Free The Cases of Hildegarde Withers by Stuart Palmer

lives there. Johan Wurtz is the name — retired brewer. A hundred to one that he got up to take some bicarbonate of soda . … ”
    The Inspector was rudely interrupted by a shrill trumpet-like scream which exploded from a window above them.
    “Help! Police! Poli-i-i-i-ice!” It was a woman’s voice — a woman who leaned from the second story window.
    The Inspector spat out his cigar and made a dive for the door of the brownstone house.
    He leaned on the bell, and when the door opened he flashed his badge. “What’s going on here?”
    A fat woman in a shapeless wrapper flung the door wide, and Piper was somewhat nettled to see Miss Hildegarde Withers sail past him.
    “Upstairs!” gargled the fat woman. They ran up a thickly-carpeted stair, turned, and burst into a library where every light blazed.
    It was a long and narrow room, crammed with bookshelves, tables, and massive chairs. The tops of the cases and almost every available inch of table space had been given over to tiny statuettes of horses. One small table was overturned and its models scattered across the rich yellow rug.
    A man lay sprawled in the shadows.
    It was the woman who spoke, disjointedly. “I heard the noise — poor Mister Wurtz — dead as a stone he is … ”
    Piper faced her. “You the maid?”
    “Housekeeper,” she said. “Miss Emmy Marvin is me.”
    Piper knelt, ignoring the spilled statuettes. The body was dressed in long underwear beneath a silk dressing gown. It was a thin old body, the face dark and puffy, with an imperious beak of a nose.
    The Inspector stood up. “Phone for a doctor, Hildegarde — he isn’t even dead.” Piper motioned to the housekeeper. “Help me get him to that sofa over there.”
    There was a telephone in the lower hall, above it a card with a list of phone numbers. One, outlined in red ink, was “Dr. Peter French.” Miss Withers dialed the number.
    Dr. French’s voice was sleepy, but it changed at once to a reassuring professional crispness. “Be there in ten minutes,” he said. “Meanwhile, I want you to dig out what we call a ‘capsule,’ a silk-covered glass vial from Mr. Wurtz’ vest pocket, and break it under his nose. It should revive him.”
    Miss Withers hurried up the stairs, wondering where the sick man’s bedroom might be. After discovering that the only other room on the second floor was the dining-room, she hurried on up to the third.
    She burst into the first door she found, and fumbled until she found the light switch. Then as the room was flooded with brilliance, she stood stock-still and gaped.
    In the middle of a large four-poster bed a young man hurriedly sat up, clutching the covers around him. His wispy red hair hung over his forehead.
    “Wha-wha — ” he gurgled.
    He turned, and with one arm fumbled beneath the pillow. But Miss Withers backed swiftly out through the door, without further delay. Oddly enough, that young man was wearing a white shirt and a black bow tie.
    The next bedroom was far down the hall. She entered a delicately feminine bedroom, all white and gold. Bits of silk and lace were scattered everywhere, but the bed was empty.
    There was one other door in the hall, beside the bathroom which stood open.
    This last was a square cell-like chamber with a hard-looking bed, a small chest of drawers, and no decoration except a pair of pied majolica stallions who reared at each other on the bedside table.
    There was a worn brown suit on a chair back, and in a pocket Miss Withers discovered the tiny tube for which she was searching. As she drew it from the pocket a voice spoke behind her.
    “Stick up your hands!”
    She whirled to face a bedraggled, sandy-haired young man whose lower lip trembled with excitement. His hand held a very ugly-looking automatic pistol.
    “Stuff and nonsense!” snapped Miss Withers. “Let me take this capsule down to the sick man in the library … ”
    “Huh?”
    “Mr. Wurtz has had an attack!” she advised him. “If you know