room, beyond a doubt. Ribbons held back the white curtains, doilies lay primly on every table, there was a stupid looking canary in a gilt cage—a frowsy, slightly bald-looking canary—and on the bureau a framed photograph of that remarkable Hollywood Thespian, Mr. Clark Gable, no doubt signed by his secretary.
“Hrrmp,” remarked the Inspector. He retraced his steps. The next door opened into a vast and uncomfortable-looking bath, with much exposed piping and a tremendous tub set in oak. There were four prim guest towels on a rack. “I’d hate to live in this dump,” Piper told himself.
He came out of the bathroom, and ran almost head on into Miss Withers. He seized her arm. “Hildegarde! Where have you been, and what in God’s name started you poking around up here? We haven’t got any search warrant for this house!”
“One question at a time,” the school-teacher said calmly. “First, I’ve been rambling through the halls trying to trace down a phantom voice that I heard, or thought I heard. I went way up to the attic floor, too, but I didn’t hear anything more. There’s a light showing under the door of the top floor, and two bedrooms on the floor above us. I suppose that’s Cousin Hubert in one, and the maid in the other. Nobody heard me and I didn’t disturb anything, so don’t get such an annoyed look on your face.”
The Inspector stuck out his lower lip. “It’s just like a woman to upset the routine procedure,” he informed her. “I don’t suppose you happen to know which would be the bedroom of the dead twin, do you? It’s the only one we have a right to search.”
Miss. Withers shook her head. “We might try that door there in the rear,” she said sagely. “It’s the only unexplored territory.”
They came into a long room with two windows facing on the backyard, a room with twin bookcases, twin bureaus, and of course, twin beds—of ancient walnut. Miss Withers went at once to the bookcase, while Piper surveyed the rest of the place.
The only decorations in the room were a collection of pipes—merschaum, student, clay and briar—between the beds, and on a peg above the bookcase a well-worn saddle of the McClellan type, with an imitation silver-mounted pommel. Attached to it by means of the end of a rawhide quirt were a couple of spurs, likewise silvered.
Two heavy leather chairs completed the furnishings. Miss Withers sank into one of them gratefully, a book in her hand which brought back her own childhood. It was Toby Tyler—or Ten Weeks With a Circus and the title page bore a boyish scrawl—“To Laurie from Lew”—X-mas 1921.”
“I think Sherlock Holmes’ brother had the right idea about this detective business,” she remarked. “Remember him? He sat in an armchair all the time.”
“Nonsense,” the Inspector told her, testily. “That theory stuff is silly. You can’t get anywhere in an armchair. You can’t see anything from an armchair. Put away the book, and we’ll get somewhere.” He stuck his head out of the closet where he had been rummaging. “The main thing in this business is to keep rustling around.”
He disappeared again. A few minutes later he reappeared, dusty and disgruntled.
Miss Withers, smarting under his remarks, let her voice have the slightest suggestion of a barb in it “Well, did your rustling around discover any clues in that closet as to why Laurie Stait appeared on Fifth Avenue wearing a rope?”
“No, there’s nothing in there but a lot of clothes, mostly duplicates, some shoes, and some old magazines and junk.”
“By any chance did there happen to be an empty picture frame twelve inches by fifteen or thereabouts?” Miss Withers was casual.
The Inspector almost jumped. “You’ve been snooping in there!”
“I have not,” said Miss Withers triumphantly. “But I knew it was there. From where I sit in this chair I can see a light square on the wall, over there between the bureaus. See it?”
“See
“Hrrmp,” remarked the Inspector. He retraced his steps. The next door opened into a vast and uncomfortable-looking bath, with much exposed piping and a tremendous tub set in oak. There were four prim guest towels on a rack. “I’d hate to live in this dump,” Piper told himself.
He came out of the bathroom, and ran almost head on into Miss Withers. He seized her arm. “Hildegarde! Where have you been, and what in God’s name started you poking around up here? We haven’t got any search warrant for this house!”
“One question at a time,” the school-teacher said calmly. “First, I’ve been rambling through the halls trying to trace down a phantom voice that I heard, or thought I heard. I went way up to the attic floor, too, but I didn’t hear anything more. There’s a light showing under the door of the top floor, and two bedrooms on the floor above us. I suppose that’s Cousin Hubert in one, and the maid in the other. Nobody heard me and I didn’t disturb anything, so don’t get such an annoyed look on your face.”
The Inspector stuck out his lower lip. “It’s just like a woman to upset the routine procedure,” he informed her. “I don’t suppose you happen to know which would be the bedroom of the dead twin, do you? It’s the only one we have a right to search.”
Miss. Withers shook her head. “We might try that door there in the rear,” she said sagely. “It’s the only unexplored territory.”
They came into a long room with two windows facing on the backyard, a room with twin bookcases, twin bureaus, and of course, twin beds—of ancient walnut. Miss Withers went at once to the bookcase, while Piper surveyed the rest of the place.
The only decorations in the room were a collection of pipes—merschaum, student, clay and briar—between the beds, and on a peg above the bookcase a well-worn saddle of the McClellan type, with an imitation silver-mounted pommel. Attached to it by means of the end of a rawhide quirt were a couple of spurs, likewise silvered.
Two heavy leather chairs completed the furnishings. Miss Withers sank into one of them gratefully, a book in her hand which brought back her own childhood. It was Toby Tyler—or Ten Weeks With a Circus and the title page bore a boyish scrawl—“To Laurie from Lew”—X-mas 1921.”
“I think Sherlock Holmes’ brother had the right idea about this detective business,” she remarked. “Remember him? He sat in an armchair all the time.”
“Nonsense,” the Inspector told her, testily. “That theory stuff is silly. You can’t get anywhere in an armchair. You can’t see anything from an armchair. Put away the book, and we’ll get somewhere.” He stuck his head out of the closet where he had been rummaging. “The main thing in this business is to keep rustling around.”
He disappeared again. A few minutes later he reappeared, dusty and disgruntled.
Miss Withers, smarting under his remarks, let her voice have the slightest suggestion of a barb in it “Well, did your rustling around discover any clues in that closet as to why Laurie Stait appeared on Fifth Avenue wearing a rope?”
“No, there’s nothing in there but a lot of clothes, mostly duplicates, some shoes, and some old magazines and junk.”
“By any chance did there happen to be an empty picture frame twelve inches by fifteen or thereabouts?” Miss Withers was casual.
The Inspector almost jumped. “You’ve been snooping in there!”
“I have not,” said Miss Withers triumphantly. “But I knew it was there. From where I sit in this chair I can see a light square on the wall, over there between the bureaus. See it?”
“See