Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Sixty-Eight
I found Florence Radcliff sitting
on her front porch reading a copy of Movie
Pictorial.
Flo is starstruck. Ask her
anything about any Hollywood actor or actress alive today, and she can tell
you. Ask Flo about Rudolph Valentino, and she’ll swear that the only reason the
two of them are not happily married with three children—two boys and a girl,
plus a Yorkshire terrier named Rufus—is that Mr. Valentino has not yet had the
pleasure of meeting her and is therefore woefully ignorant of the fact that he (Mr.
Valentino) and she (Florence Radcliff) are soul mates.
“’If you were Mary Pickford?
Think of it,’” I read over Flo’s shoulder. “’And if you can, you have reason to
be both thrilled and frightened at the thought.’”
Flo closed her magazine and
looked up at me.
“Really, Flo,” I said,
censoriously, “here you are a respectable children’s librarian and the daughter
of an upstanding member of the clergy, and yet you read this tripe. I find it
hard to fathom that there are still people out there who insist that Pittman’s All-Story Weekly produces the
biggest crop of super-fatted bilge available to the reading public.”
Jane folded up her copy of Movie Pictorial and sat on it,
preventing me from taking it from her and finding more to scoff at.
“I’m glad you came over,” Flo
said, completely ignoring my mockery. “I telephoned your house, and Mrs. Timms
said you had gone away somewhere.”
“Official business for Dad,” I
said and dropped ten dollars and forty-eight cents into Florence’s hand.
“Here’s what I owe you. But don’t go spending it, because I may need to borrow
it back in a couple of days.”
“Is Bouncing Betsy running up
huge garage bills again?” Flo asked.
Bouncing Betsy is what we call my
ancient Peerless Model 56. I call her Bouncing Betsy because her suspension is
shot to bits, and that’s only one of her many mechanical shortcomings. Old Bets
is a familiar figure at nearly every garage in Greenville.
“I had to buy new spark plugs
this time,” I said. “But then, I should get along better from now on. I sold a
Novelette to Litchfield’s New Story
Magazine, but I’m still waiting for the check.”
“Doesn’t that call for a
celebration? Rini’s has a special on today. A double chocolate sundae with
pineapple and nuts, cherry and—”
“Oh, no, you don’t! I’m saving my
meager-all for the essentials of life. I may need it for gasoline if I decide
to drive over to Sunnydale again.”
“Again?” Florence asked.
“I was over there today, covering
the Furstenberg wedding,” I explained. “Only it turned out there was no
ceremony. Thomas Atwood jilted his bride or was spirited away by persons
unknown. He was last seen near a lily pool in an isolated part of the estate. I
picked up a wedding ring lying on the ground close by. And then, as a climax,
Mrs. Furstenberg hurled a plate at Shep.”
“Jane Carter, what are you
saying?” Florence demanded. “It sounds like one of those two-reel thrillers
they show over at the Pink Lotus.”
“Here is the evidence,” I said,
showing her the white gold ring.
“It’s amazing how you get into so
much adventure,” Florence said as she studied the trinket. “Start at the
beginning and tell me everything.”
I recounted my visit to the
Furstenberg estate, painting an especially romantic picture of the castle
dwelling, the island, and the drawbridge.
“Oh, I’d love to visit the
place,” Florence said. “You have all the luck.”
“I’ll take you with me, if I ever
get to go again,” I promised. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The next morning, while Mrs.
Timms was preparing breakfast, I ran down to the corner to buy the first
edition of the Greenville Examiner.
As I spread it open on the breakfast table, a small headline accosted my eye:
“NO TRACE OF MISSING BRIDEGROOM.”
I read on. Thomas Atwood had not
been seen since his strange disappearance from the Furstenberg estate. Members
of the family refused to discuss the affair and had made no report to the
police.
“This story is developing into
something big after all,” I said to my father. “You see, your expert reporters
haven’t learned very much more than I brought in yesterday. Why wouldn’t it be
a good idea to send me out there again today?”
“Oh, I doubt if you could get
into the estate, Jane.”
“Shep and I managed yesterday.”
“You did very well, but you
weren’t known then. It will be a different matter today since we antagonized
the family by using the story. I’ll suggest that Jack Bancroft be assigned to
it.”
“With Jane as first assistant?”
“I am sure you wouldn’t have a
chance of getting into the estate,” my father said. “We must have good
coverage.”
“What does Jack have that I
haven’t got?” I demanded.
“Eight years of experience, for
one thing.”
“But I should go out there,” I
insisted. “I ought to show Miss Furstenberg the ring I found.”
“The ring might provide an
entry,” Dad admitted. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you telephone long
distance?”
I left the breakfast table and
took up the receiver on the telephone in the hall.
“Long distance,” I said into the
transmitter. “The Furstenberg estate at Sunnydale, please.”
I hovered anxiously near the
telephone while I waited for the connection to be made. Ten minutes elapsed
before the bell jingled several times. I could hear a faint, far-away voice
saying, “hello.”
“May I speak with Cybil
Furstenberg?”
“Who is this, please?”
“Mrs. Jane Carter at Greenville.”
“Miss Furstenberg is not at
home.”
“Then may I speak with Mrs.
Furstenberg? I have something very important to tell her. Yesterday, when I was
at the estate, I found a ring—”
The receiver clicked at the other end of the line. The connection was broken.
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