did
keep
Dickie,
for
several
months,
only
giving
him
away
to
Mrs.
Macfarland,
wife
of
the
Principal,
when
she
learned
that
he
would
never
learn
any
other
tune
but
May
Day
.
…

It
was
December
when
Inspector
Oscar
Piper
received
an
official
communication.
“You
are
invited
to
attend,
as
a
witness
for
the
State
of
New
York,
the
execution
of
Arthur
Reese
at
midnight,
January
7th
…
.
Sing
Sing,
Ossining,
New
York
per
L.
E.
I.”

“With
pleasure,”
said
the
Inspector.

The
End

“
T
HIS
is
a
massacre
,
not
an
auction
sale!”
Auctioneer
Paul
Varden
of
the
Sutton
Galleries
had
worked
himself
up
into
a
fine
frenzy,
but
it
seemed
that
nobody
wanted
to
buy
a
mahogany
wardrobe
so
heavy
that
it
took
three
men
to
lift
it
onto
the
platform.

“Do
I
hear
one
hundred
dollars?
Do
I
hear
seventy-five?”
Varden
appealed
directly
to
a
man
who
was
drowsing
in
one
of
the
aisle
seats
beside
the
only
pretty
girl
in
the
place.
“Mr.
Hamish,
surely
as
an
art
buyer
you
won’t
let
this
fine
solid
mahogany
heirloom
slip
out
of
your
hands?”

Mr.
Hamish,
star
customer
of
the
evening,
had
a
long
beaked
face
somewhat
resembling
that
of
an
American
eagle.
“Do
you
say
seventy-five,
Mr.
Hamish?”
the
auctioneer
urged.
Then
the
girl
—
she
wore
her
hair
and
her
tweed
suit
as
neatly
as
a
private
secretary
should
but
was
too
pretty
even
so
—
touched
the
man
beside
her
on
the
arm.
He
opened
his
eyes,
listened
to
her
soft
whisper,
and
looked
up
at
the
platform.
Then
Mr.
Hamish
very
delicately
touched
his
nose
with
thumb
and
forefinger.

The
auctioneer
gulped
a
glass
of
water,
decided
upon
an
entirely
different
attack.
“Well,
ladies
and
gentlemen,
if
you
don’t
care
for
the
looks
of
the
wardrobe,
just
look
at
the
room
in
it.
George!”
—
he
summoned
a
gigantic
Negro
—
“open
those
doors
so
everybody
can
see.
Why,
it’s
big
enough
for
a
bar,
big
enough
so
you
could
tip
it
over,
put
in
an
outboard
motor,
and
have
a
speedboat!”
The
crowd
tittered.

Even
Hamish
smiled
faintly,
said
something
to
the
girl
beside
him.
“Thirty
dollars,”
she
sang
out,
in
a
clear
sweet
voice.

“Thirty,
thirty,
thirty
—
do
I
hear
fifty?”
Varden
beamed.