I’m worried about Hildegarde,” he kept telling himself. “She’s got into some roaring muddle but she’ll be all right. She wasn’t born to be smashed up in an auto—not her!”
She had probably got too close to the trail of this Laval fellow, and he’d made a desperate attempt to silence her forever. The inspector thought back over the various cases he knew in which the automobile had been used as an intentional instrument of death.
The Torrio mob used to put about three sticks of high-test dynamite under the floor boards of a car, wire it to the ignition and wait for the owner to turn the switch. That was old stuff in the East, but hadn’t there been something about a grand-jury investigator named Clinton out there in California? But the bomb-in-car gag didn’t fit in exactly. Of course, a good driver—or one in desperation—could force another car off the road. And perhaps off the cliff to hurtle down.
There were tricks that could be pulled with tires, too—and with the exhaust so that the driver of a completely closed car would pass peacefully off to sleep from too much carbon monoxide.
Hildegarde herself, the inspector decided, would be able to put her finger on the probable manner in which it had been accomplished. If she were conscious and able to talk. He smiled at that. Hildegarde would be able to talk, conscious or not.
The big transport plane slipped along westward into the early-morning sunlight at Albuquerque, over the endless frozen waves of the desert. More mountains, more desert, and then they were above the metallic, glossy green of orange groves, slanting down to the coastal plane of southern California.
It was a day among days, the sort of weather that Californians love to call climate. A cloudless sky of soft blue hung over Burbank Airport, and the glow of the sun made the inspector wish he had left his topcoat back in Manhattan along with his toothbrush.
The weather was a good omen, thought Oscar Piper. Nobody could get bad news on a morning like this. His spirits were undampened even when he discovered that the plane had flown him almost straight over San Bernardino and that now he had a good two-hour drive back to the eastward.
There was a cheerful young man with a car for hire at the airport, and the lights were with them all the way out on Foothill Boulevard. And then finally they were in sleepy little San Bernardino; they were pulling up outside the flat little white hospital on the far edge of town. To the north hung a mountain, scarred with a great pale arrowhead, but the inspector had no eye at the moment for scenic beauty.
He walked up the sidewalk toward the hospital door with his fingers crossed. At the steps he paused, studying the green lawn intently, and then pounced. Inspector Oscar Piper had found a four-leafed clover in the grass, a symbol of good luck everywhere but a thousand times more so here and at this time. It was as good as a true shamrock, at least.
Piper stuck it in his lapel and then went inside. At the desk a starched little nurse sat prissily reading the afternoon paper from Los Angeles. “I want to inquire about an accident case you have here,” he said. “A Miss Hildegarde Withers?”
“Miss Withers?” repeated the girl.
“Yes!” He nodded. “I’ve come a long way and I haven’t got all day to—”
“Member of the family?”
“No. I mean yes. Why—?”
“Her father?” pressed the nurse.
“Father?” he repeated wonderingly. “No, it’s just that I need a night’s sleep and a shave. Come on, where is she?”
“She isn’t here,” he was told.
“Discharged already, huh?” The inspector took a deep sigh for himself.
But the nurse was shaking her head. “I’m sorry, but there was no hope for her from the first. Miss Withers died this morning about six.”
The inspector just stood there, not even breathing.
“Everything that could be done for her was done,” the nurse continued. “I have her bill right here.”
The
She had probably got too close to the trail of this Laval fellow, and he’d made a desperate attempt to silence her forever. The inspector thought back over the various cases he knew in which the automobile had been used as an intentional instrument of death.
The Torrio mob used to put about three sticks of high-test dynamite under the floor boards of a car, wire it to the ignition and wait for the owner to turn the switch. That was old stuff in the East, but hadn’t there been something about a grand-jury investigator named Clinton out there in California? But the bomb-in-car gag didn’t fit in exactly. Of course, a good driver—or one in desperation—could force another car off the road. And perhaps off the cliff to hurtle down.
There were tricks that could be pulled with tires, too—and with the exhaust so that the driver of a completely closed car would pass peacefully off to sleep from too much carbon monoxide.
Hildegarde herself, the inspector decided, would be able to put her finger on the probable manner in which it had been accomplished. If she were conscious and able to talk. He smiled at that. Hildegarde would be able to talk, conscious or not.
The big transport plane slipped along westward into the early-morning sunlight at Albuquerque, over the endless frozen waves of the desert. More mountains, more desert, and then they were above the metallic, glossy green of orange groves, slanting down to the coastal plane of southern California.
It was a day among days, the sort of weather that Californians love to call climate. A cloudless sky of soft blue hung over Burbank Airport, and the glow of the sun made the inspector wish he had left his topcoat back in Manhattan along with his toothbrush.
The weather was a good omen, thought Oscar Piper. Nobody could get bad news on a morning like this. His spirits were undampened even when he discovered that the plane had flown him almost straight over San Bernardino and that now he had a good two-hour drive back to the eastward.
There was a cheerful young man with a car for hire at the airport, and the lights were with them all the way out on Foothill Boulevard. And then finally they were in sleepy little San Bernardino; they were pulling up outside the flat little white hospital on the far edge of town. To the north hung a mountain, scarred with a great pale arrowhead, but the inspector had no eye at the moment for scenic beauty.
He walked up the sidewalk toward the hospital door with his fingers crossed. At the steps he paused, studying the green lawn intently, and then pounced. Inspector Oscar Piper had found a four-leafed clover in the grass, a symbol of good luck everywhere but a thousand times more so here and at this time. It was as good as a true shamrock, at least.
Piper stuck it in his lapel and then went inside. At the desk a starched little nurse sat prissily reading the afternoon paper from Los Angeles. “I want to inquire about an accident case you have here,” he said. “A Miss Hildegarde Withers?”
“Miss Withers?” repeated the girl.
“Yes!” He nodded. “I’ve come a long way and I haven’t got all day to—”
“Member of the family?”
“No. I mean yes. Why—?”
“Her father?” pressed the nurse.
“Father?” he repeated wonderingly. “No, it’s just that I need a night’s sleep and a shave. Come on, where is she?”
“She isn’t here,” he was told.
“Discharged already, huh?” The inspector took a deep sigh for himself.
But the nurse was shaking her head. “I’m sorry, but there was no hope for her from the first. Miss Withers died this morning about six.”
The inspector just stood there, not even breathing.
“Everything that could be done for her was done,” the nurse continued. “I have her bill right here.”
The
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