Jane Carter Investigates Episode One-Hundred and Three
“It’s hardly heavy enough to contain a
severed head,” I said, but my fingers trembled as I untied the string. The
paper fell away, and several objects dropped at my feet. Stooping, I picked up
a black wig cut into a sleek bob. In addition, there was a dark veil, a crushed
felt cloche, and a cheap cloth jacket.
“A disguise!” exclaimed Florence.
“Yes, the girl who tossed this bundle
into the river was the same one we
saw aboard the steamer! But why did she wear these things and then try to get
rid of them?”
“Don’t you understand?” Florence
demanded impressively. “She was a crook just as I thought. And she must have
been the one who robbed Rosie Larkin!”
I looked at the curious array of
objects from the discarded bundle. Unquestionably, they had been worn by the
mysterious young woman we had observed aboard the Flamingo. However, I
did not agree with Florence that the woman or her escort had robbed Rosie
Larkin.
“I never heard of a professional
pickpocket bothering with a disguise,” I said. “And what kind of pickpocket can
afford to go around in such luxurious clothes as she was wearing after she shed
these shabby things?”
“Perhaps picking pockets is more
profitable than you think,” Flo insisted. “Why else would the woman have been
disguising herself?”
“I haven’t any idea,” I admitted.
“Everything about it is odd. For instance, what became of her escort after the
steamer docked? And who were the other two young men awaiting her with that
rather luxurious gray car?”
“They all appeared to be quite
well-to-do.”
Florence kicked at the bundle with her
foot.
“What shall we do with these things?
Toss them away?”
“Certainly not!” I carefully rewrapped
the wig, jacket, and other articles in the crumpled newspaper. “I shall take
them home with me. One never knows what may develop.”
A taxi drew up nearby.
“Why, it’s Jack Bancroft!” I said.
“Did you invite him?” Flo asked. “If he
planned on dancing with you, I’m afraid he’s a trifle late.”
I elbowed Flo in the ribs as Jack
emerged from the taxi.
“Hello,” Jack said cheerily. “Marvelous
night for a murder.”
“I hope you’re not carrying any
concealed weaponry,” I said. “Where’s Dad?”
“That’s rich coming from a woman who
carries both a cosh and a knife in her handbag.”
“It’s a pocket knife. Strictly
utilitarian. I most often employ it to peel apples,” I protested. “And the cosh
is purely for purposes of self-defense.”
“Your father was delayed at the Examiner office,” Jack explained. “He
sent me to meet the boat in his place. The fog made traffic slow. That’s why
I’m late.”
Taking Flo and I each by an elbow, he
steered us to the waiting taxi.
“Greenville Examiner,” he
instructed the driver.
The fog was not so dense after the cab
left the docks, but the entire river valley was blanketed, making it necessary
for automobiles to proceed with headlights turned on.
“Have a nice time?” Jack asked as the
cab crept along the waterfront streets.
“Not very,” I answered, “but we ran
into a little adventure.”
“Trust you for that.” Jack laughed.
“City Editor DeWitt was telling the boys at the office that he bet you’d come
home dragging a mystery by its tail.”
“Here it is,” I said, thrusting the
newspaper bundle into Jack’s hands. “Flo and I did a little fishing from the
dock, and this is what we hooked.”
While Jack examined the contents of the
strange package, I told him what had happened aboard the steamer. Jack could
offer no additional theories to explain why the young woman had discarded the
bundle of clothing.
“Florence’s guess seems as good as
any,” he said. “The woman may have been the one who robbed Rosie Larkin.”
“Pickpockets usually frequent crowds,”
I said. “During the entire trip, both the girl and her escort kept strictly to
themselves.”
Jack retied the bundle and tossed it
into my lap.
“Your mystery is too much for me,” he
said. “Afraid you’ll have to solve it yourself.”
I lapsed into meditative silence. For a
reason I have never tried to explain, the waterfront seldom fails to cast its
magical spell over me. I love the medley of sounds, deep-throated blasts of
coal boats mingling with the staccato toots of the tugboats, and the rumble and
clank of bridges being raised and lowered.
I have always felt an intimate
connection with the river, for the home I grew up in and now again occupy with
my father overlooks the Grassy River. After Timothy died, I came back home
again to live with my father and our housekeeper, Mrs. Timms. My own mother
died when I was only ten, so Mrs. Timms sometimes seems more like a mother to
me than a housekeeper.
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