Jane Carter Historical Cozies: Omnibus Edition (Six Mystery Novels)

by Alice Simpson

  “It happens that, as usual, my taxi is in Mortimer’s Garage,” I said. “But the place is just around the corner. Jim promised he’d have it fixed by twelve today.”

  We reached the end of the block and turned in at the garage. A man in greasy coveralls assured me that my automobile was ready to be driven away.

  “How much will it be this time, Jim?”

  “Oh, make it a dollar,” he answered carelessly. “I’ll give you a special price because you’re such a steady customer.”

  I laughed and paid the bill. I slid behind the steering wheel, and, with Florence beside me, backed out onto the street.

  “We’ll try Maxwell Boulevard,” I said. “That’s the quickest route to your house.”

  Flo still lives with her parents, the Reverend Sidney Radcliff and Mrs. Radcliff. Living at home puts a cramp on Flo’s secret ambition to be a flapper (or at least to rouge and roll her stockings), but the Radcliffs couldn’t bear to see Flo move out. Flo has a job of her own—she’s the children’s librarian down at the city library—but you wouldn’t know that Flo already spent three days a week earning her own pin money and then some, the way her mother orders her about.

  Mrs. Radcliff would feel like she’d lost her right arm, should Flo ever meet her prince charming and make a home of her own. If Flo ever flies the coop, Mrs. Radcliff will have to start delivering food baskets to the needy and visiting all the shut-ins in Reverend Radcliff’s congregation—not just taking the credit for it.

  But I try to keep my opinions of other people’s domestic arrangements to myself, so I kept my mouth clamped shut and my foot on the accelerator. Betsy practically purred down the wide, shady street. I kept the arrow of the speedometer steady at thirty miles an hour.

  A large black automobile whizzed past so close that I was surprised that the fenders didn’t scrape.

  “Look at that fella go!” Florence was indignant.

  Flo has a very high regard for traffic laws. That gets us into arguments from time-to-time. In this case, however, I thought her outrage was merited.

  “Doing sixty easily,” Flo continued. “He missed us by inches.”

  “I wish the speed cop would get him,” I said. “Drivers like him are a menace.”

  The big car continued speeding down the street ahead of us. He’d come up on the tail of another car. The driver of the big black car sounded his horn and swerved around it. This time, however, he miscalculated.

  I watched in horror as the big black car sideswiped a large gray limousine. The gray automobile swerved into a deep ditch, turning sideways at a sharp angle.

  The black car hesitated for a few seconds as the driver, a dark-haired man, slowed down as he looked back to see what had happened, then the black car abruptly took off at full speed.

  “Get his license number, Flo!”

  “Three—eight—six. Oh, I lost the other two numbers.”

  “So did I. No use chasing him, either. Bouncing Betsy wouldn’t overtake a snail.”

  We pulled off near the gray limousine, got out, and approached the car in the ditch. It seemed that no one had been seriously hurt. A uniformed chauffeur had managed to get the rear door open and was helping a young woman exit the vehicle.

  “Are you injured, Miss Barnett?” the chauffeur asked.

  “I—I think I am all right, Johnson. Just badly shaken.”

  I held the car door open, and the chauffeur lifted Miss Barnett to the ground. She leaned against him for a moment.

  “What happened?” she asked. “The first thing I knew we were in the ditch.”

  “That road hog in the black car side swiped us! And he was too lily-livered to stop.”

  “The first three numbers of his auto license were 386,” Florence said from the sidelines. “The police may be able to trace him.”

  For the first time, the young woman noticed Flo and me.

  “Did you see the accident?” she asked.

  “Every bit of it,” I said. “The man very nearly struck us, as well. He was taking all of the road.”

  “I wish you would give me your names,” said the young woman. “If the man should be traced, I may need you as witnesses.”

  While we wrote down our addresses on a card, the chauffeur looked over the damage to the limousine.

  “She doesn’t appear seriously damaged, except for the fender,” he said. “We rolled into the ditch pretty easy.”

  Miss Barnett glanced at her wristwatch, a tiny gold oval set with large diamonds. She was a beautiful woman. Her clothes looked expensive, but I thought them a little extreme.

  “It is after one-thirty now, Johnson,” she said. “We have only twenty-five minutes to reach the theater. Can you make it?”

  “I’ll do my best, Miss Barnett.”

  The chauffeur climbed into the front seat of the limousine. He was able to start the motor, but when he put it in gear, there was no movement, only a loud roar.

  “I can’t drive it out, Miss Barnett,” he said. “We’re in at too steep an angle. I’ll have to go for a garageman.”

  “Oh, dear, then we’ll never reach the theater in time! I must be there.”

  Miss Barnett turned to Flo and me and asked if we knew of a taxi stand nearby.

  “Not on Maxwell Boulevard,” I said. “But if you wish, I’ll be glad to take you to the theater in my car.”

  “Oh, my dear, you’ve saved my life! I’m due to go on at the Pink Lotus Theater at two o’clock, and it would ruin me to be late.”

  “Are you an actress?” Flo asked. Flo is star-struck. She subscribes to a half-dozen movie magazines, and if you happen to be curious about how old J. Warren Kerrigan really is, or how many times Corrine Griffith has actually been engaged, Flo is your woman.

  “Yes, I am an actress,” said Miss Barnett. “I have played various roles, but at present, I am in a dancing act. Surely you have heard my name, Helene Barnett?”

  “Of course,” I said, as I gave Florence a sharp dig in the ribs. “The Pink Lotus Theater ran a half page advertisement in the Greenville Examiner yesterday.”

  “I am the headliner at the Pink Lotus.” She glanced again at her watch. “We have just twenty minutes.”

  “We’ll get you there in time unless the car breaks down.”

  Miss Barnett laughed. She wouldn’t have if she’d realized how deadly serious I was about the possibility of breaking down. The dancer took a little suitcase make-up kit from the limousine and followed us to Old Bets.

  “Everything has gone wrong since I struck this town three days ago,” Miss Barnett said as we drove along. “First, I lost Marie, my French maid, who has been with me for years. That upset me, for the new girl is very indifferent. And now this accident.”

  “You were fortunate to escape without serious injury,” Flo said. Flo is always quick to find the silver lining in any cloud.

  “Yes, you might have been horribly crippled or scarred,” I said. “Or possibly both at the same time.” I was being sarcastic, but no one noticed. “You could have been blinded,” I added, “or lost an arm. Or a leg, possibly.” Still no reaction. I tried once more. “Or you could have been crippled, scarred, blinded and lost an arm and a leg, all at one time.”

  I looked over at Flo. She looked terribly sad as if contemplating the tragic specter of a crippled, scarred, blind and legless Miss Barnett. I despair sometimes at the number of people who take every little word one says literally, I really do.

  “Then my career as a dancer would end,” said Miss Barnett. “The very thought of never dancing again terrifies me.” She shivered slightly and leaned her head back against the cushion. Her face was pale.

  “Are you feeling all right, Miss Barnett?” I asked, repenting of my sins. “Perhaps, we should take you to a doctor instead of the theater.”

  “Perish the thought, my dear. The show must go on, you know. My nerves are a bit shattered now, but I am an old trouper. I’ll pull myself together when I reach the theater.”

  Closi
ng her eyes, Miss Barnett appeared to relax. She said no more, and I concentrated my full attention upon the road. Soon we were threading through the dense city traffic.

  “Only ten minutes left,” Florence warned as we passed a large clock in a jewelry store window.

  Miss Barnett straightened up, glanced at her own watch and opened her make-up box. She began to apply greasepaint, carmen lipstick, rouge, kohl and eyelash darkener. Florence turned around and peered over the back of the seat in fascination.

  “I look grotesque now,” Miss Barnett said, “but under the lights, these colors will tone down. Having my makeup on will save me five minutes.”

  A truck loomed up ahead. The driver ignored a polite honk from Bouncing Betsy’s horn.

  “We’ll never make it,” Miss Barnett said, glancing at her watch again. “I’m due to go on exactly at two, and it will take me five minutes to get into my dancing costume.”

  “I’ll get you there on time,” I said. “Or become crippled, scarred, blind and legless trying.” I didn’t even bother checking for a reaction. I find myself constantly surrounded by rubes without the merest scrap of humoristic sensibility.

  I backed the car around, turning into a narrow alley.

  “This isn’t Greenville’s most scenic route,” I said, “but it will take us to the stage door.”

  Three minutes later, Bouncing Betsy pulled up at the rear entrance of the Pink Lotus Theater. Miss Barnett quickly got out.

  “Please don’t go away until you have seen the show,” she said. “Park your car and come inside. I wish to talk to you later.”

  Then she thrust two pieces of pasteboard into Florence’s hand and disappeared through the stage door.

  CHAPTER 3

  “What did Miss Barnett give you, Flo?” I asked.

  “Door passes.” Florence held up two pieces of pink cardboard. “Let’s go inside. I think it would be fun to see a show from back-stage.”

  “So do I, but weren’t you in a hurry to get home?”

  “I’m so late already that another half hour won’t make much difference,” said Flo. “I’m supposed to be spending a scintillating three-quarters of an hour listening to Mr. Townsend’s complaints regarding his liver, then traveling halfway across town to pay a call to the invalid Mrs. Amhurst.”

  “You mean the same Mrs. Amhurst who’s convinced that you are the perfect woman to take her hideous son off her hands?”

  “Fortunately, Harold doesn’t agree with her.”

  “Harold?”

  “The son.”

  “He’s a real Airedale.”

  “He can’t help his face.”

  “It’s not his face,” I pointed out, “it’s his personality.”

  “Well, we can’t all claim to be holding out for a tall, dark, and devastatingly handsome genius millionaire with a saintly character and a winning disposition.”

  Flo was taking a swipe at me. I do claim to be holding out for a tall, dark, and devastatingly handsome genius millionaire with a saintly character and a winning disposition. I’ve set my standards for husband-number-two extremely high. So high, in fact, that there’s not an elephant’s whisker of a chance of any man coming along who lives up to them.

  “Are you coming in with me to see the show, or not?” I asked Flo.

  “One doesn’t get a chance like this every day.”

  “Right you are,” I said. “I’ll park the car.”

  We presented our passes at the side door to an old man who sat just inside with his chair tilted comfortably against the wall. Without glancing at our bits of pasteboard, he inclined his head toward a narrow wooden stairway.

  “Go right along in,” he said between puffs on his long-stemmed pipe. “Miss Barnett’s act is on now. You kin watch her from the wings if you’ve a mind to. But don’t make any noise.”

  We tiptoed up the steps. We could hear the stir of the audience and the first strains of the orchestra. We crept into the right wing, close beside an electrician who was busy flooding the stage with colored lights.

  Miss Barnett was on pirouetting on stage wearing huge, red butterfly wings. I could see she hadn’t been kidding about needing five minutes to get into her costume.

  “She’s marvelous,” whispered Flo.

  “She’s some hoofer, alright,” I whispered back. “Certainly knows how to work those gams.”

  The dance ended. The audience approved. As the applause continued, Miss Barnett darted into the left wing where her maid stood waiting. She pulled off her butterfly wings. Beneath her red costume, she wore a sparkling gold-beaded get-up complete with fringe. The maid handed her a cane, a high silk hat, and helped her substitute a pair of tap shoes for her ballet slippers.

  “She’s faster than a fireman answering a three-alarm fire,” I said, “but that new maid of hers’ is awkward.”

  Miss Barnett’s assistant was slow, and whenever she fumbled the dancer frowned. Nevertheless, before the applause had died away, Miss Barnett was back on the stage again, this time with an acrobatic tap dance.

  I watched the dance for a minute or two before allowing my gaze to wander to Miss Barnett’s maid. She looked around thirty, with large hands and a plain face. Unaware that I was watching her, the maid regarded her dancing mistress with a look of undisguised hatred.

  “Florence—” I whispered, nudging her to look. Before I could add more, the maid’s eyes focused on us. I looked quickly back to the stage.

  The tap dance ended in a whirlwind series of cartwheels and handsprings. After three bows, Miss Barnett ran off the stage for the last time, tossed her hat and cane into the hands of the maid, and then came over to us.

  “I’m so glad you saw my act,” she smiled, leading us toward the stairway. “Did you like my dancing?”

  “It was wonderful,” said Florence.

  “You must have been born without starch in your bones,” I said. “I don’t see how you do all those bending stunts.”

  “I’ve been dancing professionally since I was four years old. My mother was a dancer. I’ve been on the stage all my life.” Miss Barnett opened the door of her dressing room. “Please stay and chat with me while I take off this grease paint.”

  The dressing room chairs were littered with articles of clothing. Miss Barnett swept them clean and motioned for us to sit down.

  “This room is a mess. My new maid, Pauline, is so shiftless. I wonder what is keeping her now?” Miss Barnett frowned as she picked up a rough towel and began to apply cold cream to her face. “Tell me all about yourselves.”

  “There’s not much to tell,” I said. “You already know our names and that we possess the customary allocation of arms and legs.”

  This time both Miss Barnett and Flo looked at me oddly. Maybe people do sometimes hang on my every word.

  “Are either of you married?” Miss Barnett asked.

  “Widow,” I said.

  “Oh,” said Miss Barnett.

  “I’m not married,” Flo said hastily.

  “Do you both live on your own?” the dancer asked.

  “I live with my father,” I said.

  “Oh, your mother is dead?” Miss Barnett asked.

  “Yes,” I said, “but our housekeeper, Mrs. Timms, looked after me growing up—well, since I turned ten. She’s a dear old thing.”

  “Jane’s father owns the Greenville Examiner,” Florence said, “the biggest newspaper in the city.”

  “Dad thinks so, anyway.”

  Miss Barnett perked up. I had a suspicion that I’d suddenly become infinitely more interesting.

  “Your father is a newspaper owner? Well, perhaps you could get him to run a favorable line about my act.”

  “I might,” I said.

  “No, I was only joking. Good publicity helps, of course, but you have done me enough favors for one day.”

  Before I could reply, the dressing room door opened, and the maid, Pauline, came in. She was in a foul mood and made no effort to disguise it.

 
“Pauline,” said Miss Barnett, “how many times must I tell you that I expect you to come to the dressing room immediately after my act?”

  “I stopped to get this package from the doorman,” the maid muttered.

  “Oh, flowers! From some unknown admirer, I suppose.”

  Miss Barnett grabbed the box from Pauline, broke the stout cord holding it closed, and raised the lid.

  “What is this?”

  She lifted the gift from its nest of tissue paper wrapping. It was a doll with a pointed black hat, a dark cape, and a grotesque face.

  “Someone has sent me an old witch! A doll made like a witch! Such a weird looking thing!”

  “It’s bad luck to get a doll like that, Miss Barnett,” declared the maid.

  “Oh, you’re always saying everything is bad luck,” the dancer protested. “I wonder who could have sent this doll? It must have been done for a joke.”

  A card had fallen from the box to the floor. I picked it up and offered it to Miss Barnett.

  “Listen to this!” the dancer exclaimed. ‘Kindly accept this witch doll with the compliments of the sender. It may prove the inspiration for a new creative dance. Only beware of the doll’s evil spell, for, once accepted, the doll cannot be given away.’”

  “There, I was right!” said Pauline. “That doll will bring you bad luck!”

  “Oh, bosh, Pauline,” Miss Barnett frowned. “I’m sure that part about the evil spell is only a joke.”

  “Is there a name on the card?” I asked.

  Miss Barnett shook her head and set the doll on the dresser.

  “It’s such an ugly doll,” said Flo.

  “But so ugly it is fascinating,” Miss Barnett said. “There is an original idea back of this doll. I believe I could create a marvelous dance around it—Pauline, do you remember my famous bat dance?”

  “I was not with you at that time, Miss Barnett.”

  “No, of course not, I forgot for the moment. Now I could use some of those same steps in this witch doll dance. It would be a sensation!”