Well, perhaps Mr. Macfarland was wrong when he said that she could play no possible part in this investigation. Betty Curran was a good friend of Anise Halloran’s, and Anise Halloran is dead. What’s more, I just phoned Brooklyn Hospital, and four or five other big hospitals in that part of the city, and at none of them is there or was there a patient named Betty Curran!”
Mr. Macfarland gasped, audibly. “I never … heard of such a thing! Then where is Miss Curran? What’s she been doing all this time?”
Miss Withers nodded. “I wonder!”
IX
That’s What Little Girls Are Made Of
(11/16/32—10:00 A.M.)
T HINGS WERE GETTING OUT of the Sergeant’s depth. He looked at Miss Withers, but got no help from that lady. He looked at the Principal, who seemed in need of help himself.
Sergeant Taylor had gathered these teachers together in the hope of garnering from them information which would fasten the net tighter around Anderson the janitor. And now things seemed to be getting out of hand, what with the introduction of new names and new avenues of approach. Taylor liked his cases simple
“I don’t see—” he began.
“Quite evidently,” Miss Withers told him. “ Very evidently you don’t see.”
There was a shuffling among the teachers, and an exchange of whispers.
The Sergeant pushed his hat up on his forehead. “I suppose you mean that this Curran dame is hiding out, and that she killed Anise Halloran? It don’t make sense, to me. That sort of a killing ain’t often done by a woman. Women kill each other with a gun or else with poison. Besides, where’s a motive?”
“I mean nothing of the sort,” said Hildegarde Withers. She surveyed the assemblage. “This is neither the time nor the place to tell you what I mean. But, Sergeant, I think you’d better stop this futile speech making and send out a broadcast to pick up Betty Curran. Check up on her boarding house or wherever she lived. Send out her description. That missing girl is important to this case, and don’t forget that for a minute. The janitor is safe in a cell, and he’ll keep. There’ll be weeks to dig up evidence against him—but you may only have hours to find that girl.” Miss Withers lowered her voice, so that only the Principal and the detective could hear. “You may be hours too late!”
The Sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “You mean … say! A fiend, huh? Two victims instead of one! You don’t think we’ll find this Curran girl even if we do send out the alarm … not alive, anyway!” He turned to the gathering.
“Excuse me, folks. I’ve got to get to the telephone—you all wait right here.”
The teachers settled back in their seats resignedly, all but Miss Strasmick, the wide-faced, red-lipped mistress of the fourth grade. She half rose in her seat.
“You can’t do that!” she began. “Betty Curran is a friend of mine.”
The Sergeant faced her. “I can’t do what?”
“You can’t sound the alarm as if she was a criminal or something. I—I’m sure she has nothing to do with this. It’s cruel—it’s …”
“Exactly,” Bob Stevenson chimed in. “Suppose Miss Curran is simply in some other hospital? Isn’t what she’s doing her own business?”
“Well, for the—” But Miss Withers cut the Sergeant short.
“I’m afraid this is a murder inquiry, not a picnic,” she suggested. The Sergeant was already at the door, bound for the office and the telephone. Miss Withers saw her chance.
“I’ll have to be excused for a little while,” she said to the Principal.
Macfarland was bending one of the wings of his stand-up collar back and forth.
“But Miss Withers … the Sergeant wants to question all of us. And I must speak with you privately.”
She paused at the doorway. “Later, Mr. Macfarland.”
“But I wanted to tell you … I thought, that in the light of the new developments in the case since I talked to you last night … it might not be necessary …”
“It is necessary,”
Mr. Macfarland gasped, audibly. “I never … heard of such a thing! Then where is Miss Curran? What’s she been doing all this time?”
Miss Withers nodded. “I wonder!”
IX
That’s What Little Girls Are Made Of
(11/16/32—10:00 A.M.)
T HINGS WERE GETTING OUT of the Sergeant’s depth. He looked at Miss Withers, but got no help from that lady. He looked at the Principal, who seemed in need of help himself.
Sergeant Taylor had gathered these teachers together in the hope of garnering from them information which would fasten the net tighter around Anderson the janitor. And now things seemed to be getting out of hand, what with the introduction of new names and new avenues of approach. Taylor liked his cases simple
“I don’t see—” he began.
“Quite evidently,” Miss Withers told him. “ Very evidently you don’t see.”
There was a shuffling among the teachers, and an exchange of whispers.
The Sergeant pushed his hat up on his forehead. “I suppose you mean that this Curran dame is hiding out, and that she killed Anise Halloran? It don’t make sense, to me. That sort of a killing ain’t often done by a woman. Women kill each other with a gun or else with poison. Besides, where’s a motive?”
“I mean nothing of the sort,” said Hildegarde Withers. She surveyed the assemblage. “This is neither the time nor the place to tell you what I mean. But, Sergeant, I think you’d better stop this futile speech making and send out a broadcast to pick up Betty Curran. Check up on her boarding house or wherever she lived. Send out her description. That missing girl is important to this case, and don’t forget that for a minute. The janitor is safe in a cell, and he’ll keep. There’ll be weeks to dig up evidence against him—but you may only have hours to find that girl.” Miss Withers lowered her voice, so that only the Principal and the detective could hear. “You may be hours too late!”
The Sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “You mean … say! A fiend, huh? Two victims instead of one! You don’t think we’ll find this Curran girl even if we do send out the alarm … not alive, anyway!” He turned to the gathering.
“Excuse me, folks. I’ve got to get to the telephone—you all wait right here.”
The teachers settled back in their seats resignedly, all but Miss Strasmick, the wide-faced, red-lipped mistress of the fourth grade. She half rose in her seat.
“You can’t do that!” she began. “Betty Curran is a friend of mine.”
The Sergeant faced her. “I can’t do what?”
“You can’t sound the alarm as if she was a criminal or something. I—I’m sure she has nothing to do with this. It’s cruel—it’s …”
“Exactly,” Bob Stevenson chimed in. “Suppose Miss Curran is simply in some other hospital? Isn’t what she’s doing her own business?”
“Well, for the—” But Miss Withers cut the Sergeant short.
“I’m afraid this is a murder inquiry, not a picnic,” she suggested. The Sergeant was already at the door, bound for the office and the telephone. Miss Withers saw her chance.
“I’ll have to be excused for a little while,” she said to the Principal.
Macfarland was bending one of the wings of his stand-up collar back and forth.
“But Miss Withers … the Sergeant wants to question all of us. And I must speak with you privately.”
She paused at the doorway. “Later, Mr. Macfarland.”
“But I wanted to tell you … I thought, that in the light of the new developments in the case since I talked to you last night … it might not be necessary …”
“It is necessary,”
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