reaction, much too casual. Denies affair with Midge but admits she owed him money. Svengali angle? Where was Virla Bruner that night? ”
Somewhat weary with her labors, she popped into the drugstore for a cup of tea and a sandwich. She had to admit that Bruner seemed every whit as promising a suspect as had the trumpet-player.
The odds were even better, she realized half an hour later. Because from her perch at the soda fountain she could see the entrance to the stairway leading up to the dance studio, and no horde of teen-agers came swarming in for their class in tap and soft-shoe. It was twelve o’clock—and then twelve-thirty. Nobody went into the place at all except one precocious little miss in a tight sweater, with a basket of black curls and the map of Ireland on her face. She paused in the doorway to smear on fresh mouth then ran up the stairs three steps at a time.
“So!” said Miss Withers. She lurked around for another half-hour or so, but nobody came down the stairs.
“I might as well try to decide it the way my pupils would, with eeny, meeny, miny, mo,” she said to herself as she headed toward the bus. “But just to play fair I suppose I have to include George Zotos, the sole remaining nomination.”
There was one good thing about a manufacturer, from her point of view. He had to stay with his factory. But, of course, Mr. Zotos was bound to be a let-down, after the others.
It was a block-long building, grimy with soot, located in the wrong part of Long Island City. The reek of overpowering sweetness, of vanilla and chocolate and cinnamon, was almost unbearable half a block away, and by the time Miss Withers had talked her way inside the place she made up her mind never to eat another pastry as long as she lived.
The cream-puff king sat in a big chair behind a big desk in an office whose walls were covered with convention pictures and framed membership certificates. The man himself was soft and round, with dark curly hair thinning on top and moist brown eyes. Iris had been right, he was rather like a cocker spaniel. But it was a wary spaniel, not sure whether to growl or wag its tail.
Her previous efforts to pass as a hep-cat and as a student of Terpsichore having met with no marked success, this time Miss Withers laid her cards on the table. “Mr. Zotos,” she informed the very bewildered little man, “I’ve come to see what you have to say, if anything, about the news that the police have a new lead on the murder of Miss Midge Harrington.”
“Who?” he muttered.
“Midge Harrington, the girl you tried to help get to be Miss Brooklyn last year. She was murdered, remember?”
Then she saw that tears were welling out of his brown eyes, big tears that ran unashamed down his plump cheeks.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I remember. But why do you come to me?”
“Because I’m a relative of hers,” said Miss Withers without shame. (After all, were we not all cousins after Adam, or the apes?) “I’m calling on everyone who knew her, to help the police. After all they haven’t much to go on—the whole thing was reopened by an odd clause in somebody’s will, and by a supposed spirit message—”
“A—a spirit message? I don’t understand.”
“Nor do I. But this Marika person, over on Ninety-sixth Street, got a message saying that the man the police arrested and convicted is innocent. And there seems to be some corroborative evidence. I’d like to see justice done, and Midge avenged.”
“Yes,” he said softly, still not using a handkerchief. “Midge Harrington was the only girl—” He gulped. “She’s gone, and that’s all that matters. But she was the only woman I ever could have loved, you see. I understood that they got the man who did it, but if they’re reopening the case the police probably know what they’re doing. If I can help in any way—” He brightened, and reaching into his desk. “Would you like to see something?”
And so for half an hour Miss Withers
Somewhat weary with her labors, she popped into the drugstore for a cup of tea and a sandwich. She had to admit that Bruner seemed every whit as promising a suspect as had the trumpet-player.
The odds were even better, she realized half an hour later. Because from her perch at the soda fountain she could see the entrance to the stairway leading up to the dance studio, and no horde of teen-agers came swarming in for their class in tap and soft-shoe. It was twelve o’clock—and then twelve-thirty. Nobody went into the place at all except one precocious little miss in a tight sweater, with a basket of black curls and the map of Ireland on her face. She paused in the doorway to smear on fresh mouth then ran up the stairs three steps at a time.
“So!” said Miss Withers. She lurked around for another half-hour or so, but nobody came down the stairs.
“I might as well try to decide it the way my pupils would, with eeny, meeny, miny, mo,” she said to herself as she headed toward the bus. “But just to play fair I suppose I have to include George Zotos, the sole remaining nomination.”
There was one good thing about a manufacturer, from her point of view. He had to stay with his factory. But, of course, Mr. Zotos was bound to be a let-down, after the others.
It was a block-long building, grimy with soot, located in the wrong part of Long Island City. The reek of overpowering sweetness, of vanilla and chocolate and cinnamon, was almost unbearable half a block away, and by the time Miss Withers had talked her way inside the place she made up her mind never to eat another pastry as long as she lived.
The cream-puff king sat in a big chair behind a big desk in an office whose walls were covered with convention pictures and framed membership certificates. The man himself was soft and round, with dark curly hair thinning on top and moist brown eyes. Iris had been right, he was rather like a cocker spaniel. But it was a wary spaniel, not sure whether to growl or wag its tail.
Her previous efforts to pass as a hep-cat and as a student of Terpsichore having met with no marked success, this time Miss Withers laid her cards on the table. “Mr. Zotos,” she informed the very bewildered little man, “I’ve come to see what you have to say, if anything, about the news that the police have a new lead on the murder of Miss Midge Harrington.”
“Who?” he muttered.
“Midge Harrington, the girl you tried to help get to be Miss Brooklyn last year. She was murdered, remember?”
Then she saw that tears were welling out of his brown eyes, big tears that ran unashamed down his plump cheeks.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I remember. But why do you come to me?”
“Because I’m a relative of hers,” said Miss Withers without shame. (After all, were we not all cousins after Adam, or the apes?) “I’m calling on everyone who knew her, to help the police. After all they haven’t much to go on—the whole thing was reopened by an odd clause in somebody’s will, and by a supposed spirit message—”
“A—a spirit message? I don’t understand.”
“Nor do I. But this Marika person, over on Ninety-sixth Street, got a message saying that the man the police arrested and convicted is innocent. And there seems to be some corroborative evidence. I’d like to see justice done, and Midge avenged.”
“Yes,” he said softly, still not using a handkerchief. “Midge Harrington was the only girl—” He gulped. “She’s gone, and that’s all that matters. But she was the only woman I ever could have loved, you see. I understood that they got the man who did it, but if they’re reopening the case the police probably know what they’re doing. If I can help in any way—” He brightened, and reaching into his desk. “Would you like to see something?”
And so for half an hour Miss Withers
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