Read Online Murder on the Blackboard by Stuart Palmer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stuart Palmer
Ads: Link
back on their shelf. Then she rose to her feet.
Miss Withers moved across the room toward the kitchen. It was little more than a closet set in the wall, with one narrow window and an alcove with a built-in table and two benches.
“We didn’t eat in much,” Janey said. Miss Withers looked idly through the cupboard shelves. A tall dark bottle caught her eye. It bore no label, but it was half full of a pungent amber liquid. Miss Withers removed the cork, sniffed at it, and replaced it.
“That’s Anise’s medicine,” Janey offered.
“Bad medicine,” said Miss Withers. “Anise wasn’t the type to have a taste for whiskey.” Her eyes roamed the shelves, but there was no sign of cocktail shaker or even of mixing glasses. Just the tall brown bottle—
“She drank it straight, too,” concluded the schoolteacher.
Janey Davis was defiant. “Well, what if she did? This isn’t 1850, Miss Withers. What Anise did was her own business. Besides, she never drank at school, and it didn’t affect her teaching.”
Miss Withers, who knew differently, did not speak. She led the way back into the living room, glanced idly at the bath, and then came back to the easy chair.
“This is a nice apartment,” she observed. “But didn’t you find it a little lonely here for the two for you? Weren’t you a little frightened sometimes?”
Janey Davis shook her head, innocently. “Frightened—of what?”
“Oh, burglars, prowlers, men—anybody. Weren’t you?”
“Of course not!”
“Then why did you have this?” And from her breast Miss Withers drew out the little automatic that she had found in the drawer of Janey’s desk at Jefferson School.
Janey’s face showed that she was startled.
“That? Oh, yes, that. Why, I … I bought it for Anise. She didn’t tell me why she wanted it, she just wanted it.”
“She planned some target shooting, no doubt,” Miss Withers suggested. “But why didn’t she buy it herself?”
Janey almost smiled. “Only last week she came to me and asked me to get it for her. You see, my brother has a hardware and sporting-goods store over in Newark. And the laws are pretty strict about selling firearms in New York. So yesterday I had dinner with my brother and got the gun. But I forgot to bring it home.”
Janey Davis stretched out her hand for the gun, but Miss Withers replaced it in its hidden resting place.
“Later, perhaps,” she said. “Someone may want to look at it. This mystery isn’t cleared up yet, you know.”
Janey Davis, like everyone else at Jefferson School, knew of Miss Withers’ occasional connection with the Police Department of New York, and so she submitted to the somewhat high-handed proceeding.
“It all seems so strange, so terrible,” she said brokenly. “Why, Anise wasn’t ready to die. I know she didn’t want to die—she was afraid of dying. Who could have wanted to kill her? What motive could there be? Anise had nothing—nobody could have gained by her death!”
Miss Withers shook her head, slowly. In her hands she still held the newspaper which she had bought when she took the taxi, and which had served no purpose to this moment except to shield her hat.
Idly she began to refold it, and then her eagle eye caught, on the second page, a name that was all too deeply burned into her consciousness. She read the item in silence, and her face betrayed nothing. She fought for control, and then the room steadied again.
“Motive,” she repeated calmly. “Motive—hm, let me see. Do you think this little news item could cast any light on the subject?”
She extended the folded paper to Janey Davis, with one long forefinger firmly pressed against the paragraph in question.
The girl read, and slowly the blood mounted to her neck and face. It was a very short item indeed. A headline announced “ LUCKY NUMBER DRAWS FAVORITE IN IRISH SWEEPSTAKES. ”
Beneath the head were these words: “ Dublin, November tenth, AP Lucky number 131313, according to
Miss Withers moved across the room toward the kitchen. It was little more than a closet set in the wall, with one narrow window and an alcove with a built-in table and two benches.
“We didn’t eat in much,” Janey said. Miss Withers looked idly through the cupboard shelves. A tall dark bottle caught her eye. It bore no label, but it was half full of a pungent amber liquid. Miss Withers removed the cork, sniffed at it, and replaced it.
“That’s Anise’s medicine,” Janey offered.
“Bad medicine,” said Miss Withers. “Anise wasn’t the type to have a taste for whiskey.” Her eyes roamed the shelves, but there was no sign of cocktail shaker or even of mixing glasses. Just the tall brown bottle—
“She drank it straight, too,” concluded the schoolteacher.
Janey Davis was defiant. “Well, what if she did? This isn’t 1850, Miss Withers. What Anise did was her own business. Besides, she never drank at school, and it didn’t affect her teaching.”
Miss Withers, who knew differently, did not speak. She led the way back into the living room, glanced idly at the bath, and then came back to the easy chair.
“This is a nice apartment,” she observed. “But didn’t you find it a little lonely here for the two for you? Weren’t you a little frightened sometimes?”
Janey Davis shook her head, innocently. “Frightened—of what?”
“Oh, burglars, prowlers, men—anybody. Weren’t you?”
“Of course not!”
“Then why did you have this?” And from her breast Miss Withers drew out the little automatic that she had found in the drawer of Janey’s desk at Jefferson School.
Janey’s face showed that she was startled.
“That? Oh, yes, that. Why, I … I bought it for Anise. She didn’t tell me why she wanted it, she just wanted it.”
“She planned some target shooting, no doubt,” Miss Withers suggested. “But why didn’t she buy it herself?”
Janey almost smiled. “Only last week she came to me and asked me to get it for her. You see, my brother has a hardware and sporting-goods store over in Newark. And the laws are pretty strict about selling firearms in New York. So yesterday I had dinner with my brother and got the gun. But I forgot to bring it home.”
Janey Davis stretched out her hand for the gun, but Miss Withers replaced it in its hidden resting place.
“Later, perhaps,” she said. “Someone may want to look at it. This mystery isn’t cleared up yet, you know.”
Janey Davis, like everyone else at Jefferson School, knew of Miss Withers’ occasional connection with the Police Department of New York, and so she submitted to the somewhat high-handed proceeding.
“It all seems so strange, so terrible,” she said brokenly. “Why, Anise wasn’t ready to die. I know she didn’t want to die—she was afraid of dying. Who could have wanted to kill her? What motive could there be? Anise had nothing—nobody could have gained by her death!”
Miss Withers shook her head, slowly. In her hands she still held the newspaper which she had bought when she took the taxi, and which had served no purpose to this moment except to shield her hat.
Idly she began to refold it, and then her eagle eye caught, on the second page, a name that was all too deeply burned into her consciousness. She read the item in silence, and her face betrayed nothing. She fought for control, and then the room steadied again.
“Motive,” she repeated calmly. “Motive—hm, let me see. Do you think this little news item could cast any light on the subject?”
She extended the folded paper to Janey Davis, with one long forefinger firmly pressed against the paragraph in question.
The girl read, and slowly the blood mounted to her neck and face. It was a very short item indeed. A headline announced “ LUCKY NUMBER DRAWS FAVORITE IN IRISH SWEEPSTAKES. ”
Beneath the head were these words: “ Dublin, November tenth, AP Lucky number 131313, according to
Similar Books
