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WHEN suddenly asked if he knew how many lonely, middle-aged, unattached women disappeared in New York every year, Inspector Piper only said: " Not enough." And when Miss Hildegarde Withers, retired schoolma'am in search of a crime, suddenly realised the importance of the Christmas card that hadn't arrived and went rushing off, leaving |n_ spector Piper with two Italians' dinners, he was convinced the old girl was slipping. It was a slip that led to a fall—the plunge of one Harriet Bascom from the thirty-eighth floor of Manhattan's latest luxury hotel —and put Miss Withers on the trail of the four lost ladies |