Puzzle of the Silver Persian (35 page)

“Ah, the lady with the hat pin!” But Dr. Bloom had no desire to talk over old times. He tugged nervously at the wisps which remained of a once luxurious beard and frowned down at the body as if, by dying, Violet Feverel had incurred his displeasure.

“You can move her any time you like,” said the doctor. He scribbled upon a pad.

“But—” interrupted Piper. “What do you figure killed her?”

“Well,” began Dr. Bloom cautiously, “as for wounds …”

“They crushed the back of the skull, and were
supposedly
made by a horse’s shod hoof!” Miss Withers eagerly prompted. “Isn’t that right?”

Dr. Bloom smiled wearily. His heavy-lidded eyes took in the hoe which the inspector dangled in one hand.

“You’re suggesting that this was a murder fixed to look as if a horse had done it—and really involving a weapon improvised from a horseshoe?”

Miss Withers nodded eagerly. “There was a story in a magazine—”

“Dear lady,” said Dr. Bloom patiently, “I read my Chesterton too. Though I must say that the device is well known to medical jurisprudence. There was a case in Calcutta—another in Texas. But this time I’m afraid the answer is no. There are no wounds on the body!”

“But—but she’s dead!” protested Miss Withers.

“A superficial examination such as this is only enough to show that this young woman died from internal hemorrhage. As a matter of fact, blood filled her lungs and she strangled to death!”

“But it
was
murder?” the inspector hopefully demanded.

“Officially, I don’t know,” the doctor told him testily. “I can tell you better after the autopsy. My private opinion, however, is that if this is not murder I’ve never seen one!” And the medical examiner beamed like a happy child.

“I knew it was murder,” Miss Withers chimed in. “Just as soon as I saw that splotch of blood on the side of the horse.”

“Remarkable,” Dr. Bloom congratulated her. “Particularly since the spot to which you refer is not human blood, but horse’s. I had one of the officers bring me a sample on a bit of paper and applied a primary test.” His firm white teeth clicked decisively.

“But … where was the horse wounded?” Miss Withers begged.

“That is just what worries me, dear lady,” said Dr. Bloom as he brushed mud from his trousers. The horse shows no wound at all! And now, if you’ll excuse me …” He took up his bag and scurried toward his car.

“Well, here we are!” said Oscar Piper. He hefted the oddly weighted hoe as if about to hurl it back into the shrubbery. “It was a swell idea anyway.”

“Not so fast.” Miss Withers stopped him. “I’ve just had another idea. Do you suppose that we could find one untrampled hoofprint in this vicinity and make a little comparison?”

The body of Violet Feverel was already being lifted into a wicker basket by two white-clad men from the morgue wagon. Perhaps a dozen feet from where she had lain, outside the trampled circle, the inspector caught sight of a comparatively smooth bit of path which showed the delicate circular mark of a horse’s hoof.

He lowered the hoe so that the horseshoe fastened to the bottom touched the soft earth. It fitted the print, fitted with a microscopic exactness. “Well, I’ll be—” He turned suddenly and found that Miss Withers was not beside him.

The squadron of detectives and police had begun to break up, but the angular schoolma’am still lingered over the spot where the dead girl had lain.

“Never mind looking for the missing cuff link,” called he inspector over his shoulder. “It doesn’t happen nowadays. Come over here, this is really important!”

Miss Hildegarde Withers did not answer. She took a quick look around to make sure that she was unobserved, and then bent down and hastily drew from the soft mud which still bore the impress of the dead body a warm and pungent-smelling object which she thrust into her handbag.

One glance had told her that it was a briar tobacco pipe, battered and blackened. As Miss Withers joined her coworker her lips softly formed the words, “People’s Exhibit A” She nodded prophetically.

¹
See The Penguin Pool Murder, 1931.

“W
ITH THIS LITTLE INVENTION
a person could produce very credible hoofprints without requiring a horse,” said Miss Hildegarde Withers. She had taken the weighted hoe from the inspector and was tapping gently at the muddy path.

“All the same time there
was
a horse,” protested Piper. “You found him yourself, so what difference does it make?”

“This gadget was not made for fun,” Miss Withers retorted. “And I’ll bet you a bright new penny that the horse in question is going barefoot upon at least one hoof.” She led the way to the spot where, still fretting and prancing, a big red thoroughbred was a prisoner in the grasp of two patrolmen.

“How does one look at the underneath of a horse’s foot?” Miss Withers demanded. They showed her—and she was immediately confronted with the realization that she had lost her bet. Siwash wore all four shoes.

“And that is that,” the schoolma’am decided. “By the way, Oscar—we might try a different tack. Have you identified the dead woman?”

Piper snapped his fingers. “I knew I’d forgotten something!” He turned and shouted toward the scattering detectives. “Boys, what’s new on the identity angle?”

Sergeant Burke, who had been entrusted with the guardianship of Miss Withers’s dog, ceased his efforts to make Dempsey sit up and beg. “Radio Officer Shay’s been on the phone for half an hour, sir. But he reports most of the stables don’t answer their phones, and the ones he’s reached haven’t sent out any horses this morning.”

“Well, tell him to keep on trying,” barked the inspector. “We can’t have a murder investigation of an unknown dame.”

But Miss Withers interrupted again. “We’re only wasting time, Oscar. After all, the horse is supposed to be one of the most intelligent animals. Suppose we let this big red fellow lead us to his stable?”

“Huh? Will they do that?”

“They will,” Miss Withers assured him. “In fact, the only time I rode a horse he turned around and galloped into the barn without giving me a chance to dismount. Just let him have his head….”

“Come on, Burke,” ordered the inspector. “Another job for you. Take this nag and see if he’ll go home.”

The sergeant put Dempsey down and gingerly accepted the reins. “You know, Inspector, I never rode anything except a motorcycle….”

“You don’t need to ride him, just walk along beside him and we’ll follow,” Miss Withers suggested.

Burke tugged on the rein. “Come on, Plug!” Siwash rolled his eyes a little and did not move.

Burke pulled harder. “Gitty ap, Napoleon….”

“He’s just balky, I guess,” said the inspector. “Go on, you!” And he slapped Siwash smartly on the rump.

It was a mistake. Siwash seemingly performed the miracle of levitation. He reared with his front feet and almost at the same instant slashed out viciously with his heels. They whizzed past the inspector’s face, neatly knocking the cigar from his mouth.

Miss Withers vented a surprised scream and Dempsey burst into a furor of barking. But Siwash, who had had too much of the whole affair for his liking, bounded over the prostrate figure of the sergeant and disappeared almost instantly around a bend in the path.

“Not so balky after all,” observed Miss Withers quietly. “Are you all right, Sergeant?”

Burke climbed wearily to his feet. “Where is he, the misbegotten …” He stopped and smiled apologetically. “Guess he must of pulled a knife on me, Inspector.”

“I’d like to get that big red plug alone …” Piper was muttering.

“Yes, alone in the back room at headquarters, with a bright light to shine in his eyes and a rubber hose to smack in his face,” Miss Withers told him bitterly. “Anyway”—she pointed to the line of clear and definite hoofprints which led southward along the bridle path—“anyway now we can follow the horse and see where he belongs.” Dempsey barked excitedly and tugged at his leash.

“Okay,” agreed the inspector. “But let’s get rid of the bloodhound. Burke, you know the address—take the pup home, will you?”

Then the inspector and Miss Withers set off together down the bridle path. They were barely around the second turn when the schoolteacher stopped and grasped her companion’s arm. She was pointing down at the path. “Snakes!” she cried.

Sure enough, a serpentine trail wound along in the mud. “Oscar, what made it?”

“Relax, Hildegarde,” he told her wearily. “It’s the track of a bicycle tire, just a common, everyday bicycle.”

“Oh,” she said. “Odd place for it—one would think the rider’d prefer the roadway.” They went on, trudging wearily along the path. After a while they came upon cinders, which made the going faster. Even here, still clearly marked, were the two lines of dainty hoofprints, going and returning, with the bicycle track between.

“Observe, my dear Oscar,” pointed out Miss Withers, “that the light rain left the bridle path in excellent shape to give us a record of who—or what—passed here.” She pointed. “First came the horse, running north. Then the bicycle, presumably in the same direction. Finally, superimposed upon the other prints, we have the hoofmarks just made by the beast on his homeward gallop.”

Piper nodded. “Hildegarde, you should have been a Boy Scout.”

She took that as a compliment. “But Oscar, how did the bicycle return? We haven’t passed it anywhere….”

Nor was there any sign of the bicycle as they left the park at the Sixty-sixth Street gate. Piper frowned. “I ought to know what stables are near here—walked this beat once. Thwaite’s is closest, I guess.”

He led the way one block south. “We’ll ask there anyway….”

But inquiry was not necessary, for outside the double doors of Thwaite’s stood a big red thoroughbred patiently waiting for someone to let him in. He moved aside as the inspector somewhat warily edged past and pounded on the panel.

There was a long silence. “Open up, here!” roared Piper. He pounded again, harder.

Then the top half of the door opened and a round brown face peered through. Highpockets pointed at the other door across the driveway. “Office over there, mister man—just ring the bell—”

“I’ll wring your neck if you shut that door,” Piper promised. “Who’s in charge here?”

“Mister Latigo Wells, he’s the manager—only he’s out to breakfast,” Highpockets explained tremulously. “If you want to wait he ought to be back pretty soon, he’s been gone a long time already!”

“Well!” said Miss Withers. “How long a time, young man—would you say forty-five minutes?”

Highpockets frowned in deepest concentration. Then he shook his head. “Not as long as that, ma’am—I wouldn’t say he’s been gone much longer’n an hour or two.”

Miss Withers turned to the inspector. “Your witness,” she said sadly.

Piper nodded. “What we want to know is—”

Intent upon questioning the colored boy, both Miss Withers and the inspector had quite forgotten the big red horse. They were now reminded of his presence as Siwash thrust a long russet-colored nose between them, over the top of the door. He nickered softly.

They jumped aside and Highpockets opened the lower part of the door.

“Look out—he’s dangerous,” warned the inspector quickly.

“Him?” Highpockets laughed gleefully. “I been taking care of this horse fo’ a long time, boss, and I never see him dangerous to anything but a pan of oats!” And the colored boy grasped Siwash firmly by one ear and led him in through the door. Deftly he slipped off the bridle and loosened the cinch.

“Go on, git to your stall!” And Siwash obediently went back along the runway, meek as a kitten.

Highpockets turned toward the two who now ventured inside the stable. “How come you bring back Miss Feverel’s horse all lathered up this way?”

“Feverel, eh?” Piper nodded. “Sounds like a phony—a stage name. But go on—where does—I mean where
did
she live?”

“Why—” Highpockets’ face turned a sickly green.

“Where
did
she live? You mean—she ain’t living anywheres now?”

“Answer the question,” pressed Piper. “Good heavens, if the woman stabled her horse here you must know her address.”

But Highpockets backed away shaking his head. “I doan know nothing and I never had nothing to do with—”

“Anything!” Miss Withers finished for him. “Oscar, we’re just wasting time. This place must have an office and the office must have records of some kind.”

Piper nodded. To the boy—“You all alone here?”

Highpockets nodded. “Yes, sir…. I sleep on a cot in the back, so I’m always here. Mister Latigo, he comes in daytimes, and Mrs. Thwaite and her husband, they live in a flat upstairs. She owns the stables, but I doan like to disturb her unless we got to….”

“Heaven forbid,” Miss Withers cut in. “This is only a murder case, that’s all. But which way to the office?”

Highpockets pointed with wavering finger toward a side door. “Down the h-hall,” he offered.

It was a long hall with a sharp turn in the middle. Then they saw a pane of lighted glass in a doorway. As they came closer they heard sounds of distant, mournful song….

“Hillbillies!” gasped Miss Withers. “But this isn’t the hour for them to be on the air. Listen!”

The voice was untrained, but low and mellow. Its only accompaniment was the soft plucking of a guitar.

“Now I’ve got no use for the wimmen,

They’re greedy and graspin’ for gold….

They’ll love a man for his money,

When it’s gone they’ll leave him co-o-o-o-old.

My pal was an honest young puncher,

Honest and upright and true….

Till he fell in love with a woman,

With a woman known as Lou….”

The inspector’s head was nodding in time with the wailing ballad of the plains, but such music was not to Miss Withers’s taste. She flung open the door of the office.

Seated at a roll-top desk, with his booted feet high above his head, sprawled a tall, thin young man with a long sad upper lip. He clutched a battered guitar to his bosom and his eyes were closed as he sang.

He stopped and put his feet on the floor with a crash.