Read Online Miss Withers Regrets by Stuart Palmer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stuart Palmer
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mirthless laughter. “Lawn? Lawn murder Huntley? Don’t be ridiculous. She never liked him much, though she enjoyed the allowance he gave her and the nice soft life she had with us. But do you imagine for a minute that she would kill him—and leave me free, with Pat coming back?”
“You see,” Abbott put in, “my daughter has a theory that Lawn has been secretly in love with Pat Montague since she was sixteen.”
“She used to tag around after Pat and me like a—like a shadow,” Helen went on. “She had a schoolgirl crush on Pat, and she clung for years to a silly toy monkey that he’d bought her when we were all at a night club. She’s been waiting like a harpy to pounce on him when he got back out of the Army, because she thought that with me married and out of the way she’d have clear sailing.”
Miss Withers thought that over. “Well, eliminating Mr. Montague, and your sister, and the gardener, and everybody else—then who did kill Huntley Cairns? Am I correct in supposing that you are here to ask me to try to find out?”
“Why, yes,” Thurlow Abbott began. “In a way I mean—because they say you have had experience in such affairs—”
“But on second thought,” Helen said very firmly, with a look at her father, “it might be better after all to let the regular police handle it. Now that you understand about my sister and all—”
“I don’t understand,” Miss Withers said shortly. “With one breath you accuse her of trying to frame Pat Montague, and with the next you say that she is in love with him.”
Helen was silent, confused.
“Perhaps my daughter was simply suggesting that ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’ ” Abbott pronounced. “Lawn is a very strange girl.”
“I said more than I meant to say,” Helen chimed in suddenly. “Besides, there can’t be much doubt but that Huntley was swimming in the pool and got caught on a bit of metal so that he drowned accidentally.” She turned to go.
“Can’t there, though!” murmured Miss Withers as she leaned from her front window and watched them drive away in a long, sleek sedan. “This is murder, if I ever saw it. I’m very much afraid that in spite of all my good resolutions and my promises I am going to have to exercise a woman’s privilege and change my mind.” But first there was something to get straight. She put in a long-distance call to Inspector Oscar Piper at his home but found that he was not in. He had been called down to Centre Street a little while ago. Mrs. McFeeters, his fumbling elderly housekeeper, wanted to know if there was any message.
Miss Withers thought not. This would be easier to handle in person, anyway, and after the peace and quiet of the country she had a sudden nostalgic longing for the smells of Manhattan, the hum of its activity. Besides, there were a number of errands she could do in town, even though it was a Sunday.
Downtown in the grim environs of Centre Street, Inspector Oscar Piper sat at his battered oak desk in the inner office of the homicide bureau, deep in official papers. Only a skeleton staff was on duty, so Miss Withers was able to barge in upon him with a minimum of delay. He immediately put aside an extremely grisly photograph of some deceased citizen reclining upon a marble slab and laid aside the gnawed butt of his cigar.
“Go right ahead and smoke,” she said. “I don’t mind.”
The grizzled little Irishman stared at her. “What’s come over you?” he demanded. “Must be that the simple life agrees with you. How’s the goldfish?”
Miss Withers looked upon her old friend and sparring partner with a sudden flash of her gray-blue eyes. “They are not goldfish!”
“Okay, tropical fish, then. As long as they keep you out of my hair—”
“I could ask, ‘What hair?’ but I won’t. Because, Oscar, I want you to relieve me of a promise I made you some time ago.”
“Oh-oh! You’re weakening already, huh?”
“It’s not quite like
“You see,” Abbott put in, “my daughter has a theory that Lawn has been secretly in love with Pat Montague since she was sixteen.”
“She used to tag around after Pat and me like a—like a shadow,” Helen went on. “She had a schoolgirl crush on Pat, and she clung for years to a silly toy monkey that he’d bought her when we were all at a night club. She’s been waiting like a harpy to pounce on him when he got back out of the Army, because she thought that with me married and out of the way she’d have clear sailing.”
Miss Withers thought that over. “Well, eliminating Mr. Montague, and your sister, and the gardener, and everybody else—then who did kill Huntley Cairns? Am I correct in supposing that you are here to ask me to try to find out?”
“Why, yes,” Thurlow Abbott began. “In a way I mean—because they say you have had experience in such affairs—”
“But on second thought,” Helen said very firmly, with a look at her father, “it might be better after all to let the regular police handle it. Now that you understand about my sister and all—”
“I don’t understand,” Miss Withers said shortly. “With one breath you accuse her of trying to frame Pat Montague, and with the next you say that she is in love with him.”
Helen was silent, confused.
“Perhaps my daughter was simply suggesting that ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’ ” Abbott pronounced. “Lawn is a very strange girl.”
“I said more than I meant to say,” Helen chimed in suddenly. “Besides, there can’t be much doubt but that Huntley was swimming in the pool and got caught on a bit of metal so that he drowned accidentally.” She turned to go.
“Can’t there, though!” murmured Miss Withers as she leaned from her front window and watched them drive away in a long, sleek sedan. “This is murder, if I ever saw it. I’m very much afraid that in spite of all my good resolutions and my promises I am going to have to exercise a woman’s privilege and change my mind.” But first there was something to get straight. She put in a long-distance call to Inspector Oscar Piper at his home but found that he was not in. He had been called down to Centre Street a little while ago. Mrs. McFeeters, his fumbling elderly housekeeper, wanted to know if there was any message.
Miss Withers thought not. This would be easier to handle in person, anyway, and after the peace and quiet of the country she had a sudden nostalgic longing for the smells of Manhattan, the hum of its activity. Besides, there were a number of errands she could do in town, even though it was a Sunday.
Downtown in the grim environs of Centre Street, Inspector Oscar Piper sat at his battered oak desk in the inner office of the homicide bureau, deep in official papers. Only a skeleton staff was on duty, so Miss Withers was able to barge in upon him with a minimum of delay. He immediately put aside an extremely grisly photograph of some deceased citizen reclining upon a marble slab and laid aside the gnawed butt of his cigar.
“Go right ahead and smoke,” she said. “I don’t mind.”
The grizzled little Irishman stared at her. “What’s come over you?” he demanded. “Must be that the simple life agrees with you. How’s the goldfish?”
Miss Withers looked upon her old friend and sparring partner with a sudden flash of her gray-blue eyes. “They are not goldfish!”
“Okay, tropical fish, then. As long as they keep you out of my hair—”
“I could ask, ‘What hair?’ but I won’t. Because, Oscar, I want you to relieve me of a promise I made you some time ago.”
“Oh-oh! You’re weakening already, huh?”
“It’s not quite like
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