Jane Carter Investigates Episode One-Hundred and Eleven
Flo and I stared at the counter. I knew
that we had not touched the hat. It must have been removed by the man who had
abandoned it there.
“The hat’s gone,” whispered Florence
nervously. “That means someone is still inside the building!”
“He could have slipped out the front
door while we were in the basement.”
Once more we made a complete tour of
the building, entering every room. We found no one and finally decided to give
up the futile search.
“After this, I’ll take more care to
lock the entrance door,” I said as we prepared to leave the building.
Saturday afternoon I put on a
quietly-respectable flowered frock, a pair of stockings in pristine condition—I
had to borrow those from Mrs. Timms—and a pair of shoes which were only
slightly run down at the heel.
I spent the first half hour of the
Gardening Circle Tea listening to Mrs. McCall, one of Reverend Radcliff’s most
elderly parishioners, catalog the progress of her lumbago. Periodically I
scanned the room, alert for the arrival of Mrs. Dunst.
When she finally arrived, I detached
myself from Mrs. McCall, who had forsaken her lecture on lumbago and had gone
on to describe in exquisite detail the trouble she’d been having with her glass
eye. I suggested that perhaps Florence might pop round and give her eye a good
scrubbing, before slipping away. It was a mean trick to play on old Flo, but it
wouldn’t be the first time that Reverend Radcliff’s daughter had been recruited
to launder a parishioner’s accessory parts.
“How do you do,” I said to Mrs. Dunst
and stuck out my hand. “I’m Jane Carter.”
Mrs. Dunst slowly extended the gloved
hand not containing the plate loaded with an assortment of shortbread, scones
and pimento cheese tea sandwiches.
“You’re Anthony Fielding’s daughter,
aren’t you?” Her voice was a trifle frosty.
“I am,” I said. Since she already knew
who I was, I decided on a frontal assault. “I heard my father has been less
than receptive to your requests to place advertisements on behalf of the LWV in
his newspaper.”
“He has been less than receptive,” Mrs.
Dunst replied with only a trifle less frost in her voice. “As has every other
reputable news establishment in Greenville. I confess I never expected to
encounter such a unified resistance to the cause of the LWV.”
“I have very little influence with my
father,” I said—this was more or less a lie, but it was the unvarnished truth
when it came to putting pressure to bear on his choice of advertisers. “Hounding him to accept your account would be
fruitless, but I may have a unique solution to your problem which would be
mutually beneficial to us both.”
I
spent the next ten minutes regaling Mrs. Dunst with my successes as Miss Hortencia
Higgins—my nom de plume—authoress of such well-received serials as “Under Sentence
of Marriage: What Came of Miss Amhurst’s Trip to New York,” and “Marcia Makes
Good: A Vamp Finds Her Soul”. I left out “Evangeline: The Horse Thief’s
Unwilling Fiancée”. I did not think Mr. Pittman’s butchered ending would please
her—had Mrs. Dunst chanced to read it—it certainly had not pleased me.
I then moved on to my proposal: The League of Women Voters would
serve as interim staff members for my newly-minted magazine, and Carter’s All-story Weekly would print
large and copious advertisements on behalf of the LWV. Not only that, I told
Mrs. Dunst, but her members would have the opportunity to write popular fiction
sympathetic to the cause of equal rights for women.
“Women have the vote,” I concluded my appeal, “but there is yet a
great work to be done before the American woman possesses full equality with
the American man. What better way to enlighten and emancipate the female sex
than through the vehicle of entertaining and uplifting works of fiction?”
I was pleased with my little speech. If that did not move Mrs.
Dunst, nothing would.
Mrs. Dunst again extended her gloved
hand. This time around her face was wreathed with smiles.
“I shall report to your offices bright
and early Monday morning,” she said, “accompanied by such like-minded members
as are willing to join me.”
At breakfast the next morning I ate
with such a preoccupied air that my father commented upon my sober countenance.
“I hope you haven’t encountered knotty
problems so soon in your literary venture,” he said.
“None which you can’t solve for me,” I
said.
“Indeed? And when does the first issue
appear?”
“I’ll print three weeks from today.”
“On Sunday?”
“It’s the only day your presses wouldn’t
be busy.”
“My
presses?”
“Yes, I haven’t hired my pressroom
force yet. I plan to make up the magazine, set the type, and lock it in the page
forms. Then I’ll haul it over to your plant for stereotyping and the press
run.”
“And if I object?”
“You won’t, will you, Dad? I’m such a pathetic little rag. I’m not even a competitor since you deal strictly in the news of the day and wouldn’t think of touching anything as frivolous as sensational and sentimental works of fiction.”
Next Episode
Comments
Post a Comment