“But I shall dance,” Miss Barnett contradicted herself. “I can’t afford to drop out of the show even for a day. I’ll take a Turkish bath. Perhaps that will keep me from getting so stiff and muscle-bound.”
“My advice to you is to remain in bed for several days,” said Jack. “And you should see a doctor.”
“No. The last time I called a doctor he sent me to the hospital. I gained ten pounds and lost my place in the show!”
“If you’re so determined, I suppose there is nothing more to say. At least we’ll bandage up that cut. Pauline, will you get me a piece of gauze and some tape?” I said.
“Gauze? We don’t have any here.”
“You might try the drugstore across the street,” I suggested. “They probably have some.”
Pauline scowled and looked from me to Miss Barnett. The maid obviously didn’t want to go out on a fetch-and-carry.
“Oh, never mind, Pauline,” Miss Barnett said. “A bandage would look so disfiguring. We’ll let it go this way.”
Jack shrugged and reached for his hat. Since there was nothing more we could do, it was time to be going.
“How did the accident happen, Miss?” asked the old doorman who had lingered in the dressing room.
“I don’t know. I must have tripped on the carpet. I was glancing at the window—”
“Did you see something which startled you?” I asked. What with the fall down the stairs, I had nearly forgotten the reason Miss Barnett had been distracted from watching her step.
“I thought I saw—but probably I was mistaken.”
“What did you think you saw?” Jack asked, taking his hat off again.
Miss Barnett half raised up from the pillow.
“It was a shadow, or perhaps a grotesque human figure, outlined against the window. Oh, it was horrible!”
“Can’t you describe the shadow?” I asked.
The dancer shook her head.
“My impression was such a fleeting one. The shadow might have been made by a person who was terribly deformed—possibly by a hunchback.”
“It’s real bad luck to see anything like that,” declared Pauline.
Jack turned to the old doorman.
“You might take a look around the building,” he suggested. “However, the chances are, that if anyone were at the window, he’d be gone by now.”
“I’ll search the alley right away. If there’s any peepin’ Tom around, I’ll get him!”
After the doorman had gone, Miss Barnett lay back and closed her eyes before opening them again and saying, “This makes the second accident I’ve had within the past week. And yesterday I ran a splinter deep into my finger. So many things seem to have gone wrong.”
“Maybe you never should have kept that witch doll,” Pauline said.
“What has that to do with it?” Miss Barnett asked.
“The witch doll may be an omen of bad luck,” Pauline said. “I’d never have kept it if I had been in your place.”
“Superstitious rubbish!” Jack said.
Jack has almost as little tolerance for persons who profess to believe in the supernatural as my father. I could tell he had made up his mind that the maid was either stupidly or deliberately playing upon the feelings of Miss Barnett.
Pauline glared at Jack and turned her back on us both.
“A warning note was sent with the doll,” Miss Barnett said. “I was told that I could not give the doll away. At the time, I did not think very much about it.”
“I’d give it no thought now,” I said. “How could a doll bring one bad luck? If anything, it really has brought you good fortune. Wasn’t your witch doll dance a tremendous success?”
“You are right. I don’t see how the witch doll could have been responsible for my accident tonight.”
We heard footsteps. The door of the dressing room opened. The old doorman hurried inside and closed the door behind him.
“Come quick, sir,” he said to Jack.
“Did you find someone in the alley?”
“Not a person,” answered the doorman, “But on the wall—ah, sir, it’s sure enough to scare the wits from a body! Come and I will show you.”
CHAPTER 8
Jack followed the old man from the dressing room. I wasn’t about to be left behind, so I abandoned Miss Barnett to the indifferent care of the maid.
“Well, what did you find?” Jack asked again, as we descended the stairway with the doorman.
“I don’t rightly know, sir. It’s something mighty weird on the wall.”
The old doorman led us out the rear door of the theater into the dark alley. I looked up and down, but there was no living thing in sight.
“Nothing seems amiss,” Jack said.
“Follow me.” The doorman switched on his flashlight. “Careful where you step. This alleyway is full of old bottles and broken glass.”
He led us to the rear wall of the theater building, only a few feet from a low window, then flashed his light on the wall nearby. In the bright circle of light, I saw a black silhouette, perhaps five inches in diameter. It was done in dark ink or paint and obviously meant to represent a witch.
“What is that?” Jack asked.
“The figure is a duplication of the witch doll Miss Barnett received!” I said.
“I thought it would give you a start like it did me,” declared the doorman. “And see this, sir.”
He lowered his flashlight beam so that it shown on the space directly below the figure of the witch. Beneath the picture, in large bold letters, there was a crudely printed message:
“H.B. Beware!”
“It’s a warning!” I said. “‘H.B.’ must stand for Helene Barnett.”
“Nonsense,” Jack said, but his voice lacked conviction.
“It’s mighty strange,” the doorman said. “I know this drawing wasn’t here on the wall before tonight.”
“How can you be sure?” Jack asked.
“I walk through this here alley every day. I’d have noticed the picture if it had been on the wall.”
I rubbed an exploratory hand over the drawing, then held up my blackened finger.
“Wet paint. He is right, Jack. The picture was drawn on the wall only a few minutes ago.”
“Did you see anyone in the alley when you came out of the theater?” Jack asked the old man.
“No, sir, but I thought maybe I heard someone running down the far end of the alley. I couldn’t be sure.”
“Let me have your flash a minute.”
Jack took the light and directed the beam over the ground near the window. There were several large footprints in the moist earth.
“Those prints were made by a man, not a boy,” Jack said, comparing the size with that of his own foot. “This is either the work of a crank or a practical joker.”
“Jack, Miss Barnett must have seen the person silhouetted against the window,” I reminded him. “She was terrified because the shadow seemed so grotesque.”
“I judge Miss Barnett is a woman easily upset,” Jack replied. “There’s no need for her to hear about this. A little soap and water will take care of the witch.”
“Of course, sir,” said the doorman. “I’ll bring a bucket of suds right away.”
“Listen!” I whispered. “Someone is coming.”
Before we could move away from the window, Miss Barnett came into the circle of light, supported by Pauline. Jack quickly snapped off the flash beam, so that she would not see the sinister object painted on the wall.
“You never should have come out here,” Jack said to Miss Barnett.
“I had to learn what was wrong.”
“We found a few footprints,” I said, hoping she’d be satisfied with that explanation. “Nothing worth worrying about. You may see for yourself that the alley is quite deserted.”
Miss Barnett appeared satisfied and turned away. However, just at that moment, Pauline, who had crowded close to the wall, shrieked.
“Mercy upon us, what i
s this? It’s something painted on the building!”
Miss Barnett whirled toward the wall, trying to distinguish the object which had drawn the maid’s attention.
“You have very keen eyes, Pauline,” Jack observed, switching on the light.
“It looks like an old witch!” Miss Barnett said.
“That’s what it is!” cried Pauline. “And there’s something printed under the picture.”
“‘H.B. Beware,’” Miss Barnett read aloud. “Is it a warning intended for me?”
“Didn’t I tell you it was a mistake to keep that evil looking doll!” Pauline said. She looked as smug as the cat who ate the canary.
“I wish now that I had never seen the doll.” Miss Barnett shuddered. “This warning frightens me.”
“I would not consider it as a warning,” Jack insisted. “I fail to see that the drawing on the wall has any connection with you or your witch dance.”
“But those initials—‘H.B.’”
“Aren’t you rather imaginative to assume that they stand for your name, Miss Barnett? Why not toss that witch doll into a convenient garbage can and forget about it?”
“The doll cannot be given away,” reminded Pauline. “The card said—”
“Nothing but a bunch of bunk!” Jack snapped. “Take my advice, Miss Barnett, and forget all this hogwash. That’s exactly what it is—hogwash.”
“And what about the lovely dance which I created?”
“Keep it in the act, of course. I’ll see that you get a good write-up in the theater column of the Examiner.”
“Oh, that’s very kind of you.” Miss Barnett beamed.
Jack turned toward Pauline.
“You never should have allowed Miss Barnett to come out here in the cold night air,” he said sternly. “Take her back at once, and put her to bed, or she’ll be in no condition to dance again.”
It gave me a cold prickly feeling in the pit of my stomach to watch Jack being so solicitous of Helene Barnett’s welfare.
“Such a nice old tyrant,” Miss Barnett laughed. “But I shall take your advice, Mr. Bancroft. Good evening.”
Clinging to Pauline’s arm, she moved painfully away.
It was unfair of me, but I had to suppress the urge to pick up an empty bottle and heave it after her.
When Miss Barnett and Pauline had vanished beyond the corner of the building, Jack said, “I wish I had given her another piece of advice. She should get rid of that worthless maid.”
“I think you spoke quite enough of your mind,” I said, “but I agree with you. If it hadn’t been for Pauline, Miss Barnett never would have noticed that strange warning.”
Jack turned to the doorman.
“Even if she has seen the drawing, I believe I’d get it off the wall anyway.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it right away.”
When we reached my house, I declined Jack’s offer to walk me in.
Dad had already arrived home from the office. He was in the living room reading a book, drinking coffee, and pretending not to be waiting up for me.
“You’re very late,” he said.
“Did you worry?”
“No, you were with Jack.”
“Dad, about Jack. I wish you wouldn’t—”
“Did Jack enjoy the show?”
“Yes, he did. But that’s not my—”
“I’m so glad you kids had a good time. You know you could do a lot worse than Jack.”
“Dad!”
My father just smiled and went back to drinking his coffee.
I tried to distract Dad by telling him everything that had happened that evening at the Pink Lotus. Then I asked Dad if he meant to publish anything about the witch doll warning in the Examiner.
“Certainly not, Jane. The entire affair is ridiculous. It occurred to me just now that all this witch doll business may have been done as a publicity stunt.”
“Newspaper owners are too suspicious,” I protested. “I can’t believe Miss Barnett would risk breaking her neck just to get a line or two in the paper.”
“No, the accident seems genuine enough. The thing which struck me, though, was how Pauline managed to discover that picture on the wall in the dim light of the alley.”
“Yes, she went right for it, Dad, just as if she knew where to look!”
“Of course, you may have imagined that part. The drawing undoubtedly was the work of some crank.”
“Or a practical joker,” I said. “According to a wise young newspaper man I know.”
“No, I’ve settled on crank.”
“Sure, sure,” I said. “I think I know who sent that witch doll to Miss Barnett.”
“You do?”
“Yes, it came from Clara Jenson’s Doll Shop. But when I questioned Clara about it, she wouldn’t answer.”
“Is this girl the type who would enjoy playing a practical joke?”
“I thought you’d ruled out a practical joke?”
“Act your age and stop sassing your old man.”
I laughed and went on talking.
“If I’m right, and Clara did send the doll, then there’s no chance of it being any kind of joke. Clara is as serious as a monk.”
“Then perhaps you are mistaken about the doll coming from Clara’s shop.”
“I don’t think so, Dad. I suppose you’ll laugh, but I can’t help feeling there is something sinister about the entire affair.”
“Sinister is a strong word to use. No, Jane, in the absence of any real proof, I refuse to take your witch doll seriously.”
Jack was true to his word. Dad allocated considerable space in the theater column of the Examiner to Miss Barnett, and Jack gave her a glowing write-up, praising her witch dance. Other newspapers in Greenville also gave Miss Barnett’s performance positive reviews.
The following day, while I was pouring over the various theatrical notices, Florence dropped by to ask me if I would care to go for a ride in the country.
“I promised Mother I’d deliver that doll and a basket of food to a poor family by the name of Smith,” she explained. “They live out on the river road.”
“I’ll go,” I said. “I have a lot to tell you about last night. My, but you missed the excitement!”
“It just makes me sick I couldn’t see the show. Tell me all about it.”
“And do tell me all about your adventures dispensing fruit punch to the congregants of St. Paul’s?”
“Oh, the social was uneventful,” said Flo. “Harold Amhurst came down with an acute attack of appendicitis, so there was no one there to enliven the proceedings by spiking the fruit punch with boot-legged whiskey. That was a great relief to my father, of course, but do tell me all about your evening.”
I told Flo all the strange events of the previous night as we motored along the river road in the Radcliff’s car.
“Exciting things like that would happen when I couldn’t be there,” Florence complained. “Oh, I wish I could have seen that drawing on the wall! Do you think it was really intended as a warning for Miss Barnett?”
“Yes, I do, Florence. But I don’t think Clara had any part in it. For one thing, Jack found a man’s footprints near the wall. And Miss Barnett claimed she saw a grotesque figure at the window.”
“It gives me the heebie-jeebies just hearing about it,” Flo said. “I wish I’d been there!”
We’d arrived at the Smith place, a tumble-down, unpainted cottage. Washing flapped on a sagging clothes line which stretched from the porch to a tree. The picket fence had lost many of its teeth, and the untidy yard was cluttered with discarded objects. A few chickens scratched in the dirt.
We rapped on the door. After several minutes, it was opened a tiny crack, and a very dirty child of eight or nine peered out at us.
“Hello, Jeanie,” said Florence, “we’ve brought you something.”
Jeanie opened the door wide and beamed at us like we were the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus.
“Hello, Miss Radcliff
. Mama isn’t here,” Jeanie said. “She went down to Greenville ’bout an hour ago to see if she could get some washing to do.”
“Is your father away too?” Florence asked.
“Oh, he’s always gone,” said the child.
On the way down, Flo had informed me that it was common knowledge that Darrel Smith had never provided well for his family. The man worked in a nearby factory, but money slipped easily through his fingers. If there was a stupid way to spend money, Darrel Smith was guaranteed to find it. Mrs. Smith and the little Smiths often went without.
“I suppose your father is at the factory,” Florence said to Jeanie, as she set down her basket on the kitchen table.
Jeanie shook her head.
“Pop’s only workin’ half days now. I reckon he’s down at Silva’s, same as usual.”
“Silva’s?” I said. “Do you mean Leo Silva’s séance parlor?”
“Sure, that’s where he always goes soon as he gets his pay check. Mama begs him not to do it, but he won’t pay any ’tention to her.”
“Someone should talk with that man Silva!” I was angry. “It’s not right for him to take money which should go for food and clothing.”
“Mama went to see Silva,” Jeanie said. “She asked him not to let Pop come there anymore, but he just laughed.”
Florence unloaded the basket of food and gave the child the doll which had been purchased at Clara Jenson’s Shop.
“Oh, did you bring that for me?” Jeanie’s eyes sparkled. “I never had a store doll before! She’s just beautiful!”
When we left the house, Jeanie followed us all the way out to the car. “I’ll tell Mama you were here. She’ll be awful glad to get the food. We haven’t had anything ’cept potatoes for most of a week.”
“Jeanie’s father really isn’t such a bad sort,” Flo said, as we drove away. “He’s merely weak where money is concerned. What a pity that he wastes his wages on that medium!”
“Something should be done,” I agreed. “Silva would refuse to take the man’s money if he had any decency! Florence, let’s go there and talk with him!”
“Talk with Silva? Oh, that would take courage, Jane, and I doubt if it would do a speck of good.”
“Perhaps not, but we could try. Anyway, I have a great curiosity to see this wonderful man, Silva.”
Peril at the Pink Lotus: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book One) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 1) Page 5