Read The Cases of Hildegarde Withers Online
Authors: Stuart Palmer
The Cases of Hildegarde Withers
“Those who have not already made the acquaintance of Hildegarde should make haste to do so, for she is one of the world's shrewdest and most amusing detectives.”—
The
New
York
Times
St.
Swithin
Press
“
The
Puzzle
of
the
Scorned
Woman
”
first
published
in
The
New
York
Sunday
News
,
1942;
“
The
Riddle
of
the
Yellow
Canary
”
first
published
in
Mystery
,
1934;
“
A
Fingerprint
in
Cobalt
”
first
published
in
The
New
York
Sunday
News
,
1938;
“
The
Riddle
of
the
Doctor’s D
ouble
”
copyright
Stuart
Palmer;
“
Green
Fire
”
first
published
in
T
he
Chicago
Tribune
,
1941
C
opyright
by
Stuart
Palmer
All
rights
reserved
ISBN:
978-1-927551-52-3
More adventures of the
“
old battleax,
”
Hildegarde Withers:
CONTENTS
The Puzzle of the Scorned Woman
The Riddle of the Yellow Canary
Puzzle
of
the
Scorned
Woman
T
HE
most
potent
weapon
known
to
Hermione
Lapham
was
the
big
flat
checkbook
on
her
desk.
She
took
it
out,
but
the
girl
shook
her
stringy
blonde
curls
and
cried,
“Oh,
no!”
“Well
then,
Miss
Pender,
what
do
you
want?”
“I
want
Paul
Severance!
He
mustn’t
marry
your
daughter
next
week,
like
it
says
in
the
society
pages.”
Elsie
Pender’s
eyes
were
dark-rimmed,
and
of
a
particularly
muddy
shade
of
blue
which
a
child
might
achieve
with
its
first
paint
box.
“Not
after
what
we’ve
been
to
each
other.
It
isn’t
fair.
I
—
I
—
”
Mrs.
Lapham
was
calm.
“There,
there,
my
dear.
I’ll
get
you
a
glass
of
something.”
She
rose
quickly
and
went
out
of
the
room,
her
long
velvet
tea
gown
swishing
over
the
deep
pile
of
the
Aubusson
carpet.
As
she
came
into
the
hall
she
thought
that
she
heard
the
sound
of
flutter
ing
footsteps,
and
frowned.
Leave
it
to
the
servants
to
make
a
point
of
overhearing
something
like
this.
It
could
not
have
taken
her
more
than
two
or
three
minutes
to
reach
the
library
and
pour
out
a
glass
of
cognac,
but
when
she
returned
to
the
drawing-room
Elsie
Pender
was
gone.
Hermione
Lapham
came
closer
to
the
desk,
stared
for
a
moment
into
the
open
drawer,
and
then
closed
it
carefully.
She
lifted
the
glass
of
brandy
and
tossed
it
off
at
one
gulp,
then
reached
for
the
telephone.
“Spring
7-3100
please.
Yes.
Police
department?
This
is
Mrs.
J.
Vance
Lapham,
1324
Park
Avenue.
I
want
to
report
the
theft
of
a
.32
automatic.”
It
was
a
late
afternoon
threesome
in
the
inner
sanctum
of
Inspector
Oscar
Piper,
head
of
the
Homicide
Division,
Headquarters.
“And
that’s
why,”
Mrs.
Lapham
was
concluding,
“I
asked
the
Inspector
here
for
assistance.”
She
beamed
at
the
spinster
in
the
peculiar
hat,
an
angular,
prim-looking
school-teacherish
person.
“But
I’m
not,
properly
speaking,
a
detective
at
all,”
Miss
Hildegarde
Withers
objected.
“Well,
you’ve
appointed
yourself
gadfly
to
the
department,”
the
Inspector
put
in.
“And
you
have
time
to
fool
around
with
this
sort
of
thing,
while
we
have
not.
The
Homicide
Squad
is
concerned
with
murders
after
they
happen,
not
before.”
“Moreover,”
added
Mrs.
Lapham,
“the
usual
detective
person
with
the
derby
hat
and
the
flat
feet
would
be
quite
impossible.
Perhaps
I
should
have
let
matters
rest
with
reporting
the
theft
of
the
gun,
but
I
do
feel
it
my
duty
…
”