The Cases of Hildegarde Withers (9 page)

He
dictated,
very
slowly,
for
what
seemed
to
him
an
hour.
He
stole
a
glance
at
his
watch,
and
saw
that
four
minutes
had
elapsed.
He
found
himself
improvising,
repeating
a
line
.
…

“
You
g
ave
me
that
once,”
protested
Margie.
“And
the
rhymes
are
bad.”
She
raised
her
head
as
if
she
had
suddenly
remembered
some
unspeakable
and
ancient
secret.
“Turn
on
the
lights!”
she
cried.
“It’s
getting
—
Art!
I
can’t
see
you!”
She
groped
to
her
feet.
“Art
—
oh,
God,
what
have
you
done
to
me
.
…
”

Her
voice
trailed
away,
and
little
bubbles
were
at
her
lips.
She
plunged
forward,
before
he
could
catch
her.

Reese
found
himself
without
any
particular
emotion
except
gratitude
that
her
little
body
had
not
been
heavy
enough
to
shake
the
floor.
He
left
her
there,
and
went
swiftly
to
the
door.
There
was
no
sign
that
anyone
had
been
near
to
hear
that
last
desperate
appeal.
He
congratulated
himself
on
his
luck.
This
sort
of
thing
was
far
simpler
than
the
books
had
made
him
suppose.

He
closed
the
door,
and
shot
the
bolt
which
was
designed
to
insure
privacy
for
the
musicians.
Then
he
began
swiftly
to
complete
his
picture
—
a
picture
that
was
to
show
to
the
whole
world
the
inevitable
suicide
of
Margie
Thorens.

He
first
donned
his
light
gloves.
It
was
no
effort
at
all
to
lift
the
girl
to
the
wicker
settee,
although
he
had
to
resist
a
temptation
to
close
the
staring
dark
eyes.

He
reached
for
the
tiny
gold-washed
strap-watch
that
Margie
Thorens
wore
around
her
left
wrist.
Here
he
struck
a
momentary
snag.
Reese
had
meant
to
set
the
hands
at
five
of
six,
and
then
smash
the
thing
in
order
to
set
the
time
of
the
“suicide,”
but
the
crystal
had
broken
when
she
fell.

The
watch
was
not
ticking.
He
removed
one
glove,
and
carefully
forced
the
hands
of
the
little
timepiece
ahead.
The
shards
of
broken
glass
impeded
their
movement,
but
they
moved.
He
put
his
glove
back
on.

Reese
did
not
neglect
to
gather
up
the
fragment
or
two
of
glass
which
had
fallen
on
the
oak
floor,
and
place
them
where
they
would
naturally
have
been
if
the
watch
had
been
broken
against
the
arm
of
the
settee
in
her
death
agony.
Luckily
the
daylight
lingered.

The
paper
cup
was
on
the
floor.
He
was
not
sure
that
finger-prints
could
be
wiped
from
paper,
so
he
crumpled
it
into
his
pocket.
Taking
another
from
the
rack,
he
sloshed
a
bit
of
water
into
it,
and
then
dropped
in
a
few
particles
of
the
poison
which
he
had
saved
for
some
such
purpose.
The
mixture
he
spilled
about
the
dead
mouth
and
face,
and
let
the
cup
fall
where
it
would
have
fallen
from
the
nerveless
fingers.
On
second
thought,
he
picked
it
up,
placed
it
in
the
limp
hand
of
Margie
Thorens,
and
crumpled
it
there
with
his
gloved
hand.

It
was
finished
—
and
water-tight,
he
knew
that.
Who
could
doubt
that
a
young
and
lonely
girl,
stranded
in
New
York
without
friends
or
family,
dis
appointed
in
her
ambitions
and
low
in
funds,
might
be
moved
to
take
her
own
life?

Reese
looked
at
his
watch.
The
hands
had
barely
passed
the
hour
of
five-thirty-five.
He
had
twenty
minutes
to
establish
a
perfect
alibi,
if
he
should
ever
need
one.

There
still
remained
a
ticklish
bit
of
fine
work.
He
unlocked
the
door
and
looked
out
into
the
main
office.
It
was
still
deserted.
He
stepped
out,
leaving
the
door
ajar,
and
put
his
arm
inside
to
turn
the
brass
knob
which
shot
the
bolt.

Pressing
the
large
blade
of
his
jack-knife
against
the
spring
lock,
he
withdrew
his
arm
and
swung
the
door
shut.
Then
he
pulled
away
the
knife,
and
the
latch
clicked.
Margie
Thorens
was
dead
in
a
room
which
had
a
window
without
a
fire
escape,
and
a
door
locked
on
the
inside.