know,” explained Miss Hildegarde Withers. “Any bad results?”
“Certainly not!” Then, with a rising wrath, “Did you have to go and wake me up just to ask foolish questions?”
“I thought it best, Oscar. The early bird, you know.”
The inspector said petulantly that he didn’t care for worms and never had. “But since there’s no chance of any rest with you in town, I suppose I might as well get up. Meet you in the lobby in half an hour.”
“Good!” said Miss Withers. “And I’ll have something to open your eyes.” Hanging up the receiver on this cryptic remark, she hurried out of her room, climbed one flight of stairs, and knocked at the door of 307.
Within all was silence, and she knocked again. And then the door was opened, but not by Adele Mabie.
She found herself staring closely into the face—much too closely, the thought struck her—of Alderman Francis Mabie. He was clothed in a greenish-yellow dressing gown, beneath which showed well-wrinkled lavender pajamas. Having as yet neither combed his sparse hair nor shaved, the alderman looked as villainous as a man can look. In one hand he gripped a tall highball.
Miss Withers sniffed disapprovingly. “Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt your breakfast.” She looked past him. “I’d like to see your wife for a moment.”
“Adele’s gone out.”
“Out? Out where—with whom?”
“She didn’t say,” Mabie admitted. “Shopping, I guess. She just got up early and went.” Suddenly his eyes fell on the two-kilo box of Larin chocolates which Miss Withers held in her hand. “Oh, so that’s where they went!”
She nodded, held it out to him. “Just my old kleptomania coming back on me,” the schoolteacher told him. “I always repent afterward.”
Mabie stepped backward, eying her dubiously. “Take it,” Miss Withers said. He accepted it automatically, placed it on the little glass-topped writing desk across the room.
“Do you want to know why I really borrowed it last night?” She went on. “Or can you guess?”
It was evident that Mabie could guess.
“The police,” Miss Withers said, “are only interested in murders after they happen. I would rather prevent one murder than solve a dozen.” She walked toward the desk. “Do you mind if I leave a note for your wife, now I’m here?”
“Go ahead,” he invited and sank into a modernistic armchair to nurse his drink.
The schoolteacher crossed the room, sat down at the tiny desk. There was a rack of hotel stationery, a long wooden pen with a rusty steel point. “No ink?” she asked casually.
“In the drawer,” he suggested. There was a heavy glass inkwell in the desk drawer, half full. It was of a type, Miss Withers thought, which she had seen before. Concealing her disappointment as best she could, she scribbled rapidly.
“Just giving your wife some good advice,” she explained, as she put the message in an envelope and sealed it.
“My wife needs some advice,” Mabie said, with sudden feeling.
Miss Withers looked at him sideways. “Oh yes—a little family argument, wasn’t it? Over whether it was best to stay and face this situation or take a plane?”
He was in a mood to talk. “Not at all! The argument was just the usual thing that married couples quarrel about.”
Miss Withers leaped to the conclusion that she understood everything. She knew all about triangles and green-eyed monsters.
“The little Prothero girl?”
He shook his head blankly. “Only one thing worth quarreling over.” He drained his drink, even smiled. “Know what it is? It’s money!”
And now Miss Hildegarde Withers was surprised. “I thought—”
“You thought my wife had all the money in the world, almost? Well, she has. But the more you have the more you think about it. I’ve always looked on money just as—well, as chips in a game. She thinks it’s the end and the beginning. And just because I take a little flyer—”
“By any chance did you fall for one of Mr.
“Certainly not!” Then, with a rising wrath, “Did you have to go and wake me up just to ask foolish questions?”
“I thought it best, Oscar. The early bird, you know.”
The inspector said petulantly that he didn’t care for worms and never had. “But since there’s no chance of any rest with you in town, I suppose I might as well get up. Meet you in the lobby in half an hour.”
“Good!” said Miss Withers. “And I’ll have something to open your eyes.” Hanging up the receiver on this cryptic remark, she hurried out of her room, climbed one flight of stairs, and knocked at the door of 307.
Within all was silence, and she knocked again. And then the door was opened, but not by Adele Mabie.
She found herself staring closely into the face—much too closely, the thought struck her—of Alderman Francis Mabie. He was clothed in a greenish-yellow dressing gown, beneath which showed well-wrinkled lavender pajamas. Having as yet neither combed his sparse hair nor shaved, the alderman looked as villainous as a man can look. In one hand he gripped a tall highball.
Miss Withers sniffed disapprovingly. “Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt your breakfast.” She looked past him. “I’d like to see your wife for a moment.”
“Adele’s gone out.”
“Out? Out where—with whom?”
“She didn’t say,” Mabie admitted. “Shopping, I guess. She just got up early and went.” Suddenly his eyes fell on the two-kilo box of Larin chocolates which Miss Withers held in her hand. “Oh, so that’s where they went!”
She nodded, held it out to him. “Just my old kleptomania coming back on me,” the schoolteacher told him. “I always repent afterward.”
Mabie stepped backward, eying her dubiously. “Take it,” Miss Withers said. He accepted it automatically, placed it on the little glass-topped writing desk across the room.
“Do you want to know why I really borrowed it last night?” She went on. “Or can you guess?”
It was evident that Mabie could guess.
“The police,” Miss Withers said, “are only interested in murders after they happen. I would rather prevent one murder than solve a dozen.” She walked toward the desk. “Do you mind if I leave a note for your wife, now I’m here?”
“Go ahead,” he invited and sank into a modernistic armchair to nurse his drink.
The schoolteacher crossed the room, sat down at the tiny desk. There was a rack of hotel stationery, a long wooden pen with a rusty steel point. “No ink?” she asked casually.
“In the drawer,” he suggested. There was a heavy glass inkwell in the desk drawer, half full. It was of a type, Miss Withers thought, which she had seen before. Concealing her disappointment as best she could, she scribbled rapidly.
“Just giving your wife some good advice,” she explained, as she put the message in an envelope and sealed it.
“My wife needs some advice,” Mabie said, with sudden feeling.
Miss Withers looked at him sideways. “Oh yes—a little family argument, wasn’t it? Over whether it was best to stay and face this situation or take a plane?”
He was in a mood to talk. “Not at all! The argument was just the usual thing that married couples quarrel about.”
Miss Withers leaped to the conclusion that she understood everything. She knew all about triangles and green-eyed monsters.
“The little Prothero girl?”
He shook his head blankly. “Only one thing worth quarreling over.” He drained his drink, even smiled. “Know what it is? It’s money!”
And now Miss Hildegarde Withers was surprised. “I thought—”
“You thought my wife had all the money in the world, almost? Well, she has. But the more you have the more you think about it. I’ve always looked on money just as—well, as chips in a game. She thinks it’s the end and the beginning. And just because I take a little flyer—”
“By any chance did you fall for one of Mr.
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