appears that Brotherly took her pearls to be strung when he left home . … ”
There was a knock on the hall door, and the Inspector spoke briefly to a Headquarters detective. Then he faced Miss Withers again. “Doc Bloom’s been here,” he announced. “Says Brotherly died of strangulation by the silk scarf that was around his neck. What’s more, he died at least forty-eight hours ago! So there’s no use holding those people in there.” He gave orders to the sergeant.
“With Brotherly dying two days ago, it certainly knocks the skids from under your story about the telephone call . … ”
“Does it, Oscar?” Miss Withers tapped a pencil against her teeth. “On the contrary, I should say that it makes it much more interesting.”
“I’ve got something interesting, too,” Piper told her. “Something we found while searching the body, tucked inside his shirt.”
“Not the string of pearls?”
“No, nothing like that. It was this.” And the Inspector produced a photograph, enlarged to post-card size, of a fingerprint. It showed signs of having been crumpled, then straightened.
The schoolteacher frowned. “But — he was a rich collector of art objects, not a detective!”
“This is no police print,” Piper told her. “Amateur photo. My guess is that somebody stole something out of Brotherly’s collection and he was trying to solve the case himself from a print they left. Anyway, we’ll check it soon enough.”
They came out into the hall, stood aside to let white uniformed men go by with their big wicker basket destined for the Morgue. “Which means that I’ve got to dig up the next of kin and take them down to give formal identification. Want to tag along, Hildegarde?”
Miss Withers would forego the pleasure. She passed down the stairs and out of the place. Somehow her case was slipping out of her fingers — her first real private case.
She turned westward at the corner, leaving Madison Avenue and its crowd of curious spectators. Fifty-second Street was dark, deserted except for an empty sedan of great age and equally great prestige which waited against the curb. Deserted — and as Miss Withers immediately noticed, unlocked. That in itself was odd, and Miss Withers was interested in odd things. She peered inside . …
Then, to her amazement, she heard somebody signaling her, in a low whistle. Looking all around, she saw nothing but office buildings on the corner, the long deserted street of apartments.
The whistle came again, and an urgent cry, “Bianca!”
Then she looked up, and caught a momentary glimpse of a face at a high window. As she stared, there came swiftly down to her a dark object tied to a cord, as a spider drops from its web.
Miss Withers caught it blankly, felt the loosened string descend after it. She was holding a faded, nondescript painting not ten inches square!
Before she could make any decision about what to do with this manna sent from Heaven, the thing was taken from her grasp. It was the secretary, Bianca Riley, and she was very out of breath from running. “Oh, thank you!” cried the girl. “I should have been here, but I simply had to try to make a telephone call. How in the world — ”
“Just what is this?” Miss Withers demanded. “Second-story job?”
The Riley girl was amused. “Of course not! That’s the rear window of the auction rooms up there! The police wouldn’t let us take away even the small articles Mr. Hamish purchased at the sale tonight, so we just had to do something. Isn’t red tape stupid? You see, Mr. Hamish simply insists on personally taking away what he buys . … ”
“He seems an opinionated gentleman, this employer of yours.”
Bianca, clutching the picture to her heart, said, “He’s the wisest, kindest man in the world. No matter what anybody says.”
“Even if he keeps you working after hours when you’re expecting a young man on the train?” But the meddlesome schoolteacher did not get an answer to this,
There was a knock on the hall door, and the Inspector spoke briefly to a Headquarters detective. Then he faced Miss Withers again. “Doc Bloom’s been here,” he announced. “Says Brotherly died of strangulation by the silk scarf that was around his neck. What’s more, he died at least forty-eight hours ago! So there’s no use holding those people in there.” He gave orders to the sergeant.
“With Brotherly dying two days ago, it certainly knocks the skids from under your story about the telephone call . … ”
“Does it, Oscar?” Miss Withers tapped a pencil against her teeth. “On the contrary, I should say that it makes it much more interesting.”
“I’ve got something interesting, too,” Piper told her. “Something we found while searching the body, tucked inside his shirt.”
“Not the string of pearls?”
“No, nothing like that. It was this.” And the Inspector produced a photograph, enlarged to post-card size, of a fingerprint. It showed signs of having been crumpled, then straightened.
The schoolteacher frowned. “But — he was a rich collector of art objects, not a detective!”
“This is no police print,” Piper told her. “Amateur photo. My guess is that somebody stole something out of Brotherly’s collection and he was trying to solve the case himself from a print they left. Anyway, we’ll check it soon enough.”
They came out into the hall, stood aside to let white uniformed men go by with their big wicker basket destined for the Morgue. “Which means that I’ve got to dig up the next of kin and take them down to give formal identification. Want to tag along, Hildegarde?”
Miss Withers would forego the pleasure. She passed down the stairs and out of the place. Somehow her case was slipping out of her fingers — her first real private case.
She turned westward at the corner, leaving Madison Avenue and its crowd of curious spectators. Fifty-second Street was dark, deserted except for an empty sedan of great age and equally great prestige which waited against the curb. Deserted — and as Miss Withers immediately noticed, unlocked. That in itself was odd, and Miss Withers was interested in odd things. She peered inside . …
Then, to her amazement, she heard somebody signaling her, in a low whistle. Looking all around, she saw nothing but office buildings on the corner, the long deserted street of apartments.
The whistle came again, and an urgent cry, “Bianca!”
Then she looked up, and caught a momentary glimpse of a face at a high window. As she stared, there came swiftly down to her a dark object tied to a cord, as a spider drops from its web.
Miss Withers caught it blankly, felt the loosened string descend after it. She was holding a faded, nondescript painting not ten inches square!
Before she could make any decision about what to do with this manna sent from Heaven, the thing was taken from her grasp. It was the secretary, Bianca Riley, and she was very out of breath from running. “Oh, thank you!” cried the girl. “I should have been here, but I simply had to try to make a telephone call. How in the world — ”
“Just what is this?” Miss Withers demanded. “Second-story job?”
The Riley girl was amused. “Of course not! That’s the rear window of the auction rooms up there! The police wouldn’t let us take away even the small articles Mr. Hamish purchased at the sale tonight, so we just had to do something. Isn’t red tape stupid? You see, Mr. Hamish simply insists on personally taking away what he buys . … ”
“He seems an opinionated gentleman, this employer of yours.”
Bianca, clutching the picture to her heart, said, “He’s the wisest, kindest man in the world. No matter what anybody says.”
“Even if he keeps you working after hours when you’re expecting a young man on the train?” But the meddlesome schoolteacher did not get an answer to this,
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