Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Forty-Three
Ralph and Violet emerged from the front door, locking it behind
them. Ralph looked up and down the street and then placed the key into a chink
in the plasterwork above the door.
“Very obliging of him,” I said. “Now we won’t need to smash any
windows.”
The pair did not even give Bouncing Betsy a passing glance. They
walked rapidly away and soon vanished into the darkness.
“Now is our chance,” I said. “Come along, Flo.”
“They may return any minute.”
“Possibly, but not likely.”
We walked up to the front of the laundry, and Flo screened my
movements while I balanced on a discarded flowerpot and retrieved the key from
its hiding place. I unlocked the door and opened it. It locked from the inside,
so I replaced the key in its hiding place, slipped through the door after Flo,
and turned the bolt from the inside.
Ralph and Violet might return while we were still on the premises,
but they shouldn’t immediately detect anything was amiss.
We entered soundlessly. I thought the place was empty, but I
couldn’t be completely certain. It was gloomy in the interior of the shop.
“We don’t dare switch on the lights,” I whispered, “but I brought
the flash.”
“Someone might see the light through the windows,” Florence
whispered back.
“I’ll be careful how I use it. Come on, we have no time to lose.”
In the rear room of the laundry, I turned on the flashlight. There
was a table, four chairs, a small stove, ironing equipment, and half a dozen
baskets of laundry.
“Nothing here,” said Florence.
“We’ll try the basement if there is one.”
We found a stairway leading down into a dark, dirty hole. At first
glance, I thought we were doomed to further disappointment. The room was
crowded with wash tubs, boilers and a drying machine, but that was hardly
surprising.
“I don’t know what you expect to find,” Flo said. “But whatever it
is, it can’t be here.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “We’re already here. Let’s make a
thorough inspection.”
I moved around the room, investigating every nook and cranny. When
I came to a large airing cupboard, I reached up and pulled a strange object off
one of the upper shelves.
“Take a look at this, Flo!”
I flashed my light into the dark recess, so Flo could see. Three
oil paintings, stacked neatly together, their frames removed, were concealed in
the airing cupboard. We found six more portraits—far superior to the imitations
which had replaced them—stashed in a carton next to the wringer.
“Well, now we have found something!” Florence admitted.
“These are Mrs. Fairchild’s stolen pictures, Flo. I’m almost
certain of it.”
“Shall we take them with us?”
“No, they’re too large to carry. We’ll have to come back for
them.”
“I believe those two have been up to far worse things than
stealing a few paintings,” I said. “Now, on to the second floor. That’s where I
expect things to get really interesting.”
We returned to the main floor. I’d seen a narrow staircase at the
back of the workroom which must lead to the second floor.
“Should we really bother with the second floor?” said Florence, as
we stood in the back room contemplating the narrow staircase. “I think we’d
better go. We already know about the paintings. Whatever the meaning behind
that note on that bit of pasteboard, the police will find it.”
I refused to be talked into leaving. Ignoring Flo, I started up the stairs. When I reached the upper landing, I shot the beam of my flashlight around the room.
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