Jane Carter Investigates Episode One-Hundred
I nodded my head in the direction of a
young man and girl who slowly paced the deck. Earlier in the evening, their
peculiar actions had attracted my attention. They kept strictly to themselves,
avoiding the salon, the dining room, and all contact with others.
“I wonder who they are,” said Florence.
“The girl wears a veil as if she’s afraid someone might recognize her.”
“Yes, I noticed that, and whenever
anyone goes near her, she lowers her head. I wish we could see her face.”
“Let’s wander over that way,” Flo
suggested.
Arm in arm, we sauntered toward the
couple. The young man saw us coming. He touched the girl’s arm and, turning
their backs, they walked away.
“They did that to avoid meeting us,”
Florence said. “I wonder why.”
The couple had reached the end of the
deck. As the young woman turned to glance over her shoulder, a sudden gust of
wind caught her hat. Before she could save it, her cloche skittered dangerously
close to the railing.
Not giving the young man an opportunity
to act, I darted forward. I rescued the hat and carried it over to the couple.
“Thank you,” the girl mumbled, keeping
her head lower. “Thank you very much.”
She hastily jammed the felt hat on her
head and replaced the veil, but not before I had seen her face clearly. The
young woman was unusually pretty, with large blue eyes, heavily-penciled
eyebrows, a smattering of freckles and a smoothly brushed black bob—an unusual
combination of coloring.
“This is certainly a miserable night,”
I remarked, hoping to start a conversation.
“Sure is,” replied the young man as he
tipped his hat and steered his companion away from me.
I returned to where Flo stood a few
yards away.
“Did you get a good look at them?” she
asked.
“Yes, but I’ve never seen either of
them before.”
“They wouldn’t talk?”
“No, and the girl lowered her veil as
soon as she could.”
“Perhaps she’s a movie actress
traveling in disguise,” Flo suggested.
Flo is obsessed with Hollywood. She
subscribes to six different motion picture magazines and reads them religiously
from cover to cover. She sees every movie that’s showing at the Pink Lotus
Theater at least three times during its run—seven or eight times if it’s
starring Rudolph Valentino. Flo swears that the only reason she and Mr.
Valentino are not installed in a bungalow in Hollywood Hills, complete with three children—two boys and a girl, plus a Yorkshire
terrier named Rufus—is
that Mr. Valentino has not had the privilege of meeting her yet.
In real life, I suspect that Flo has set
her sights considerably closer to earth. Shep Murphy, an old friend of mine and
another member of my father’s newspaper staff, buzzes around Florence from time
to time, but whenever I bring Shep up, Flo vigorously denies she has any
aspirations in that direction.
“I don’t think it very likely that a
movie actress would be cruising incognito on the Grassy River,” I told Flo.
“Then maybe she’s a criminal trying to
elude the police.”
“I fear the mystery of her identity
must remain forever unsolved,” I said. “We’ll dock in another five minutes.”
A dim glow of lights along the
Greenville wharf pierced through the fog. The Flamingo, its whistle
tooting repeated signals, was proceeding more slowly than ever. Sailors stood
ready to make the vessel fast to the dock posts when she touched.
People began to pour from the salon,
and Florence and I joined the throng. Passengers pushed and jostled each other,
trying to obtain a position close to the gangplank.
Suddenly a girl who stood not far from
me gave an alarmed cry.
“My pocketbook! It’s gone!”
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