room!”
“Then,” retorted Miss Withers triumphantly, “Pat Montague is cleared. Because if he’s in jail he couldn’t have sneaked in here—”
“I didn’t say it was him. He could have sent somebody—”
“But why would he need to do that? He was never inside the house, so he couldn’t have left his cuff buttons or anything behind. Besides, the only friends he has are the people who live in this house, and Helen and Lawn wouldn’t need to sneak in to do any searching. They live here.”
“I still say it’s a simple triangle,” the inspector insisted wearily. “Just two men who wanted the same woman. It’s ABC.”
Miss Withers shook her head so hard that the frigate almost let loose a spinnaker. “No, no, Oscar! It isn’t a triangle; it’s a much more complicated figure, a pentacle or a pentagon or something. It would all be very much simpler if I could find that red book—only maybe it’s just a red herring. Anyway, young Beale overheard enough in here to realize that Commander Bennington and Nicolet and Mrs. Boad were very excited about a book in a red jacket—”
“That’s easy,” Piper decided. “It’s natural that the local gentry were interested in finding out what sort of neighbor they were going to have—whether Huntley Cairns would fit into the dog-loving, horse-show, country-club set or not. Go ahead and look for the book with the red jacket that Nicolet was so excited about. Ten to one it’s something with some bearing on Cairns’s tastes or background—something that proves he once played polo at Meadow Brook or won a blue ribbon with a bird dog.”
Miss Withers sniffed. “It’s not as easy as all that. Besides, I have been looking. I’ve peeked into every book with a red jacket in this library, and I don’t see anything for any one to get excited about. Here they are—look for yourself, and if you can see what interested Jed Nicolet you have better eyes than I have.”
The inspector obediently took up the volumes one by one. “Six Who Boil While the Lentils Pass, the stirring story of a man who was allergic to himself, by somebody named Weatherby.” He ruffled the pages. “Nothing here.” He picked up the next one. “Art of the Dance, by Señor Pablo Miltberg. Old Man Gordy’s System —or how to make money at the greyhound races. That couldn’t be it—or could it?”
Miss Withers thought not. There were no notes or enclosures in any of the volumes, no scribbled messages or marginal writings. “It must be something else,” she insisted.
There was only one other volume which by any stretch of the imagination could have been said to have a red jacket, and that was something called Sea-Rimes, a little book of outdoor, masculine verse illustrated by the author, whose tastes had run to ships and storms and spouting whales. “That simply cannot be it,” Miss Withers complained. “Oscar, I’m afraid that the person who searched this room took the book we want with him.”
Piper doubted it and said so. “If he’d found it in the shelves he wouldn’t have torn up the desk. Besides, I can see that there’s no gap in the shelves. The books are crowded, not scattered, and they just fill up the cases.”
It was, Miss Withers had to admit, a point well taken. Not even the schoolteacher could visualize the shadowy intruder bringing along a volume to substitute for the one he intended to take. Of course, he might have shoved the books along to fill the gap, but he really hadn’t had time for that.
“Well, Hildegarde, is there anything else you’d like to look for before we get out of here?”
The sarcasm went over her head. “There is,” said Hildegarde Withers. “I’d like to look for the murderer, or whoever it was that was here. Because he’s probably lurking somewhere in the house, waiting for a chance to continue his job of ransacking the place.”
“Okay,” the inspector said. “Let’s go.” And he searched the Cairns house from top to
“Then,” retorted Miss Withers triumphantly, “Pat Montague is cleared. Because if he’s in jail he couldn’t have sneaked in here—”
“I didn’t say it was him. He could have sent somebody—”
“But why would he need to do that? He was never inside the house, so he couldn’t have left his cuff buttons or anything behind. Besides, the only friends he has are the people who live in this house, and Helen and Lawn wouldn’t need to sneak in to do any searching. They live here.”
“I still say it’s a simple triangle,” the inspector insisted wearily. “Just two men who wanted the same woman. It’s ABC.”
Miss Withers shook her head so hard that the frigate almost let loose a spinnaker. “No, no, Oscar! It isn’t a triangle; it’s a much more complicated figure, a pentacle or a pentagon or something. It would all be very much simpler if I could find that red book—only maybe it’s just a red herring. Anyway, young Beale overheard enough in here to realize that Commander Bennington and Nicolet and Mrs. Boad were very excited about a book in a red jacket—”
“That’s easy,” Piper decided. “It’s natural that the local gentry were interested in finding out what sort of neighbor they were going to have—whether Huntley Cairns would fit into the dog-loving, horse-show, country-club set or not. Go ahead and look for the book with the red jacket that Nicolet was so excited about. Ten to one it’s something with some bearing on Cairns’s tastes or background—something that proves he once played polo at Meadow Brook or won a blue ribbon with a bird dog.”
Miss Withers sniffed. “It’s not as easy as all that. Besides, I have been looking. I’ve peeked into every book with a red jacket in this library, and I don’t see anything for any one to get excited about. Here they are—look for yourself, and if you can see what interested Jed Nicolet you have better eyes than I have.”
The inspector obediently took up the volumes one by one. “Six Who Boil While the Lentils Pass, the stirring story of a man who was allergic to himself, by somebody named Weatherby.” He ruffled the pages. “Nothing here.” He picked up the next one. “Art of the Dance, by Señor Pablo Miltberg. Old Man Gordy’s System —or how to make money at the greyhound races. That couldn’t be it—or could it?”
Miss Withers thought not. There were no notes or enclosures in any of the volumes, no scribbled messages or marginal writings. “It must be something else,” she insisted.
There was only one other volume which by any stretch of the imagination could have been said to have a red jacket, and that was something called Sea-Rimes, a little book of outdoor, masculine verse illustrated by the author, whose tastes had run to ships and storms and spouting whales. “That simply cannot be it,” Miss Withers complained. “Oscar, I’m afraid that the person who searched this room took the book we want with him.”
Piper doubted it and said so. “If he’d found it in the shelves he wouldn’t have torn up the desk. Besides, I can see that there’s no gap in the shelves. The books are crowded, not scattered, and they just fill up the cases.”
It was, Miss Withers had to admit, a point well taken. Not even the schoolteacher could visualize the shadowy intruder bringing along a volume to substitute for the one he intended to take. Of course, he might have shoved the books along to fill the gap, but he really hadn’t had time for that.
“Well, Hildegarde, is there anything else you’d like to look for before we get out of here?”
The sarcasm went over her head. “There is,” said Hildegarde Withers. “I’d like to look for the murderer, or whoever it was that was here. Because he’s probably lurking somewhere in the house, waiting for a chance to continue his job of ransacking the place.”
“Okay,” the inspector said. “Let’s go.” And he searched the Cairns house from top to
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