COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Originally published in Mystery, June 1934 issue.
Introduction and other new elements copyright © 2011 by Wildside Press LLC.
www.wildsidebooks.com
INTRODUCTION
Hildegarde Withers is a fictional character who appeared in several films and novels. She was created by Stuart Palmer.
Miss Withers is a fiftyish schoolteacher who is an amateur sleuth on the side. Her adventures are usually comic but are nevertheless straightforward mysteries. She is a sort of variation on Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple. “A lean, angular spinster lady, her unusual hats and the black cotton umbrella she carries are her trademark. ... Hildegarde collects tropical fish, abhors alcohol and tobacco, and appears to have an irritable disposition. However, she is a romantic at heart and will extend herself to help young lovers.”
Edna May Oliver starred in the first three screen adaptations, produced by RKO Radio Pictures, and is considered the definitive Miss Withers. When Oliver left RKO in 1935 to sign with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, RKO attempted to continue the series with Helen Broderick and then ZaSu Pitts, but Oliver’s presence was sorely missed and the films were poorly received. Author Palmer approved of Oliver’s characterization so much that he gave the actress a mention in his Hollywood-based Withers novel The Puzzle of the Happy Hooligan.
In 1972, CBS made a Withers television movie with Eve Arden that was well-received, but failed to produce any sequels.
HILDEGARDE WITHERS FILMS
Penguin Pool Murder (1932), starring Edna May Oliver
Murder on the Blackboard (1934), starring Edna May Oliver
Murder on a Honeymoon (1935), starring Edna May Oliver (based on The Puzzle of the Pepper Tree, 1934)
Murder on a Bridle Path (1936), starring Helen Broderick
The Plot Thickens (1936), starring by ZaSu Pitts
Forty Naughty Girls (1937), starring by ZaSu Pitts
HILDEGARDE WITHERS ON TELEVISION
Amazing Miss Withers, starring Agnes Moorehead and Paul Kelly [Lost pilot, 1950s]
A Very Missing Person (1972), TV movie starring Eve Arden
HILDEGARDE WITHERS BOOKS by Stuart Palmer
The Penguin Pool Murder (1931)
Murder on Wheels (1932)
Murder on the Blackboard (1932)
The Puzzle of the Pepper Tree (1933)
The Puzzle of the Silver Persian (1934)
The Puzzle of the Red Stallion (1935) [a.k.a. The Puzzle of the Briar Pipe]
The Puzzle of the Blue Banderilla (1937)
The Puzzle of the Happy Hooligan (1941)
The Riddles of Hildegarde Withers (1947) [short stories]
Miss Withers Regrets (1947)
Four Lost Ladies (1949)
The Green Ace (1950) [a.k.a. At One Fell Swoop]
The Monkey Murder and other Tales (1950) [short stories]
Nipped in the Bud (1951) [a.k.a. Trap for a Redhead]
Cold Poison (1954) [a.k.a. Exit Laughing]
The People Vs. Withers and Malone (1963) [written with Craig Rice]
Hildegarde Withers Makes the Scene (1969) [completed by Fletcher Flora after Palmer’s death]
Hildegarde Withers: Uncollected Riddles (2002) [short stories]
THE RIDDLE OF THE BLUEBLOOD MURDERS
“Well, if it’s a publicity stunt, we’ll read all about it in the papers tomorrow morning,” said the Inspector, as he took Miss Withers home. Yet, strangely enough, there was no mention of the scene in the theater in any New York daily. A human stooge took the place of poor Ivanitch in the act at the Palace, and the show went on.
Miss Hildegarde Withers and her old friend Inspector Oscar Piper were in the habit of meeting once a week for a mild orgy of spaghetti and the theater. She entered his office at Centre Street one rainy afternoon some days after the tragedy aforementioned, and found him deep in a telephone conversation.
He waved to her and went on talking. “But it’s not up to the Homicide Squad! Your friend would do better to see a vet, or get in touch with the S.P.C.A.”
Miss Withers was graced with a long and inquisitive nose, and for most of her forty-odd years she had been completely unable to keep it out of other people’s business. Her nostrils widened a bit now, as she scented a faint suggestion of the adventure for which she had secretly longed for weeks.
“See him!” she said tersely.
The Inspector looked up at her. “But it’s not in my line!”
“It may be in mine,” said Miss Withers.
The Inspector shrugged his shoulders and returned to his telephone. “Sorry, Tomlinson. Had a crossed wire. Yes, tell your friend I’ll see him. How about Monday?” There was a pause. “Why—yes, I suppose so. He’s in the city, you say? Very well, I’ll stick around for half an hour, if he can get here by then. Name’s Neville, you say? Right you are. G’bye.”
He swung around in his chair. “See what you’ve done? That was Chief Tomlinson of the Bronxville force. Wants me to see a man about a dog. Now we’ve got to stick around here until dark.”
Miss Withers was fumbling in her capacious handbag. She finally found the clipping for which she sought and handed it to the Inspector. He read aloud: “For sale, very cheap to good home, pedigreed 18-months-old terrier, wonderful pet, female, must sell, as dog poisoner in neighborhood, phone Prospect 6-4435.”
“I clipped that out of the Times last Sunday,” she told him.
“Looking for a mate for Dempsey?” asked Piper.
He smiled, remembering his spinster friend’s one unwilling venture into dog-breeding, which had transpired at Catalina Island a year or so before. At the climax of a thrilling series of adventures in murder, the good lady had discovered herself the guardian of a pedigreed wire-haired fox-terrier, the most effervescent, roguish, combative puppy that ever gnawed a slipper.
“I was not,” she answered him shortly. “But what do you make of this—and of what happened in the theater the other night?”
“Nothing,” said the Inspector. “It happens every now and then that some misbegotten crank takes it into his head to sneak about, poisoning his neighbors’ pets because their barking annoys him. This can’t have anything to do with the trouble in Bronxville—the phone exchange mentioned is in Brooklyn.”
Miss Withers opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again as the office door opened and the uniformed man in the outer office ushered through a quiet gentleman who announced himself as Henry Neville, president of the Knickerbocker Kennel Club. He wore a pince-nez and a worried look.
“I’ll wait outside,” suggested Miss Withers. The Inspector said nothing, knowing full well that wild horses could not have dragged her from her chair. Neville looked at her through his glasses, and the Inspector motioned him to proceed. “This lady is my unofficial assistant, Miss Withers,”
“Assistant!” muttered the school teacher indignantly. But Neville was getting right down to cases.
“Inspector,” he began, “you may not be aware of the fact, but in the last six weeks more than a hundred dogs have been murdered within a radius of fifty miles of this city. This is not the usual matter of a neighborhood crank. With those the S.P.C.A. is quite capable of dealing. But these animals are mysteriously killed, sometimes in broad daylight, by a poison which leaves no traces that veterinary surgeons can discover in the stomach. Sometimes they are even stricken while being walked on a leash by their owners . . .”
“The Big Bad Wolf,” said Miss Withers cryptically. She was listening eagerly.
“I came to you,” Neville went on, “because I happen to know the chief of police in my home town, and he promised to use his influence.”
“Yes,” objected Piper, “but what has the Homicide Squad got to do with suburban dog poisonings?”
“The squad knows poisons,” said Neville. “And this may not be a suburban matter very long. Three weeks from today we are holding, or planning to hold, the annual dog show of the Knickerbocker Kennel Club in Madison Square Garden. It has occurred to many of our members that perhaps this fanatic, who has largely confined himself to ordinary mutts on the street, may seize his—or her—opportunity to do wholesale murder among the thousand or so canine bluebloods that will be gathered there. I’ve talked to private detectives and found them totally incapable of protecting us and our exhibitors. So I ask your advice.”
“Here it is,” said Piper, biting his cigar. “Call off the show.”
Neville shook his head. “Not as easy as that, Inspector All over the country—in England, even—breeders of fine dogs are depending upon this show. Handlers and trainers skilled men who sadly need the work, are beginning to train and condition the elite of dogdom for the bench. A booming dog show means increased business for the kennel men, who have been raising dogs mostly for the love of it these last years. It means that the public will be moved to invest a few dollars in a lifetime friend and companion whom they’re proud to be seen leading on a leash; it means—”
“You’ve got me sold,” said Miss Withers softly, thinking of Dempsey.
“If we call off the show, it not only admits failure, it means disappointment, and worse, for hundreds,” finished Neville.
“And it also means,” the Inspector agreed, “that you’ll be knuckling under to a madman who’ll go right on murdering harmless, friendly pooches on the street.”
“Blast him!” Miss Withers said fervently. Neville sensed an ally in this surprising lady.
“Hmm,” said Piper. “I might detail a couple of plain clothes men to cover your show. Or give you a squad of reserves to keep order, if need be.”
“Excuse me a moment,” broke in Miss Withers. “I’ve got a better idea even than that.” Her angular face was alight and her nostrils wider than ever. “Just suppose—”
For the next half hour the two men listened.
Then Henry Neville leaped to his feet. “I’m convinced,” he announced. “If you’re willing to run the risk. Naturally the Club will stand all costs.” He scribbled an address on a card. “Send your dog to this man, and he’ll put him in such shape that you won’t know him.” He paused— “I do believe that you’re going to be our Guardian Angel, ma’am.”
“With a guardian flatfoot or two in the background,” amended the Inspector.
Miss Withers, out of breath from hurrying, showed her badge to the man at the door of Madison Square Garden, and was immediately admitted. It was not, this time, the borrowed badge of the New York detective squad, but only a brass-bound ribbon bearing the gilt letters “Owner.”
There was a fair crowd passing in toward the amphitheater, and she followed where they led. Sounds of distant barking came to her ears, and in her nostrils was the pleasantly mingled odor of disinfectants, sawdust, and canine personality that is so characteristic of a dog show anywhere.
The rows of seats in the Garden itself were more than half filled with spectators. Half of the big oval in the center was bare except for a small square platform where officials congregated—the rest of it was taken up by rows upon rows of high boxes with wire-screen fronts, placed like the houses and built-up blocks of a city. Indeed, this was a city—a veritable metropolis of dogdom.
An usher moved to direct her, but relaxed again when he saw her badge. Miss Withers passed down into the arena, and was almost immediately greeted by Mr. Henry Neville, resplendent behind a gold badge marked “President.” He was in a highly nervous state, with his pincenez slipping from his nose, but he left the group with which he seemed to be arguing, and joined her.
“Everything going well so far,” he whispered quickly. “But I feel better now that you’re here. We can’t talk now—but we’ll have a chat later on. Now go ahead and play the part. You’re a fond owner, and your dog is in number—let me see—number 82. Excuse me, I have to see a man.”
He turned and bustled off. Miss Withers saw him seize the arm of a tall, saturnine person who looked like a character actor for British colonel roles. “See here, McGrath . . .” he began angrily, and the two of them passed from sight. Miss Withers went on toward the kennels, trying to look as dog-wise as her fellows. She would have liked to stand in admiration before almost every one of the cages. But tonight she had other fish to fry. Whatever the villain of this piece, it was not one of the bored, four-footed aristocrats behind the wire.
She passed on, trying to find number 82 without much success. She tried all the main avenues, growing slowly warmer, and then stepped into a little blind alley nearest the barrier that separated the seats from the arena, shut off from view of the crowd. This, too, was lined with wire-fronted boxes.
A dog ahead of her was barking furiously. She paused beside a small fat man in modish knickerbockers, who was engaged in staring through the netting of a cage almost at the end of the line.
He whirled toward her, and she found herself staring into a strange and tremendous instrument which looked like a twisted megaphone. The little man was smiling pleasantly.
“Did you speak?” he asked. He wore a badge similar to her own.
She shook her head. “I am slightly deaf,” he continued. He put away the ear-phone. “But I read lips rather well. Beautiful animal, isn’t he?”
She agreed that the beast inside was magnificent, in spite of the barking that assailed her ear-drums. The name on the card above the box was “Surefire Scout.” He was a wire-haired terrier, this immaculate beast, and as she glanced at his eager face Miss Withers realized that her own poor Dempsey would look sad indeed beside such a perfect specimen of his kind.
Her companion was rattling on evidently glad of somebody to talk to who did not interrupt. The dog behind the wire whined and cocked his head first to the left, then right, and Miss Withers noticed his eyes. Good heavens—this was Dempsey! Sure enough, the box bore the figures “82”—there was no mistake.
His furry hair had been plucked from his body except on face, forelegs and chest. He had been conditioned so far as to lose several pounds. His tail was held more erectly, his neck was upright at a strange and classic angle, and his ears hugged his skull as they had never done in real life. But it was Dempsey, all the same. For a moment the schoolteacher forgot her mission and rubbed the shiny black button of a nose that was pressed to the netting. “Surefire Scout indeed!” she said.
The little man was beaming. “And to think,” he said bitterly, “that there are people in this world who can poison a little fellow like that!”
Miss Withers looked up suddenly. The man had voiced her innermost thoughts. Her companion pointed to the wire netting. “Ought to be glass,” he said. “Why, any one of the thousands of visitors who walk past these cages could toss a bit of poisoned meat inside, and be on his way before the dog was dead.”
She agreed that it was possible. The little man introduced himself as Peter A. Holt, of the Holt Color and Dye Works, Hoboken, and said that he was very glad to meet Miss Hildegarde Withers. “Now I’ve admired your dog, you’ll have to have a look at mine,” he said, leading her down the alley a short distance. “Devonshire Lad’s his name.”
Devonshire Lad was a collie, a great tan and white creature with a long, pointed muzzle. As his master approached, the collie looked up, and then dropped his head on his paws again.
Miss Withers praised him, but Holt shook his head. “I’m afraid Lad is out of his class here. You’re going to be luckier than I. That terrier of yours ought to go into Winners. Yes, ma’am, I have an idea that the great Mr. McGrath will pin a red, or even a blue ribbon on that dog of yours.”
“Oh, is he the judge?” Miss Withers asked, and could have bitten off her tongue.
“The judge? Of course he is. Why everyb
ody knows that Andrew McGrath has judged terriers and Alsatians at every show in the last ten years.” Holt stared at her not unkindly. “You must be as green at this as I. I’ve only had Lad a few weeks, and this is my first show, too. Don’t be ashamed to admit it, we all have to start.”
They were shoved aside by an incoming crush of visitors. A family stopped to admire the eager Dempsey, under his nom de guerre, and then surged toward the bored collie, who finally condescended to approach the wire and permit his white muzzle to be touched by the smallest child.
“I’ll see you later,” said Miss Withers, into the gaping ear-trumpet. Then she passed on, leaving little Mr. Holt admiring his collie and gently whistling the universal tune of “The Big Bad Wolf.”
She was looking for Mr. Neville, but he was not to be seen. Finally she asked someone, and was told that she might be able to find the president in the offices which were located down the runway and beneath the tiers of seats.
She found a door marked “office.” Voices came from within, but there was no answer to her gentle knock. She pushed the door open, and saw a tableau which she was never to forget.
A whiskey bottle lay smashed and reeking in the middle of the floor. Beyond it two men were confronting each other, their faces almost touching. One was the quiet, mild-mannered Henry Neville, and the other she recognized as the colonel-ish man whom he had called McGrath.
“You can mind your bloody business,” the latter was saying, in a voice that was like breaking sticks. “I’ll do what I please.”
“You’ll make an effort to act like a gentleman,” said Neville. “I’ve made all the allowances for you that I’m going to make. I don’t care who you are, you’ll conform to the rules of the Club . . .”
Miss Withers, as yet unnoticed, began to withdraw. But she still had time to see the larger man extend a mighty palm and press it full against the face of Mr. Henry Neville. He shoved—and the president of the Knickerbocker Kennel Club, dignity and all, went over backwards.
The Riddle of the Blueblood Murders Page 1