Miss Withers Regrets by Stuart Palmer Read Free Book Online Page B

cock-and-bull story like that.”
    “What’s wrong with the story?” Nicolet found his voice first, and his tone indicated to Miss Withers that he was willing and anxious to have his client change or amend his testimony in any possible way if only she would tell him how.
    “The flaw is something that cannot be repaired,” she continued almost chattily. “You see, I happen to have read that a fat man has considerably less specific gravity than a thin man—and even a thin man will usually float well above the bottom of any body of water when first drowned. So you see? Huntley Cairns couldn’t have been dead at the bottom of his own swimming pool, not unless you were holding him down. He would probably have been floating almost halfway to the surface, as a matter of fact.”
    “But wait a minute,” Nicolet began to argue. “The man had drowned, and his lungs were full of water—”
    “Not necessarily. In many cases of drowning—of which, according to your account of the doctor’s preliminary investigation, this is one—death comes by asphyxia almost immediately, and little or no water enters the respiratory tract. Look it up for yourself in Webster, or Sydney Smith, or Glaister, or Witthaus and Becker. Smith also points out that in the case of a newborn child, where there is an excess of fat, the body will usually refuse to sink at all!”
    Pat Montague, dazed but dogged, shook his head. “I don’t care what it says in the books, I’ve told you the truth. He was at the bottom of the deep end of the pool. His eyes were wide open and staring, and the water rippled a little, so that he seemed to be making faces and grinning at me.”
    “It all sounds very convincing,” Miss Withers snapped. “But you stick to your story and I’ll stick with Sydney Smith.”
    “If my client wanted to lie,” Nicolet objected, “I’m sure he could make up a better lie than that. After all—”
    “Just how and when did I get to be your client, anyhow?” Pat Montague finally exploded. “I don’t remember asking you to come barging into this mess. I was doing all right by myself. I could have been halfway to the Canadian border by now. But, oh, no, you had to drag me here so I could meet this wonderful mastermind amateur sleuth who right away runs and screams for the police!”
    “Take it easy,” Nicolet snapped. “Wait a minute—”
    “A minute is about all the free time I’ve got. Personally, I think you’ve been bucking for a pop in the face, and—”
    “Gentlemen, please!” cried Miss Hildegarde Withers nervously. Then there came a heavy knock at the door, and both the embattled warriors froze in position, fists cocked, as if they were acting out some old Currier and Ives print.
    The schoolteacher hastily flung the door open, to look into the faces of two young patrolmen from the radio car. “You’re just in time to referee!” she greeted them.
    “Evening, ma’am. Thanks for calling us. All right, Montague, you’re coming with us.”
    “Just one minute,” interposed the schoolteacher.
    The officer stiffened. “Now it won’t do any good to change your mind and ask us to let him go, because the sheriff give us strict orders.”
    “It’s only this,” she explained gently. “You’re arresting the wrong man. That is Mr. Nicolet. This is Mr. Montague here.”
    “My mistake,” the officer cheerily admitted. “Come to think of it, this one does fit the description a little better. Sorry, Mr. Nicolet. Come on, you. Let’s get going.”
    So it was that Pat Montague went out of the cottage handcuffed to the thick wrist of a policeman who was whistling “It Might as Well Be Spring” considerably off key. The other officer followed after thanking Miss Withers again.
    Jed Nicolet lingered for a moment in the doorway. “I’ve only one thing to say, Miss Withers. Maybe I was a little rough on you in court, but, lady, we’re even now!” Then he went out, almost but not quite slamming the door.
    “And