The Cases of Hildegarde Withers by Stuart Palmer Page A

for there were footsteps behind her. They were joined by a tall, weary man with an eagle face.
    He looked at the schoolteacher, seemed to take in the situation without batting an eye. “Oh, good evening. You’ll excuse us — ” And as he motioned, Bianca Riley slid behind the wheel of the car.
    Hamish started to get into the car. “Drive on, Bianca,” he ordered.
    “Not so fast!” And Miss Hildegarde Withers tore at her handbag, found a police whistle, and blew upon it a tremendous blast.
    Eagle-face was wide awake at last. “Good God, woman!” And then to her amazed surprise the schoolteacher was jerked rudely inside the sedan.
    The door slammed and the car roared headlong away.
    Miss Withers spoke first.
    “ Kidnapping , eh? Housebreaking, theft … ”
    “Applesauce,” Hamish broke in. They turned up Seventh Avenue. “Okay, Bianca.” The car stopped directly under a street lamp. Miss Withers gasped, being beyond words. But Hamish only stepped out politely, held the door for Miss Withers, who emerged with most of her dignity intact, her curiosity aflame.
    “I owe you an explanation,” said he gently. “But I couldn’t give it there. You see this picture?”
    Miss Withers saw. It was an oil, painted, it seemed, upon wood, in a battered frame. As far as she could tell it was a rather painstakingly executed portrait of a youngish man with whiskers, wearing a sort of blue velvet cap. It was very dirty.
    “I bought this tonight,” Hamish said. “For less than a hundred dollars. I couldn’t wait for police permission. I didn’t want to take it past the newspaper men at the door. You see, I may be wrong, but there’s a chance that this is an authentic self-portrait of Hans Holbein, the great court painter to Henry VIII of England. It has something that tells me — ” He shrugged. “Only study and restoration will tell the truth.”
     
    Miss Withers was telling the Inspector all about it down at Centre Street next morning. And then Miss Withers frowned, indicating his skinned knuckles. “More quiet work in the back room?” she accused.
    “It was right here, about half an hour ago,” he confessed. “The widow and her brother, a Mr. Bogart, were here.”
    Miss Withers nodded. “The man who didn’t want Mrs. Brotherly to go to the police? A little suspicious, Oscar.”
    He agreed. “Seems that they really came down to raise Cain because no pearls and no money were found on the dead man. Bogart even went so far as to say that some of my boys on the Squad could tell where the pearls had gone!”
    Piper’s jaw was tight and strained, for he was proud of his boys. “We had a little difference of opinion about that, and — he missed with his left and I didn’t. But it jarred one thing out of him. Bogart confessed why he hadn’t let his sister go to the police. It was this telegram, received the day before yesterday. And if you can make anything out of it …”
    MUST DISAPPEAR BREAK GENTLY TO ANGELA WILL CABLE LATER ABSOLUTE SECRECY IMPORTANT GET RID OF GREEN BUDDHA IN LIBRARY AT ONCE
    CARL
    Miss Withers handed it back. “Well, did he?”
    “Did he what?”
    “Get rid of the green Buddha?”
    Piper snorted. “Bogart and Mrs. Brotherly said they did nothing of the kind. Impossible — because for years Dr. Brotherly has been collecting Oriental statuettes. There are nearly a hundred Buddhas in that library, and more than half of them green!”
    Miss Hildegarde Withers frowned thoughtfully. “By the way, did you make anything of that fingerprint the dead man was carrying?” She picked up the print from his desk.
    Piper shook his head. “Doesn’t check with anything in our files or at the D. J. down at Washington. Nor with any suspect in this case!”
    “Such a shame, Oscar! To have a nice, big, enlarged fingerprint and not have it fit anywhere. Mind if I try?”
    “Hop to it, Hildegarde. Anything else I can do for you?”
    “There is,” she said, after pondering. “Do you happen to have a