Miss Withers Regrets (23 page)

He nodded, obviously surprised.

“How very odd,” the schoolteacher observed. “Well, Oscar, we seem to have done everything here that can be done. Thank you very much, Mr. Abbott, for your help. Please go on with your breakfast, we can see ourselves out.”

But he followed them part of the way. “I’m really worried,” he said. “About Helen—”

“She’ll turn up,” the inspector said confidently.

“And anyway,” Miss Withers pointed out, “Helen is of age, and she’s chosen her own path. If I may make a suggestion, there is someone else who needs you more right now.” She looked towards the upper floor.

Abbott smiled. “You mean Lawn? She’s sufficient unto herself.”

“I wonder,” said Miss Withers softly. “I wonder if any of us is ever that sufficient?” She took the inspector’s arm and led him out of the place, a very much happier man than he had been only half an hour before.

But they paused in the front doorway. “Maybe I ought to use the phone,” he suggested, “to order a broadcast sent out to pick up Helen Cairns? Or Pat Montague?”

The schoolteacher shook her head. “I’m not so sure, Oscar. Things are moving a little too fast for me.”

Then he grinned, himself again. “Don’t be so mysterious. I know why you asked Abbott if the sleeping pill worked. You wanted to find out if, without his knowing it, maybe Helen came back here last night after he was asleep and maybe made or answered a phone call this morning.”

“Something like that, but not quite,” she confessed. “You see, Oscar, I made a little experiment. It’s very odd about Thurlow Abbott’s getting to sleep so quickly last night. Because I tasted two of those sleeping capsules, and they’re filled with common baking soda!”

The inspector’s shoulders sagged again. “Judas Priest in a bathtub!” he moaned.

Miss Withers stared at him rather queerly. “We still have a trump,” she pointed out. “Even if we have to refill this bottle with genuine capsules. Because Sheriff Vinge is wrong, and we both know he is wrong.”

“He probably knows he’s wrong too,” Piper said. “But knowing it and admitting it are two different things.”

She nodded without listening. “You know, Oscar, it’s a shame that your men didn’t get to the Turkish bath soon enough to catch Pat Montague and find out just what shoe size he wears.”

The inspector looked at her blankly. “You’re not starting to suspect him, after sticking up for him all this time?”

“Of course,” she continued, “it just occurred to me that we might determine his size from other sources.”

“You mean the Army? They’re great on detail, but I doubt if they keep a record of the shoe size of every first lieutenant.”

“I didn’t mean that. I meant—well, didn’t Pat Montague, by his own admission, take a walk from the highway over there down through the lawns and flower gardens to the swimming pool? That was only last Saturday, and there’s only been a sprinkle of rain since then.”

“Sure enough. I should have remembered. Come on.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll let you do the leg work,” said Miss Withers. She watched while he hurried off and then pushed in against the front door, which she had never quite allowed to close during their conversation.

Once inside, she listened for a moment. There was no sound in the house except the clatter of Thurlow Abbott’s coffee cup in the dining room. She went swiftly and silently across the drawing room, up the stairs, and along the hall, to tap gently with her fingernail upon a certain door. There was no sound from within. “Lawn!” whispered Miss Withers, and then tapped again.

“Oh, go away!” came a voice from within, a voice with a sob in it.

“It’s I—Miss Withers. I’ll go, but first I have important news for you.”

The lock clicked, and the door opened to disclose Lawn Abbott in black silk pajamas, her eyes red-rimmed. “I don’t much care what news you have,” the girl said. “He’s really gone—to reenlist in the Army!”

Miss Withers nodded wisely. “So that’s what he called up to tell you this morning! Still, there might be ways to prevent him from taking that step.”

“It’s no use, I tell you!” The girl shook her head so furiously that the long dark hair whipped her face.

“If I may say so,” the schoolteacher said gently, “your greatest mistake has been your insistence on playing a lone hand. You have friends—you have always had friends, no doubt, who would have been glad to help you if you’d let them.”

Lawn flickered a thin bitter smile. “Well, perhaps. But it’s too late now.”

“Is it? I wonder. Offhand I can think of a number of ways of bringing Pat Montague back, still in civilian clothes. And I don’t mean under arrest, either.”

The girl waited, statuelike, her lips parted.

“I can’t say any more now,” continued Miss Withers. “I’m not even supposed to be here. But I’ll make you a promise. If you’ll be at my cottage at noon there’ll be somebody waiting there who wants to see you more than anybody in the world.”

Lawn Abbott automatically gnawed at the nail of her right forefinger. “I don’t believe you,” she said tonelessly.

“Or somebody who will want to see you,” the schoolteacher corrected herself, “by that time. He’ll be waiting there at noon, remember. I’ve got to run now, before the inspector misses me.”

She turned and hurried out of the place, her heart pounding. As luck would have it, the inspector was just returning from his search of the grounds, a wry smile on his face. “What luck, Oscar?” she hailed him.

“Don’t quite know. I found the tracks all right, where Pat Montague stumbled through a soft flowerbed. His print is just the size of mine, and I wear a nine. Do you suppose your flour
moulage
could be off half a size? That’s less than a quarter of an inch.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “It could be tested, I suppose. But that can wait. Oscar, where is Camp Nivens located?”

“The Army separation center?” He thought. “It’s out beyond Garden City. Why?”

“How long would it take to get there from here?”

“No more than an hour, certainly, by auto. Three times that long by train, because you’d have to go all the way into Penn Station and change.”

Miss Withers looked pleased. “Then it’s going to be more simple than I thought. Oscar, I wish you’d get the Garden City police on the phone.”

“But why?”

She shook her head. “I told you this was the last day on the case,” she reminded him. “If you’ll do what I ask, I’ll make it the last half-day.”

The inspector held the car door open for her, but this time he climbed into the back seat beside her. “I don’t know what you’re up to, exactly,” he admitted. “But you’re acting as if you knew something.”

She nodded. “I think I do, Oscar. I think I’ve known for some time, but a lot of possibilities had to be eliminated first. As a matter of fact, I’ve dropped hints enough so you ought to know too. But please let me play it my way. It’s easier to demonstrate than explain, and besides, there are some holes big enough to drive a truck through in my hypothesis.” She went on to explain just what it was that she wanted him to say to the Garden City police.

The inspector nearly fell out of the car. “What earthly good will it do,” he demanded, “to locate Pat Montague and to run down Helen Cairns and to tell them that the case is all solved when it isn’t?”

“Sheriff Vinge says it is,” she reminded him. “Besides, the important thing is to have a report on what Pat and Helen do afterwards.” There was a reassuring ring of confidence in her voice.

She was to regret that confidence, and very soon. The inspector dropped her off at the hotel, promising to reappear later on when he had attended to all the things that needed attending, and she forced herself to make breakfast. But there was nothing of it except the coffee which attracted her, and she drank that clear and black. Her hand, she knew, was full of the top honors, all the face cards. But suppose, as in the old story about the man who played cards on an ocean liner with the devil, her adversary should choose to lead out the green ace of Hippogriffs?

Miss Withers turned on the fluorescent light above her tank of tropical fish and noticed that the leaves of the aquatic plants were turning yellow along the edges and that the water was roiled and cloudy. She shrugged and then crossed the room to seat herself on a hard chair, with—as she would have expressed it—one eye on the door and one on the telephone.

Miss Hildegarde Withers was still sitting there, in almost the same position, when finally there came the sound of quick, nervous steps along the path and a sharp tat-a-tat-tat on the door. She opened it hastily and saw that Lawn Abbott stood there—a strange, new Lawn. The dark circles were gone from around her eyes, and her mouth looked softer. She was flushed and breathless, almost as if she had run all the way.

“Is he here?” she cried.

The schoolteacher indicated the clock. “You’re a little early, child,” she pointed out.

Lawn slapped her silver-mounted crop against her riding-breeches. “I’d have been earlier yet if my father hadn’t gone off somewhere in the little car. And of course Helen is still using the sedan. So I had to saddle up that big hack of mine and ride down—it’s not much more than a mile along the beach. I hope the hotel people won’t mind; I tied him to a clothesline out back.”

“Do sit down,” invited Miss Withers, indicating the divan.

But Lawn Abbott was in a prowling mood. “Tell me,” she begged. “You’ve heard from Pat? He’ll really be here?”

“Be patient, young lady. I made you a promise, didn’t I? I’m glad you came early, though, because we have a lot to talk about. We may as well have our chat over a nice cup of coffee, don’t you think?” She started for the kitchen.

“None for me,” Lawn said quickly. “I’m too excited.” She hesitated. “I need something all right. You haven’t—no, I don’t suppose you’d have a drink in the house?”

Miss Withers blinked. “You mean you’d like a slug in it, as the inspector so inelegantly says? I’ll see if I can’t arrange it.” She turned the burner on under the coffee pot and then after a few minutes poured out two cups, but her mind was elsewhere. Out in the living room Lawn was pacing up and down like a bear in a cage.

“I don’t see why you’re taking all this trouble,” she was saying.

“You’ve never been an old maid,” the schoolteacher advised her as she reached up to the top shelf to take down the half-pint bottle of cognac that had been purchased for her Thanksgiving plum pudding. She carefully poured a modicum into the cup that wasn’t cracked. “There is, you know, a certain pleasure in straightening out people’s lives—in a way it’s being
Dea ex Machina
—”

“The what?”

“The Goddess from the Machine, who swoops down to make everything come right, at least in the classical theater.” Miss Withers added, “I hope!” in a lower voice, and then let fall a few drops of the spirit into the other cup. She certainly needed some outside help if she was going to carry off the next half-hour successfully. After a moment’s delay she finally entered the living room, bearing a tray which held, besides the two cups of coffee, a sugar bowl and cream pitcher. She put the tray down on the low table before the divan, wishing with all her heart that her visitor would light somewhere. She didn’t want Lawn glancing into the dark corner behind the divan, at least not yet.

Coffee could hardly be drunk standing, that was one good thing. Lawn dropped down on the cushions as she accepted her cup. She accepted it and made a wry face.

“Isn’t it all right?” Miss Withers asked quickly. “Perhaps the slug was too strong—I never use alcohol myself—”

“Oh, it’s okay,” Lawn said, drinking deeply.

Miss Withers took her own cup and retreated across the room. She took a sip and decided that while some people might like coffee with brandy she would have it plain for the rest of her life. “It’s too bad,” she began pleasantly, “that you didn’t come down to the open house at the police station this morning.” She sipped again. “The whole mystery was solved, you know.”

Lawn’s cup clattered in the saucer. “What did you say?”

“It was
solved.
The investigation is over. Sheriff Vinge decided that Searles murdered your brother-in-law and then killed himself when he thought he was going to be caught.”

“You don’t believe that!”

Miss Withers cocked her head. “The sheriff was very, very convincing. After all, I’m only an amateur.”

Lawn sat up straight. “Look here, Miss Withers, I want a showdown. You’ve been very nice to me from the beginning. But I’ve got to know where I stand. I’ve got to know what you’re driving at!”

“Yes?” To gain a little time Miss Withers finished her coffee. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything! But first I want to know where my sister Helen was all last night and where she is now.”

There was a long pause. “I have my own opinion as to her whereabouts last night, but it’s only a guess. As to her present whereabouts, I think that she might be on her way here.”

“Oh!” Lawn said. She took up her cup and thoughtfully drank the remainder. Miss Withers heaved a great sigh of relief. She looked at the clock, wondering how long it was before betapentalin took effect. It shouldn’t be so very long, she decided, especially since she had used half the bottle.

“It’s nearly twelve,” she observed.

“It’s time Pat was here, if he’s coming,” Lawn said. “What happened to make him change his mind?”

“He simply sees things more clearly by this time, or I hope he does. You’ve waited for Pat Montague a long time, haven’t you?”

“That’s no secret. I wanted him since the first day I saw him. And then I had to stand back and watch my sister put her lovely tentacles around and around him, strangling him—” She laughed without humor. “That was why I ran away from home,” Lawn went on. “The time I told you about. Helen and Pat got engaged, and I couldn’t stand it. She could have had anybody, anybody at all, and there was nobody but Pat for me. He belonged to me, don’t you see?”

All of a sudden Miss Hildegarde Withers felt supremely confident. It must, she thought, have been the few drops of brandy that she let fall into her cup out in the kitchen. Her cup—the cracked one.

Just to reassure herself, she turned the cup around, but the brandy had made everything fuzzy so that she couldn’t even focus her eyes on the crack. Even so, everything was going swimmingly. “You know,” she confessed, “there was a time when I thought that you yourself might be the murderer of Huntley Cairns.”