HILDEGARDE IS BACK!
Hildegarde Withers, the creation of Stuart Palmer (1905-1968), is the original schoolmarm detective. After she first appeared in The Penguin Pool Murder in 1931, she was so popular that a series of movies starring Edna Mae Oliver and James Gleason followed, and Palmer wrote short stories about Miss Withers for Mystery, a slick-paper magazine sold only in Woolworth's stores between 1933 and 1935. These stories, filled with the sights and sounds of New York during the depression - museums, flea-circuses, burlesque shows, Latin gigolos - are genuine forgotten classics. The introduction is by Stuart Palmer's widow, Jennifer Venola.
Stories Included:
The Riddle of the Dangling Pearl
The Riddle of the Flea Circus
The Riddle of the Forty Costumes
The Riddle of the Brass Band
The Riddle of the Blueblood Murders
The Riddle of the Forty Naughty Girls
The Riddle of the Hanging Men
The Riddle of the Marble Blade
The Riddle of the Whirling Lights
The Riddle of the Tired Bullet
The staccato roar of sub-machine guns rose to a deafening climax and then broke off short as down the deserted street there sounded the oncoming wail of the sirens. The mobsters turned and fled, the smoke of battle cleared, and Little Augie knelt alone on the sidewalk, clutching his vest.
Squad cars screamed to a stop beside him, pouring forth bluecoats. McKee was foremost. He knocked the empty gat from nerveless fingers. "I always said we'd nab you some day," he rasped triumphantly.
But Little Augie only grinned. “As usual, Copper, you ’re just too late. " And he died.
As the screen went dark, the twelve men who had just crept into the orchestra pit struck up a few bars of “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” and then without pausing broke into “Did You Ever See a Dream Walking?”
Footlights flared on, and the audience roused itself. All through the picture, which filled in between shows at the Diana, they had been drifting in by ones and twos. But the several hundred — mostly masculine — who made up the audience had not left the garish lights of Forty-second Street and paid their half dollars at the box office to see a movie.
It was the first day of a new show at the Diana Burlesque — its title was one of those Rabelaisian affairs designed to catch the masculine eye. Last week it had been something equally raucous, although except for the change in the big electric sign outside, few could tell the difference. Dapper Max Durkin, who acted as house manager of the Diana, often thought that the long hours he spent working out new gag titles was a waste of time.
He wasn’t wasting his time now, though he lounged in the wings and idly watched the “Forty Naughty Paris Girlies” as they rollicked onto the stage in their opening dance number. He leaned forward and caught a ribbon which formed an essential part of the costume of a handsome, red-haired girl who was waiting for a cue.
It was the ribbon which, if tugged hard enough, would leave Janey Vere de Vere attired in little more than what she had first worn into the world. She whirled suddenly, drawing the ribbon from his fingers, and frowned.
“How about dinner and a little bottle of gin after the show?” he asked.
“Oh — it’s you. Ask me later, will you? I — something’s happened.”
He saw that the big brown eyes were glazed with fear. “What? Spill it, girlie.”
She came closer. “You’ve got to get me a new lock for my dressing-room door, Durkin. I tell you —”
“Lock? Say, what have you got that anybody could steal?”
“If you want to know, somebody got into my dressing room while I was out to dinner and stole a gun I kept in my trunk, and that’s what!”
Still Durkin didn’t see anything in this to upset her. “I’ll buy you a dozen pop guns if that’s all you’re worrying about. Now listen, baby —”
His fingers caught the soft flesh of her upper arm. Then came an inopportune interruption. “Say, boss, what lighting goes with the cafe scene?”
The hulking, ape-like form of Roscoe, stage electrician, came between them. Durkin stared into the little pig-like eyes and wished for the tenth time that he had enough on this gorilla to fire him. “You know damn well it gets amber foots and a pair of baby spots from up above, why come busting —”
But Janey Vere de Vere was going out on the stage, as all twenty-four of the Forty Naughty Paris Girlies kicked their way off. Her hand was on her hip, and her throaty contralto voice picked up her song.
There was a little smattering of applause from the darkened house, for Janey was possessed of charms notable even among strip-artists, and she was a newcomer to the Wheel. She went into a slow hip dance as a purple spotlight struck her, body twisting, wide hips surging back and forth beneath the wispy evening gown of revealing black lace — one of those slashed affairs especially designed for dancing.
As the cash customers agreed later, Janey was at her best that night. Which showed that she was a real trouper, for the people backstage knew that she had something on her mind.
“What’s eating Vere de Vere?" Durkin demanded of Murphy, a slapstick comic who approached in a costume composed of a silk hat and a long flannel nightshirt. “She looks scared of something.”
“Her?” The comic grinned. “Must be she’s scared of you, you sheik. Janey ain’t used to this racket yet. She’s been accustomed to better things, says she.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And she moves with a classy crowd, Maxie old thing. Why last week out in Brooklyn there was a dude in a tuxedo came into a box every night, just to see her act.” The comic peered through the wings, past Janey’s gyrating body on the stage, and squinted. “Say, it looks like the same guy — see him, alone in the right front box? Maybe it’s him that she’s scared of.”
Max Durkin took a long greenish-brown cigar from among the half dozen which graced his vest pocket. Murphy also helped himself. “Thanks,” he said. But the manager wasn’t listening.
“So,” he said. “Vere de Vere has got herself mixed up with the Park Avenue crowd. Somebody ought to do something about that.”
“Maybe somebody will,” agreed the comedian. “Me, I’d do anything short of arson if it would get me to first base with her.”
He stared admiringly out onto the stage. Janey’s song was only four minutes long, and at the first encore, when stage lights flared on, her costume was due to go off.
Durkin turned and went through the door, placed just beside Roscoe’s switchboard, which led to the left side aisle and the front of the house.
At that moment Janey Vere de Vere, without breaking the pagan rhythm of her dance, began to fumble with the ribbon at the rear of her costume. A round knee and thigh began to disclose themselves. She was still singing — “... he may have the manners of a country lout, but who wants politeness when the lights are out? ... he’s my —’’
But that was all anybody was to see of Janey Vere de Vere’s knee that night. Her song was interrupted by a tremendous bang! and a burst of flame which came from the left front box.
A woman screamed somewhere in the audience, and the acrid smell of powder drifted out over the house.
From somewhere came Max Durkin’s voice. “Hit the lights!”
Then the crowd knew that this was not meant to be part of the show. “Roscoe, hit ’em!” shouted Durkin, from the aisle. “Everybody keep their seats!”
Still Roscoe fumbled with his switches, so that instead of casting a flood of brilliance over the auditorium, even the red exit lights went dark. Only the purple spotlight remained, slanting down from the film booth in the balcony. Janey Vere de Vere, her red mouth open wide, stood frozen in the center of the stage. The orchestra died away in a confusion of strings and brass.
Then the spotlight left the girl on the stage, sliding eerily past the white frightened faces of the girls who were crowding into the wings, sliding over the orchestra and the people in the front rows, and finally pouring its soft brilliance into the box from which the shot had come. But it stood empty and bare.
“House lights,” roared Durkin again. This time the house lights came on. The audience straggled into the aisle, staring at each other and muttering questions. There was a long moment of this, and then the forgotten girl on the stage made a throaty, whimpering noise. She pointed — and then suddenly collapsed like a sack. But she had been staring at the right front box — the box in which a little man in a white shirt front was sitting, slumped down in his chair.
He was staring at the stage, but his stare was sightless — for everyone in the audience could see that there was a small round hole in the center of his forehead.
Squad cars screamed to a stop beside him, pouring forth bluecoats. McKee was foremost. He knocked the empty gat from nerveless fingers. "I always said we'd nab you some day," he rasped triumphantly.
But Little Augie only grinned. “As usual, Copper, you ’re just too late. " And he died.
As the screen went dark, the twelve men who had just crept into the orchestra pit struck up a few bars of “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” and then without pausing broke into “Did You Ever See a Dream Walking?”
Footlights flared on, and the audience roused itself. All through the picture, which filled in between shows at the Diana, they had been drifting in by ones and twos. But the several hundred — mostly masculine — who made up the audience had not left the garish lights of Forty-second Street and paid their half dollars at the box office to see a movie.
It was the first day of a new show at the Diana Burlesque — its title was one of those Rabelaisian affairs designed to catch the masculine eye. Last week it had been something equally raucous, although except for the change in the big electric sign outside, few could tell the difference. Dapper Max Durkin, who acted as house manager of the Diana, often thought that the long hours he spent working out new gag titles was a waste of time.
He wasn’t wasting his time now, though he lounged in the wings and idly watched the “Forty Naughty Paris Girlies” as they rollicked onto the stage in their opening dance number. He leaned forward and caught a ribbon which formed an essential part of the costume of a handsome, red-haired girl who was waiting for a cue.
It was the ribbon which, if tugged hard enough, would leave Janey Vere de Vere attired in little more than what she had first worn into the world. She whirled suddenly, drawing the ribbon from his fingers, and frowned.
“How about dinner and a little bottle of gin after the show?” he asked.
“Oh — it’s you. Ask me later, will you? I — something’s happened.”
He saw that the big brown eyes were glazed with fear. “What? Spill it, girlie.”
She came closer. “You’ve got to get me a new lock for my dressing-room door, Durkin. I tell you —”
“Lock? Say, what have you got that anybody could steal?”
“If you want to know, somebody got into my dressing room while I was out to dinner and stole a gun I kept in my trunk, and that’s what!”
Still Durkin didn’t see anything in this to upset her. “I’ll buy you a dozen pop guns if that’s all you’re worrying about. Now listen, baby —”
His fingers caught the soft flesh of her upper arm. Then came an inopportune interruption. “Say, boss, what lighting goes with the cafe scene?”
The hulking, ape-like form of Roscoe, stage electrician, came between them. Durkin stared into the little pig-like eyes and wished for the tenth time that he had enough on this gorilla to fire him. “You know damn well it gets amber foots and a pair of baby spots from up above, why come busting —”
But Janey Vere de Vere was going out on the stage, as all twenty-four of the Forty Naughty Paris Girlies kicked their way off. Her hand was on her hip, and her throaty contralto voice picked up her song.
There was a little smattering of applause from the darkened house, for Janey was possessed of charms notable even among strip-artists, and she was a newcomer to the Wheel. She went into a slow hip dance as a purple spotlight struck her, body twisting, wide hips surging back and forth beneath the wispy evening gown of revealing black lace — one of those slashed affairs especially designed for dancing.
As the cash customers agreed later, Janey was at her best that night. Which showed that she was a real trouper, for the people backstage knew that she had something on her mind.
“What’s eating Vere de Vere?" Durkin demanded of Murphy, a slapstick comic who approached in a costume composed of a silk hat and a long flannel nightshirt. “She looks scared of something.”
“Her?” The comic grinned. “Must be she’s scared of you, you sheik. Janey ain’t used to this racket yet. She’s been accustomed to better things, says she.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And she moves with a classy crowd, Maxie old thing. Why last week out in Brooklyn there was a dude in a tuxedo came into a box every night, just to see her act.” The comic peered through the wings, past Janey’s gyrating body on the stage, and squinted. “Say, it looks like the same guy — see him, alone in the right front box? Maybe it’s him that she’s scared of.”
Max Durkin took a long greenish-brown cigar from among the half dozen which graced his vest pocket. Murphy also helped himself. “Thanks,” he said. But the manager wasn’t listening.
“So,” he said. “Vere de Vere has got herself mixed up with the Park Avenue crowd. Somebody ought to do something about that.”
“Maybe somebody will,” agreed the comedian. “Me, I’d do anything short of arson if it would get me to first base with her.”
He stared admiringly out onto the stage. Janey’s song was only four minutes long, and at the first encore, when stage lights flared on, her costume was due to go off.
Durkin turned and went through the door, placed just beside Roscoe’s switchboard, which led to the left side aisle and the front of the house.
At that moment Janey Vere de Vere, without breaking the pagan rhythm of her dance, began to fumble with the ribbon at the rear of her costume. A round knee and thigh began to disclose themselves. She was still singing — “... he may have the manners of a country lout, but who wants politeness when the lights are out? ... he’s my —’’
But that was all anybody was to see of Janey Vere de Vere’s knee that night. Her song was interrupted by a tremendous bang! and a burst of flame which came from the left front box.
A woman screamed somewhere in the audience, and the acrid smell of powder drifted out over the house.
From somewhere came Max Durkin’s voice. “Hit the lights!”
Then the crowd knew that this was not meant to be part of the show. “Roscoe, hit ’em!” shouted Durkin, from the aisle. “Everybody keep their seats!”
Still Roscoe fumbled with his switches, so that instead of casting a flood of brilliance over the auditorium, even the red exit lights went dark. Only the purple spotlight remained, slanting down from the film booth in the balcony. Janey Vere de Vere, her red mouth open wide, stood frozen in the center of the stage. The orchestra died away in a confusion of strings and brass.
Then the spotlight left the girl on the stage, sliding eerily past the white frightened faces of the girls who were crowding into the wings, sliding over the orchestra and the people in the front rows, and finally pouring its soft brilliance into the box from which the shot had come. But it stood empty and bare.
“House lights,” roared Durkin again. This time the house lights came on. The audience straggled into the aisle, staring at each other and muttering questions. There was a long moment of this, and then the forgotten girl on the stage made a throaty, whimpering noise. She pointed — and then suddenly collapsed like a sack. But she had been staring at the right front box — the box in which a little man in a white shirt front was sitting, slumped down in his chair.
He was staring at the stage, but his stare was sightless — for everyone in the audience could see that there was a small round hole in the center of his forehead.
Release Date: September 24, 1937
Release Time: 63 minutes
Cast:
ZaSu Pitts as Hildegarde Withers
James Gleason as Inspector Oscar Piper
Marjorie Lord as June Preston
George Shelley as Bert
Joan Woodbury as Rita Marlowe
Frank M. Thomas as Jeff Plummer
Tom Kennedy as Detective Casey
Alan Edwards as Ricky Rickman
Stephen Chase as Tommy Washburn
Eddie Marr as Windy Bennett
Ada Leonard as Lil
Barbara Pepper as Alice
Stuart Palmer (1905–1968) was an American author of mysteries. Born in Baraboo, Wisconsin, Palmer worked a number of odd jobs—including apple picking, journalism, and copywriting—before publishing his first novel, the crime drama Ace of Jades, in 1931. It was with his second novel, however, that he established his writing career: The Penguin Pool Murder introduced Hildegarde Withers, a schoolmarm who, on a field trip to the New York Aquarium, discovers a dead body in the pool. Withers was an immensely popular character, and went on to star in thirteen more novels, including Miss Withers Regrets (1947) and Nipped in the Bud (1951). A master of intricate plotting, Palmer found success writing for Hollywood, where several of his books, including The Penguin Pool Murder, were filmed by RKO Pictures Inc.
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