two.”
Even as she spoke, the fringe of the crowd began to melt away. Children scampered toward the playground, others made a beeline for Tobey’s candy store, and still others raced down the street toward the distant elevated.
Miss Withers looked around again as she stood in the doorway. Not an urchin remained in sight, with the single exception of Leland Stanford Jones. “Aw, I don’t want to go home and I don’t want to go to classes,” he announced.
“What in Heaven’s name do you want to do?”
“I want to go with you,” he announced bravely.
She took his hand and led him past the officer. “That’s just where you’re going,” she promised him. “I’ve got a job for you.” Tolliver looked surprised, but said nothing.
There were voices within Miss Cohen’s room—1A—but Miss Withers lingered a moment outside. Mulholland’s bulky figure graced the far end of the hall, but she had no thought for him.
She searched in her handbag and extracted a key. She pressed it into Leland’s moist palm, with whispered instructions. He nodded, eagerly.
“Bring it, and the key, to me here,” she told him. “Scamper now, and let no one see you.”
She watched him race up the stairs toward the second floor, and then drew a deep breath and plunged into the assembled faculty meeting.
They were all there, every man jack of them. Miss Withers felt vaguely disappointed at that fact. She had hoped that some of them—the guilty one, of course—had made a bolt for it, thereby proving the innocence of the others.
At that time, Hildegarde Withers put little or no faith in the guilt of Anderson the janitor, in spite of the various unexplained angles to the case. Later developments, as we shall see, bid fair to change her mind.
As she took a seat toward the back of the room, she could not help wondering if the murderer of Anise Halloran, and the would-be murderer of her own friend the Inspector, was perhaps sitting beside her, or across the aisle?
Could it be the young and handsome Bob Stevenson, who was so busily engaged in separating the various thin leaves of a built-up cardboard match from a paper before him? Could it be Alice Rennel, she of the sharp eyes and the sharper tongue, or Vera Cohen, so young and ambitious and buxom?
Miss Mycroft, motherly and placid, the guide and mentor of the first grade, looked upset and worried this morning. The cameo pin at her throat was pinned askew, and the beautiful gray hair was coming undone from its Greek knot at the back of her head. Miss Mycroft had taken a motherly interest, almost more than a motherly interest, in the young singing teacher.
They were none of them looking their best, Miss Withers decided. It must have been a problem in many an apartment that morning of what to wear under such tragic circumstances. Most of the “girls,” as she called them, compromised on black or dark blue serge, unrelieved by the usual flounces and cuffs and collars of lace. Miss Hopkins, for some unknown reason, had blossomed out in bright peach. Miss Jones and Miss Casey, sitting together in one seat at the side, whispered incessantly, until Hildegarde Withers was almost moved to rap upon her desk with a ruler.
Natalie Pearson, she who had shared a top floor office with the dead girl, sat alone in a front seat, a tiny lace handkerchief to her mouth. Her eyes were red and swollen. Miss Withers found herself remembering, unreasonably, the pressed orchid in a theater program in Miss Pearson’s desk. There must be a sentimental streak even in this stiff and starched young woman with her low-heeled oxfords and her tweed suits.
Across the aisle from Natalie Pearson sat Miss Murchison, whose duty it was to divide her time between the school library, in room 2D, and her own fourth graders in 2A and 2B combined. She was engaged at the moment in showing Miss Strasmick, she of the too-red hair and the too-pink dress, something written on the back of an envelope. Miss Withers would have
Even as she spoke, the fringe of the crowd began to melt away. Children scampered toward the playground, others made a beeline for Tobey’s candy store, and still others raced down the street toward the distant elevated.
Miss Withers looked around again as she stood in the doorway. Not an urchin remained in sight, with the single exception of Leland Stanford Jones. “Aw, I don’t want to go home and I don’t want to go to classes,” he announced.
“What in Heaven’s name do you want to do?”
“I want to go with you,” he announced bravely.
She took his hand and led him past the officer. “That’s just where you’re going,” she promised him. “I’ve got a job for you.” Tolliver looked surprised, but said nothing.
There were voices within Miss Cohen’s room—1A—but Miss Withers lingered a moment outside. Mulholland’s bulky figure graced the far end of the hall, but she had no thought for him.
She searched in her handbag and extracted a key. She pressed it into Leland’s moist palm, with whispered instructions. He nodded, eagerly.
“Bring it, and the key, to me here,” she told him. “Scamper now, and let no one see you.”
She watched him race up the stairs toward the second floor, and then drew a deep breath and plunged into the assembled faculty meeting.
They were all there, every man jack of them. Miss Withers felt vaguely disappointed at that fact. She had hoped that some of them—the guilty one, of course—had made a bolt for it, thereby proving the innocence of the others.
At that time, Hildegarde Withers put little or no faith in the guilt of Anderson the janitor, in spite of the various unexplained angles to the case. Later developments, as we shall see, bid fair to change her mind.
As she took a seat toward the back of the room, she could not help wondering if the murderer of Anise Halloran, and the would-be murderer of her own friend the Inspector, was perhaps sitting beside her, or across the aisle?
Could it be the young and handsome Bob Stevenson, who was so busily engaged in separating the various thin leaves of a built-up cardboard match from a paper before him? Could it be Alice Rennel, she of the sharp eyes and the sharper tongue, or Vera Cohen, so young and ambitious and buxom?
Miss Mycroft, motherly and placid, the guide and mentor of the first grade, looked upset and worried this morning. The cameo pin at her throat was pinned askew, and the beautiful gray hair was coming undone from its Greek knot at the back of her head. Miss Mycroft had taken a motherly interest, almost more than a motherly interest, in the young singing teacher.
They were none of them looking their best, Miss Withers decided. It must have been a problem in many an apartment that morning of what to wear under such tragic circumstances. Most of the “girls,” as she called them, compromised on black or dark blue serge, unrelieved by the usual flounces and cuffs and collars of lace. Miss Hopkins, for some unknown reason, had blossomed out in bright peach. Miss Jones and Miss Casey, sitting together in one seat at the side, whispered incessantly, until Hildegarde Withers was almost moved to rap upon her desk with a ruler.
Natalie Pearson, she who had shared a top floor office with the dead girl, sat alone in a front seat, a tiny lace handkerchief to her mouth. Her eyes were red and swollen. Miss Withers found herself remembering, unreasonably, the pressed orchid in a theater program in Miss Pearson’s desk. There must be a sentimental streak even in this stiff and starched young woman with her low-heeled oxfords and her tweed suits.
Across the aisle from Natalie Pearson sat Miss Murchison, whose duty it was to divide her time between the school library, in room 2D, and her own fourth graders in 2A and 2B combined. She was engaged at the moment in showing Miss Strasmick, she of the too-red hair and the too-pink dress, something written on the back of an envelope. Miss Withers would have
Similar Books
