in the report to Mr Lothian.”
“Thank you just the same,” said Miss Withers, and started down the hall. The way lay clear before her with two approaches to the problem. She could, of course, attack it through the usual door of “who?” Who had opportunity, who had motive, who had the type of mind that would incline toward murder as the answer to an emotional impasse? Or she could come at it backwards through the personality of the victim.
She went into her own office, removed the top-heavy hat which was her trademark and placed it beside her umbrella. Then she crossed over to the connecting door. As she turned the knob the schoolteacher took a deep breath, steeling herself against what she was about to face. After all, the glorified junk shop was something of a shock to any sensitive nature. The dive into a dime museum, into a magpie’s nest of small, bright objects, was not a thing to be taken lightly. But it was the back door to Stafford’s mind, the way to an understanding of what he had been and why he met the end he did.
She came through the door, stopped short and for as long as one might have counted ten she stood, stiff and unbelieving. Then she reached for the telephone. “What’s happened to this office?”
Gertrude finally understood. “Oh, the janitor always straightens up when a writer leaves. Everything personal was packed up last night.”
Completely disconsolate, Miss Hildegarde Withers looked upon an office as neat and impersonal as a blank sheet of paper. Gone were the posters, gone the gadgets, gone the magpie’s nest. And gone the clues, gone with the wind.
There was nothing, absolutely nothing, which carried any message for her. She looked all through the desk drawers, under and inside the blotting pad, everywhere. Once for a moment she thought that she had struck pay dirt, for on the margin of the desk blotter she found the scribbled notation, “Laval—Ox 7003.” Eagerly she picked up the phone and asked to have the number dialed for her, but the ringing at the other end of the line was a curious double buzz, and the exchange operator finally cut in to say that Oxford 7003 had been discontinued.
Finally she abandoned the search and went back to her own office where she stared glumly at her desk and waited for a hunch. None came, but she had an interruption in the shape of Buster who entered, bearing a large sealed envelope with red “Important” stickers all over it.
“From Mr Nincom’s office,” he announced. “Say, Miss Withers, is it true what they’re saying? That you’re a detective and—?”
“I wonder,” she said glumly. “I wonder if I’m a detective or a—Never mind.” She shook her head. “By the way, how is the romance burgeoning? Did you follow my suggestion about dropping Confucius overboard?”
Buster’s shoulders sagged. “I didn’t have the chance. I mean, Jill is sort of out of reach right now. Confucius say, ‘Girl who think about money have no time for think about love.’”
“Oh yes, the sweepstake thing. Well, she’ll get over that.”
“Maybe,” he said doubtfully. “Maybe she’ll get over it too quick. Because the drawing for the Irish Sweep doesn’t take place for two weeks yet. So that cablegram from Dublin is a phony!”
“Does Jill Madison know that?”
He shrugged. “I’m not going to be the one to tell her!” And Buster departed. Miss Withers started to open the envelope.
After a few minutes she was interrupted by the telephone. It was her agent, the energetic Mr Wagman. “Just wanted to see if everything is okay,” he queried. “I meant to drop in on you, but this Stafford tragedy has complicated matters. He was my best client, you know. Him and Dobie.”
“Complicated?”
“Yeah. They had a contract as a team. Now there’s only one of them. I’m trying to get Dobie kept on alone. If it fails it’s for one reason. He’s got a reputation as a trouble maker.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It doesn’t pay in
“Thank you just the same,” said Miss Withers, and started down the hall. The way lay clear before her with two approaches to the problem. She could, of course, attack it through the usual door of “who?” Who had opportunity, who had motive, who had the type of mind that would incline toward murder as the answer to an emotional impasse? Or she could come at it backwards through the personality of the victim.
She went into her own office, removed the top-heavy hat which was her trademark and placed it beside her umbrella. Then she crossed over to the connecting door. As she turned the knob the schoolteacher took a deep breath, steeling herself against what she was about to face. After all, the glorified junk shop was something of a shock to any sensitive nature. The dive into a dime museum, into a magpie’s nest of small, bright objects, was not a thing to be taken lightly. But it was the back door to Stafford’s mind, the way to an understanding of what he had been and why he met the end he did.
She came through the door, stopped short and for as long as one might have counted ten she stood, stiff and unbelieving. Then she reached for the telephone. “What’s happened to this office?”
Gertrude finally understood. “Oh, the janitor always straightens up when a writer leaves. Everything personal was packed up last night.”
Completely disconsolate, Miss Hildegarde Withers looked upon an office as neat and impersonal as a blank sheet of paper. Gone were the posters, gone the gadgets, gone the magpie’s nest. And gone the clues, gone with the wind.
There was nothing, absolutely nothing, which carried any message for her. She looked all through the desk drawers, under and inside the blotting pad, everywhere. Once for a moment she thought that she had struck pay dirt, for on the margin of the desk blotter she found the scribbled notation, “Laval—Ox 7003.” Eagerly she picked up the phone and asked to have the number dialed for her, but the ringing at the other end of the line was a curious double buzz, and the exchange operator finally cut in to say that Oxford 7003 had been discontinued.
Finally she abandoned the search and went back to her own office where she stared glumly at her desk and waited for a hunch. None came, but she had an interruption in the shape of Buster who entered, bearing a large sealed envelope with red “Important” stickers all over it.
“From Mr Nincom’s office,” he announced. “Say, Miss Withers, is it true what they’re saying? That you’re a detective and—?”
“I wonder,” she said glumly. “I wonder if I’m a detective or a—Never mind.” She shook her head. “By the way, how is the romance burgeoning? Did you follow my suggestion about dropping Confucius overboard?”
Buster’s shoulders sagged. “I didn’t have the chance. I mean, Jill is sort of out of reach right now. Confucius say, ‘Girl who think about money have no time for think about love.’”
“Oh yes, the sweepstake thing. Well, she’ll get over that.”
“Maybe,” he said doubtfully. “Maybe she’ll get over it too quick. Because the drawing for the Irish Sweep doesn’t take place for two weeks yet. So that cablegram from Dublin is a phony!”
“Does Jill Madison know that?”
He shrugged. “I’m not going to be the one to tell her!” And Buster departed. Miss Withers started to open the envelope.
After a few minutes she was interrupted by the telephone. It was her agent, the energetic Mr Wagman. “Just wanted to see if everything is okay,” he queried. “I meant to drop in on you, but this Stafford tragedy has complicated matters. He was my best client, you know. Him and Dobie.”
“Complicated?”
“Yeah. They had a contract as a team. Now there’s only one of them. I’m trying to get Dobie kept on alone. If it fails it’s for one reason. He’s got a reputation as a trouble maker.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It doesn’t pay in
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