Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Eighty-Five
After leaving the Furstenberg
estate, we motored to Sunnydale. More from curiosity than for any other reason,
we dined at the Colonial Hotel. The establishment was every bit as luxurious as
the old watchman had intimated. It took us a full hour and a half to eat the
fine dinner that was served in the hotel dining room. I tried not to think
about how many gallons of gas I could have put in Bouncing Betsy’s tank with
the money I was going to be paying out for the meal in front of me.
“Our friend the gardener does
have excellent taste in food,” Flo said. “What puzzles me is where does he get
the money for all this?”
“The obvious answer is that he’s
not a gardener.”
“Maybe he has rooms here too,
Jane.”
“I’ve been wondering about it. I
mean to investigate.”
Florence glanced at her
wristwatch.
“Do you think we should take the time?”
she asked. “It will be late afternoon now before we reach home.”
“Oh, it won’t take a minute to
inquire at the desk.”
We left the dining room and went
to the lobby. When the desk clerk had a free moment, I asked him if anyone by
the name of Peter Henderson had taken rooms at the hotel.
“No one here by that name,” the
young man behind the reception desk told me. “Wait a minute, and I’ll look to
be sure.”
He consulted a card filing system
which served as a register and confirmed his first statement.
“The man I mean would be around
sixty years of age,” I said. “He works as a gardener at the Furstenberg
estate.”
“Perhaps you have come to the
wrong hotel,” said the clerk, clearly offended. “We do not cater to gardeners.”
“Only to people who employ
gardeners, I take it.”
“Our rates start at ten dollars a
day.”
“And does that include free linen
and a bath?” I asked with pretended awe.
“Certainly. All of our rooms have
private baths.”
“How wonderful,” I giggled. “We
thought this might be one of those places with a single shared bath on every
floor!”
Suddenly comprehending that he
was being made an object of sport, the clerk glared at us and turned his back.
We went cheerfully out to Bouncing Betsy, pleased with ourselves for having
deflated such a conceited man.
It was late afternoon by the time
we arrived in Greenville, tired and dusty from our long trip. After dropping
Flo off at home, I drove to the Examiner
office. There were no empty parking places available on the street, so I ran my
car into the loading area at the rear of the building, nosing into a narrow
space which had just been vacated by a paper truck.
“Hey you, lady,” shouted an
employee. “You can’t park that scrap iron here. Another paper truck will be
along in a minute.”
I switched off the engine.
“I guess you’re new around here,”
I said, climbing out. “The next truck isn’t due until five-twenty-three.”
“Say, who do you think you are,
tellin’ me—?”
The employee trailed off into
silence as another workman gave him a sharp nudge in the ribs.
“Pipe down,” he was warned. “If
the boss’s daughter wants to park her jitney in the paper chute it’s okay,
see?”
“Sure, I get it,” the other
mumbled.
I grinned broadly as I crossed
the loading area.
“After this, you might mention my
automobile in a more respectful tone,” I tossed over my shoulder. “It’s not
scrap iron or a jitney, either!”
I passed a few pleasantries with
the operator of the freight elevator while I rode up and then stepped off at
the editorial floor. I noticed as I went through the newsroom that Jack
Bancroft’s desk was vacant. Because the waste basket was empty and the floor
beside it free from paper wads, I knew he had written no story that day. I felt
disappointed that I had missed Jack and then scolded myself for the feeling.
I tapped lightly on the closed
door of my father’s private office and went in.
“Hello,” he said, glancing up.
“Just get back from Sunnydale?”
“Yes, Florence and I had plenty
of excitement, but I didn’t dig up any facts you’ll dare print in the paper.”
“Did you meet Jack anywhere?”
“No, Dad, did you expect I
would?”
“The young cub is taking a
vacation at my expense, running up a big motorboat bill! He should have been back
here three hours ago.”
“Oh, be reasonable, Dad,” I said.
“You can’t expect him to trace down those men just in a minute.”
“It was a wild goose chase,
anyway,” my father groused. “I let him do it more to please you than for any
sensible reason, but that’s beside the point. He was told to be back here by
four o’clock at the latest, even if he had nothing to report.”
“Jack is usually punctual, Dad. I
suppose being on the river, he couldn’t get here just when he expected.”
“He’s probably gone fishing,” Dad
said.
He slammed down the roll top on
his desk and picked up his hat.
“Will you ride home with me?” I
said. “Bouncing Betsy would be highly honored.”
“It’s a mighty sight more
comfortable on the bus. But then, I can stand a jolting.”
As we went out through the main
room, Dad paused to speak with Mr. DeWitt, leaving an order that he was to be
called at home as soon as Jack Bancroft returned.
My father raised his eyebrows as
he saw where I had stabled Bouncing Betsy.
“Haven’t I told you that the
trucks need this space to load and unload? There is a five-cent parking lot
across the street.”
“But Dad, I haven’t five cents to
spare. The truth is, I spent nearly all of my last check from Mr. Pittman today
over at Sunnydale.”
We drove in silence for a few
blocks, and then I indicated the gasoline gauge on the dashboard.
“The tank is nearly empty!” I
said. “We won’t have enough to reach home!”
“Well, get some,” said my father
automatically. “We don’t want to stall on the street.”
I brought the car to a standstill
in front of a gasoline pump.
“Fill her up,” I said to the
attendant.
While Dad read his newspaper, the
attendant polished the windshield and checked the oil. He found it was low, and
I told him to add two quarts.
“That will be exactly one fifty-eight,” the attendant said when he was finished.
Comments
Post a Comment