seems to be some difficulty in bringing Junior Gault to trial.”
“He’s trying to wriggle out of it, with the help of his money,” said Ruth slowly. “But he must pay the penalty! I have some money, too—most of my husband’s programs were transcribed, and the kinescopes are still being played around the country on a royalty basis. And if it takes my last red cent….”
“Naturally,” agreed the schoolteacher.
Ruth was looking at her strangely. “You’re not working on this case for the Gault family, are you?”
“Good heavens, no!”
“Because it would be worth a good deal to me to see Junior Gault found guilty. Say, five thousand dollars, and expenses …?”
“My amateur standing!” murmured the schoolteacher. “But I’ll keep it in mind.” She moved toward the door, walking carefully so as not to sweep her skirt against any of the bric-a-brac. “By the way,” she said, “I understand that the police never have found the weapon. Did you notice anything missing?”
“No,” said Ruth. “But I wouldn’t have known. Fans were sending him stuff all the time, all sorts of stuff. I have no way of knowing what loot came in after our separation.”
“Of course not.” Miss Withers hefted a weighty alabaster vase, and set it down again. “Of course, the weapon may still be here—the room is full of blunt instruments, and Junior Gault had time to wipe off any blood or fingerprints….”
“He was seen leaving here that morning,” the woman told her. “You know that?”
“Oh?” The schoolteacher tried to look surprised. So much for the district attorney’s office and their carefully guarded secrets. “By the way, Mrs. Fagan, you said a moment ago that you didn’t ever know the name of the woman with whom your husband was having an affair; I mean the important one. He must have broken up with Thallie Gordon sometime before, then?”
“ Thallie? ” Ruth laughed, not pleasantly. “Whatever gave you that crazy idea? Tony never messed around with the girls on the show; a bird doesn’t foul its own nest. It was somebody else, one of his worshiping little fans, I suppose. He used to get thousands of mash notes at the studio, mostly from small towns.”
“I see,” murmured the schoolteacher, somewhat elated. She paused in the doorway. “By the way, the next apartment belongs to a dancer, doesn’t it? Odd that being neighbors and all, your husband never put her on one of his programs.”
“Crystal Joris? Oh, but he did. A year and a half ago. The Joris girl was good as a novelty act, but, of course, tap dancers are tap dancers.”
“Which nobody can deny,” agreed Miss Withers, suddenly anxious to leave. Ruth Fagan said if there was anything she could do to help, money or anything … “There is,” said the schoolteacher crisply.
“What?”
“You can call Mr. Wingfield back and thank him for preparing you for my surprise visit. Don’t bother to deny it, Mrs. Fagan—you knew too much about me, and didn’t even think to ask for my bona fides. But it has all been, in a strange sort of way, most illuminating.” She went out, smiling a smile of modest triumph.
There was more to this case, she decided, than met the eye. And it was nearly midnight when she sat facing her old friend and antagonist, the inspector, across a booth in a little delicatessen just off Fifty-seventh and the Avenue of the Americas, over doughnuts and coffee.
Oscar Piper was bright and chipper, and seemed very pleased with himself. “You know, Hildegarde, you’re looking better already. A new light in your eyes. But why the Mona Lisa smile?” He cocked his head. “Found Ina Kell already?”
“No, Oscar. That will have to be up to you. I imagine that the usual hue and cry, with her picture on thousands of placards, should produce results.”
“You out of your mind?” he cried. “Ina is a surprise witness …”
“The surprise is on the other foot. I haven’t had time to fill in all the blanks,
“He’s trying to wriggle out of it, with the help of his money,” said Ruth slowly. “But he must pay the penalty! I have some money, too—most of my husband’s programs were transcribed, and the kinescopes are still being played around the country on a royalty basis. And if it takes my last red cent….”
“Naturally,” agreed the schoolteacher.
Ruth was looking at her strangely. “You’re not working on this case for the Gault family, are you?”
“Good heavens, no!”
“Because it would be worth a good deal to me to see Junior Gault found guilty. Say, five thousand dollars, and expenses …?”
“My amateur standing!” murmured the schoolteacher. “But I’ll keep it in mind.” She moved toward the door, walking carefully so as not to sweep her skirt against any of the bric-a-brac. “By the way,” she said, “I understand that the police never have found the weapon. Did you notice anything missing?”
“No,” said Ruth. “But I wouldn’t have known. Fans were sending him stuff all the time, all sorts of stuff. I have no way of knowing what loot came in after our separation.”
“Of course not.” Miss Withers hefted a weighty alabaster vase, and set it down again. “Of course, the weapon may still be here—the room is full of blunt instruments, and Junior Gault had time to wipe off any blood or fingerprints….”
“He was seen leaving here that morning,” the woman told her. “You know that?”
“Oh?” The schoolteacher tried to look surprised. So much for the district attorney’s office and their carefully guarded secrets. “By the way, Mrs. Fagan, you said a moment ago that you didn’t ever know the name of the woman with whom your husband was having an affair; I mean the important one. He must have broken up with Thallie Gordon sometime before, then?”
“ Thallie? ” Ruth laughed, not pleasantly. “Whatever gave you that crazy idea? Tony never messed around with the girls on the show; a bird doesn’t foul its own nest. It was somebody else, one of his worshiping little fans, I suppose. He used to get thousands of mash notes at the studio, mostly from small towns.”
“I see,” murmured the schoolteacher, somewhat elated. She paused in the doorway. “By the way, the next apartment belongs to a dancer, doesn’t it? Odd that being neighbors and all, your husband never put her on one of his programs.”
“Crystal Joris? Oh, but he did. A year and a half ago. The Joris girl was good as a novelty act, but, of course, tap dancers are tap dancers.”
“Which nobody can deny,” agreed Miss Withers, suddenly anxious to leave. Ruth Fagan said if there was anything she could do to help, money or anything … “There is,” said the schoolteacher crisply.
“What?”
“You can call Mr. Wingfield back and thank him for preparing you for my surprise visit. Don’t bother to deny it, Mrs. Fagan—you knew too much about me, and didn’t even think to ask for my bona fides. But it has all been, in a strange sort of way, most illuminating.” She went out, smiling a smile of modest triumph.
There was more to this case, she decided, than met the eye. And it was nearly midnight when she sat facing her old friend and antagonist, the inspector, across a booth in a little delicatessen just off Fifty-seventh and the Avenue of the Americas, over doughnuts and coffee.
Oscar Piper was bright and chipper, and seemed very pleased with himself. “You know, Hildegarde, you’re looking better already. A new light in your eyes. But why the Mona Lisa smile?” He cocked his head. “Found Ina Kell already?”
“No, Oscar. That will have to be up to you. I imagine that the usual hue and cry, with her picture on thousands of placards, should produce results.”
“You out of your mind?” he cried. “Ina is a surprise witness …”
“The surprise is on the other foot. I haven’t had time to fill in all the blanks,
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