copy of the auction catalogue for last night?” He had, it developed, a sheaf of them, all wearing on the cover the ornate coat of arms of the Sutton Galleries. Page one she passed over, page two began:
14. Sung porcelains, pair
15. Georgian Dining Table
16. T’ang Horse
17. Painting, Man in Blue Hat
18. Painting, Nude by F. Van Brown
19. Mahogany Wardrobe, Victorian
The phone rang, and Piper answered. Looking up, he said: “You may be interested to know that the last purchase Brotherly made at the Sutton Galleries was three weeks ago, when he bought a Buddha made of green malachite!”
“A clue, anyway. That’s what this case needs.”
“What this case needs is — ” Piper stopped as a white-haired, stooped old man appeared in the doorway without being announced. “Oh, come on in, Max! You know Miss Withers, don’t you?”
Max Van Donnen expressed guttural delight at the meeting. “I had results,” he told the Inspector. He produced a square of black cardboard, upon which had been neatly glued some shreds of broken glass.
“From the rubber heels of the dead man,” Piper explained to his guest. “Plus some bits of glass my boys picked up in the corner of the auction showroom, where the wardrobe stood. Well, Max, did you get enough to send out to the opticians?”
The lab expert shrugged. “Enough, Inspector, to show that diss iss not broken spectacles, like we thought. It is on ly part of a magnifying glass!”
“Thanks, Max. Rotten luck. We can trace eyeglasses, but not magnifying glasses . … ”
He looked up, surprised. “Where’re you off to, Hildegarde?”
“The Metropolitan Museum, if you must know.”
He grinned at her. “Going to check that fingerprint with the mummies up there at the museum?”
“Something like that, yes.” And, afire with new excitement, the schoolteacher hurried out.
Dismissing her taxi on the Avenue, Miss Withers ran up the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Straight to the information desk she went. Two minutes later she was in another taxi, headed back to Centre Street.
She burst in upon the Inspector without ceremony. “No wonder your men couldn’t trace that fingerprint!” she announced happily. “Oscar Piper, do you know whose it is?”
“Huh?” The Inspector squared his shoulders. “Who is the guy and where can we nab him?”
“The name,” said Miss Hildegarde Withers gently, “is Holbein. Hans Holbein, and you might be able to dig him up in Utrecht Cemetery, Holland, where he’s been for some hundreds of years.”
“Hildegarde, are you out of your wits?”
There was a knock at the door, and the desk sergeant put his head in. “Excuse me, Inspector, but that Boy Scout is here again, and he — ”
“I’ve just got to see you,” announced a tall, obviously unhappy young man, pushing his way through the doorway. He was clad in the dress uniform of a cadet at the United States Military Academy at West Point.
Piper reddened. “Now look here, I told you to go to the Bureau of Missing Persons, didn’t I?”
“Yes, sir, I know.” The stalwart youth stood at attention. “But they say a person isn’t missing officially for forty-eight hours. They told me to come back tomorrow or the next day.”
“Well, why don’t you, Mr. — ?”
“Cadet Robbins, sir. John Charles Robbins. You see, I can’t come back then. I have to go back to the Academy with the rest of the Glee Club on the last train tonight, or I’ll get demerits enough to keep me from getting my second-lieutenant’s bar at graduation this June. And I’m scared, sir — I’m scared pink. Because if something hadn’t happened to her she’d have met that train last night!”
Miss Hildegarde Withers suddenly pricked up her ears.
“The girl-friend’s name is Bianca Riley, perhaps?”
He nodded. “And she didn’t come to her apartment at all last night, because I ’phoned every hour.” Then he stopped. “How did you know, ma’am?”
“I didn’t,”
14. Sung porcelains, pair
15. Georgian Dining Table
16. T’ang Horse
17. Painting, Man in Blue Hat
18. Painting, Nude by F. Van Brown
19. Mahogany Wardrobe, Victorian
The phone rang, and Piper answered. Looking up, he said: “You may be interested to know that the last purchase Brotherly made at the Sutton Galleries was three weeks ago, when he bought a Buddha made of green malachite!”
“A clue, anyway. That’s what this case needs.”
“What this case needs is — ” Piper stopped as a white-haired, stooped old man appeared in the doorway without being announced. “Oh, come on in, Max! You know Miss Withers, don’t you?”
Max Van Donnen expressed guttural delight at the meeting. “I had results,” he told the Inspector. He produced a square of black cardboard, upon which had been neatly glued some shreds of broken glass.
“From the rubber heels of the dead man,” Piper explained to his guest. “Plus some bits of glass my boys picked up in the corner of the auction showroom, where the wardrobe stood. Well, Max, did you get enough to send out to the opticians?”
The lab expert shrugged. “Enough, Inspector, to show that diss iss not broken spectacles, like we thought. It is on ly part of a magnifying glass!”
“Thanks, Max. Rotten luck. We can trace eyeglasses, but not magnifying glasses . … ”
He looked up, surprised. “Where’re you off to, Hildegarde?”
“The Metropolitan Museum, if you must know.”
He grinned at her. “Going to check that fingerprint with the mummies up there at the museum?”
“Something like that, yes.” And, afire with new excitement, the schoolteacher hurried out.
Dismissing her taxi on the Avenue, Miss Withers ran up the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Straight to the information desk she went. Two minutes later she was in another taxi, headed back to Centre Street.
She burst in upon the Inspector without ceremony. “No wonder your men couldn’t trace that fingerprint!” she announced happily. “Oscar Piper, do you know whose it is?”
“Huh?” The Inspector squared his shoulders. “Who is the guy and where can we nab him?”
“The name,” said Miss Hildegarde Withers gently, “is Holbein. Hans Holbein, and you might be able to dig him up in Utrecht Cemetery, Holland, where he’s been for some hundreds of years.”
“Hildegarde, are you out of your wits?”
There was a knock at the door, and the desk sergeant put his head in. “Excuse me, Inspector, but that Boy Scout is here again, and he — ”
“I’ve just got to see you,” announced a tall, obviously unhappy young man, pushing his way through the doorway. He was clad in the dress uniform of a cadet at the United States Military Academy at West Point.
Piper reddened. “Now look here, I told you to go to the Bureau of Missing Persons, didn’t I?”
“Yes, sir, I know.” The stalwart youth stood at attention. “But they say a person isn’t missing officially for forty-eight hours. They told me to come back tomorrow or the next day.”
“Well, why don’t you, Mr. — ?”
“Cadet Robbins, sir. John Charles Robbins. You see, I can’t come back then. I have to go back to the Academy with the rest of the Glee Club on the last train tonight, or I’ll get demerits enough to keep me from getting my second-lieutenant’s bar at graduation this June. And I’m scared, sir — I’m scared pink. Because if something hadn’t happened to her she’d have met that train last night!”
Miss Hildegarde Withers suddenly pricked up her ears.
“The girl-friend’s name is Bianca Riley, perhaps?”
He nodded. “And she didn’t come to her apartment at all last night, because I ’phoned every hour.” Then he stopped. “How did you know, ma’am?”
“I didn’t,”
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