“Perhaps not, but we could try. Anyway, I have a great curiosity to see this wonderful man, Silva.”
We drove along in silence for a while.
“I have a marvelous idea, Flo!” I said. “Let’s go there now!”
“What’s so marvelous about that idea? I don’t think much of it myself.”
I’m not so easily discouraged.
“We’ll pretend we are reporters from the Examiner sent to interview the Great Silva,” I said. “He’ll be happy at the chance of free publicity. He’ll break down and answer all our questions about himself! Oh, Florence, you just have to say yes. We’ll have a regular lark!”
CHAPTER 9
“I must be getting weak-minded,” said Florence, as we pulled up at our destination. “Otherwise, I’m sure I’d have no part in this crazy scheme of yours.”
We parked on Clark Street and sat looking up at a dingy two-story frame building which the corner filling station man had assured us housed the séance parlor of the Great Leo Silva.
“Mrs. Timms called this a magnificent place,” I said. “She must have had delusions of grandeur. Either that or Silva hypnotized her.”
“Let’s not go inside. I don’t like the appearance of the building.”
“What! Not go inside after wasting an hour trying to find the place? It’s probably better looking inside.”
I caught Florence by the hand and pulled her from the car.
“I don’t like this idea of pretending we’re reporters, Jane. I won’t know how to conduct myself.”
“Oh, that’s easy. Reporters just act breezy and superior and ask a lot of personal questions no one cares to answer. Leave all the talking to me.”
“I shall.”
At the entrance to the building, we came upon a sign which read:
“Leo Silva—Second Floor. The Public Invited.”
Florence stopped on the step and refused to go any farther. “I’ll not go another step unless you promise to be careful what you say to Silva about the Smith family. There’s no telling how he might react.”
“I’ll be cautious,” I promised.
We went up the creaking stairway and opened the door marked Leo Silva. We stepped inside a small reception hall. A few straight-back chairs were lined up against the wall. While we looked around, a tiny window in the wall swung back on its hinges. A thin-faced, dark-eyed man with a bulging forehead, peered out at us.
“If you are here for communion with the spirits,” he said, “the next séance will be held at four o’clock.”
“Oh, we came to see Mr. Silva,” I said. “Is he here now?”
“Your name?” the thin-faced man demanded.
“Jane B. Carter,” I said. “I represent the Greenville Examiner.”
“Oh, you’re a reporter,” the man replied warily. “What is it you want?”
“I should like to interview Mr. Silva. May we see him, please?”
“You are talking with him now. I am the Great Leo Silva.”
“I’m very glad to meet you,” I said.
I was caught off guard. I’d been expecting something a bit more imposing in the way of soothsayers, but I suppose that there’s no physical requirement for claiming to have a direct line to the dead.
“I should like to ask you a few questions,” I said, putting on my reporter voice.
“Go ahead,” said Mr. Silva.
“Where were you born, Mr. Silva?”
“In a hospital.” He said it without a flicker of a smile.
I was warming to this man. I toyed with the possibility of asking him about his parentage.
Instead, I said, “When did you first feel the call to become a medium?”
“I do not designate myself by such a cheap name,” Leo Silva said. “Tell me why you were sent down here?”
“It was a little idea of my own. I thought our paper might be interested in an interview. You are such a well-known man, Mr. Silva.”
Mr. Silva did not look pleased by my flattery. This man was no fool. I switched off the ingratiating smile.
“I have had experience with reporters before,” he said. “They try to write stories which make me appear ridiculous in the eyes of the public. That hurts my business. And then the police start investigating. I’ll thank you to keep my name out of the Greenville Examiner.”
Leo Silva slammed shut the little window, and Flo and I were left alone in the waiting room. There was nothing left to do but leave, so we did.
“We certainly learned a marvelous amount about the great Leo Silva,” said Flo, when we’d reached the street. Usually, sarcasm is my specialty, but I seem to be rubbing off on old Flo.
“Oh, well.” I shrugged. “Dad says a good reporter has to learn to bounce when he’s thrown out. If I had the slightest attention of becoming one, I’d call this excellent experience.”
Flo just laughed. She knows I would rather be hog-tied to a rail-way in the path of a speeding locomotive then turn professional newspaperman.
“Just to make the day complete,” I said, ”suppose we visit Clara.”
“Why should we go there?”
“I’d like to learn if she’s sold her shop.”
“You’re certainly in a question-asking mood today.” Florence sighed, but she agreed to drive me to the doll shop.
We parked across the street from the building. Curtains had been half-drawn down over the windows, but the front door stood slightly ajar. Without intending to be particularly quiet, we came into the shop without giving any warning of our arrival. The bell that had jingled announcing our arrival on our other visits remained silent.
There was no one in the show room. Dust lay thickly on the counters. I looked over at Flo. I could see her mentally dusting. If I’d had a clean handkerchief, I would have offered it to her, so she could get started. I walked over to the counter and absently wrote my initials in the dust: “J. C. was here.”
Then I stuck my head into the workroom in the back. Clara was sitting by the kitchen range, busy with her sewing. She didn’t look up.
“Hello, Clara,” I said. “You’ll strain your eyes working so hard.”
Clara sprang from her chair. She shoved whatever she had been sewing behind her back.
“You startled me!”
“We didn’t mean to,” said Flo.
“You were so hard at work,” I said. “you didn’t even hear us come in.”
“I was just doing a little sewing. Did you wish something?”
She dropped whatever she’d been sewing into the basket at her feet.
“We just dropped around to ask if you had sold the shop,” I said. “But you must still have it, seeing you’re still here.”
“I am here—yes. However, I turned the shop over to Mrs. Fitz this morning.”
“Then you’re working for her?” Flo asked.
“I don’t know how long I’ll remain. Only a few days I hope.”
“You don’t care for your new employer?” I asked.
Clara looked at me before she spoke. She looked very tired, and her eyes were red and swollen as if she’d been weeping.
“Mrs. Fitz is very peculiar,” Clara said. “She hasn’t paid me for the shop yet.”
“I hope she doesn’t mean to cheat you,” I said. “Did you sign any legal papers having to do with the sale?”
Clara didn’t answer. She went to the window and stood looking out on the street.
“Mrs. Fitz will be coming back any minute,” she said. “I think you ought to go before she gets here.”
Then she practically pushed us out the back entrance of shop.
Once we were out in the alley behind the shop, Flo said, “I’ll never go back there again as long as I live! Clara practically ordered us out!”
“I think she was afraid,” I said.
“Afraid?”
“Yes, she was afraid Mrs. Fitz to find us at the shop. Flo, did you notice that doll she was making when we came in?”
“Was it a doll
? I didn’t see what it was, she whisked it out of sight so fast.”
“I couldn’t see it plainly,“ I said, “but I caught a glimpse of it before she hid it behind her back. By the time she put it in the basket, she’d balled up the fabric around the doll, so that it was impossible to tell what it was.”
“Why would she care if we saw what she was working on?”
“Can’t you guess? I’m certain it was another witch doll. Although, who’d want another doll like she sent Miss Barnett, I can’t imagine.”
CHAPTER 10
The next morning, I was in a fabulous mood. I’d had the most delicious dream that I was flying over the city of Greenville in the friendly company of a flock of pink and yellow pigeons.
I hummed a snatch of “Somebody Loves Me,” as I clattered down the steps two at a time and slid into my chair at the breakfast table. Dad was already seated at the table reading his morning paper.
“Is that you, Dad, behind all the murder headlines?”
“Good morning, Jane,” Dad said, lowering his paper. “There is a story which may interest you. Your friend, Miss Barnett, finally made the front page.”
“What happened to her?” I asked, accepting the paper from my father.
“Miss Barnett’s diamond necklace was stolen last night.” Dad pointed to a story in the left column.
The newspaper story reported that the dancer’s necklace, valued at ten thousand dollars, had been worn to the Black Cat, a fashionable night club. Miss Barnett had not discovered her loss until she had left the club and was in a taxi cab. She had then notified the police.
“The necklace may have been lost and not stolen,” I said. “Miss Barnett is very careless with her valuables.”
“Not unlike another young woman I am acquainted with,” said Dad. “Need I remind you of how many pairs of shoes you’ve lost or ruined.”
I rolled my eyes up to the ceiling.
“I don’t have any valuables.”
“And a good thing, too,” said Dad. “I know you keep saying you’re holding out for a millionaire husband, but I doubt any millionaire in existence would be able to sustain your losses in footwear alone.”
I sighed.
“Shoes are hardly in the same class as ten-thousand-dollar diamonds. Miss Barnett threw her diamonds around as if they were glass. I hope the necklace was insured. The story doesn’t say.”
Dad frowned. I knew he was irritated that his reporter at the Examiner had neglected to include that vital piece of information in the story.
“Miss Barnett’s maid seemed rather interested in that diamond necklace,” I said. “You can ask Jack. I’m sure he noticed it, too.”
“Apparently, no blame is attached to her,” said Dad.
“Just the same, she might have taken it.”
“Oh, I’d not consider it very likely if the necklace disappeared at the Black Cat.”
“From this story, one can’t be sure where it was lost. Perhaps, Miss Barnett isn’t sure herself.”
Dad folded the paper, slipped it into his coat pocket, and began to eat his Danish.
“You’re between deadlines for Pittman’s Weekly. How would you like a little job this morning, Jane?” Dad asked.
“Shining shoes?”
“No, I thought you might enjoy doing a bit of reportorial work for me.”
“You think I’m that desperate for money?” I said.
“Yes. I happen to know what you’re getting for that last serial you sold to Pittman’s. Don’t tell me that will keep you in new shoes and Bouncing Betsy on the road.”
“So, this is a charitable decision, on your part?” I teased. “How kind of you to be so solicitous of your poor destitute daughter.”
“Really, Jane,” Dad said, “the reason I’m asking this favor is that you are a very keen observer. And you do have a way with people. Now Miss Barnett likes you, Jane. I think she might be more willing to talk with you than one of my regular reporters.”
“I wouldn’t mind interviewing Miss Barnett,” I said. “Provided the pay is adequate and I’m allowed to tell Miss Barnett anything she says to me is liable to be front page news tomorrow. Maybe, I could find out if Pauline really did steal that necklace.”
“You do know that’s the reason I’ve never managed to make a newspaperman out of you,” Dad said. “I’m sure I’ve told you that the first rule of journalism is never to admit you’re a reporter.”
“Really, Dad!” I said.
This is subject he and I will never see eye-to-eye on. It’s no wonder the public thinks newspapermen are all dirty double-crossers, but there’s no good arguing about it.
“Maybe, I can find out if Pauline stole the necklace,” I said, trying to change the subject.
“You might bring in her signed confession!” said Dad. There’s no question where I got my penchant for sarcasm. “No, seriously, Jane, don’t strive for the spectacular. Just learn any facts you can from Miss Barnett, and write them up in a simple, interesting way.”
“All right,” I said. “Hold the forms open until I get to the office with my big story.”
I polished off my breakfast and arrived at the Pink Lotus shortly after nine. Miss Barnett had not yet arrived from her hotel, so I spent a half hour chatting with the doorman. He told me that he had washed the witch doll picture from the rear wall of the building. There had been no new disturbances.
Shortly after nine-thirty, Miss Barnett arrived with her maid in tow. She seemed happy to see me and took me off to her dressing room. Before I’d even had time to tell her why I was there, she started to tell me all about the robbery.
“I am certain the necklace was stolen, although I didn’t actually see it taken. I discovered that it was missing immediately after I left the Black Cat last evening.”
“What time was that?” I asked.
Miss Barnett hesitated before replying. She looked over at Pauline, who was sitting in the corner. The maid was darning one of Miss Barnett’s stockings, but it looked to me as if her darning skills were only slightly more advanced than her social graces.
“I’m not sure when it went missing,” said Miss Barnett. “Shortly after midnight, I believe.”
“Did you notice any suspicious looking persons at the Black Cat while you were there?”
“No, I can’t say I did, although one man stared at me in a peculiar way.”
I imagined that men often stared at Miss Barnett in a peculiar way. With a face and chassis like hers, I would have thought she would have become insensible to scrutiny.
“Why are you so sure that the necklace was stolen?” I asked. “Is it possible you dropped it somewhere?”
“I went back to inquire,” Miss Barnett said. She shifted in her seat and twisted her handkerchief as she spoke. “I am sure the necklace was stolen.”
“The newspaper story didn’t say whether you had it insured,” I said.
“I did, but for only half of its value.”
“Can I quote you on that?” I asked. “I suppose I should have told you earlier, but Dad is giving me twenty cents per column inch if I write up our conversation.”
“I suppose there’s no harm in that,” said Miss Barnett. “I have nothing to hide.”
She shifted again in her chair and gave her handkerchief another twist.
“And was Pauline with you at the time of the robbery?” I asked.
“No, I wasn’t,” said the maid. She scowled at me. “If you care to know why all this happened, just look at that evil thing!”
Pauline pointed at the witch doll perched on Miss Barnett’s dresser. We all stared at the repellant object. If anything, it looked more hideous to me than it had the day Miss Barnett first received it.
“All my bad luck did start around the time that doll came into my possession,” Miss Barnett said. “First, I had that hard fall, and now my necklace has been stolen.”
“Mark my words, Miss Barnett, it’s only the beginning,” Pauline said. “I’d get rid of tha
t doll if I were you!”
Someone rapped on the dressing room door. Pauline put aside her mending and went to answer it.
“No one’s there,” she said. “But someone slipped a letter under the door.”
Pauline picked up a sealed envelope from the floor and offered it to her mistress. Miss Barnett read it and sank down in a chair, her hands trembling.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Another warning,” whispered the dancer. “The note says, ‘Remove the witch doll dance from your act or harm will befall you.’”
I took the letter from her hand. It had been crudely printed with a pencil. There was no signature.
“What shall I do?” Miss Barnett asked in dismay. “The witch dance is the best thing I’ve ever done. It is drawing large crowds to the theater. I hate to abandon it, yet I am afraid to disregard this warning.”
“I should simply ignore it, if I were you,” I said. “My father has been the recipient of anonymous tips for years, and he says only cowards send unsigned notes.”
“I don’t know.” Miss Barnett looked over at the witch doll on the dresser. “That thing is beginning to give me the jitters. I wish I could send it back to its owner.”
“If it will make you feel better, why don’t you?” I said. “I have an idea where that doll came from.”
“You have? Where?”
“From a doll shop out near the edge of town.”
“Could you take me there?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” I said.
I had spoken impulsively and wondered if I would regret it.
“Pauline, wrap up the doll at once,” ordered Miss Barnett. “And then go to Mr. Burns, the manager, and tell him I am changing my act again.”
“You’ll give up the witch dance?” I said.
“For the time being, yes. This warning alarms me.”
I tried to convince Miss Barnett that she was very foolish to abandon the dance, but she was adamant. Pauline was dispatched to the manager’s office. She returned in a few minutes, followed by Mr. Burns.
“What is this I hear, Miss Barnett?” he demanded. He took no notice of me. I might as well have been a piece of the furniture “Your maid tells me you are taking the witch dance out of your act.”
Jane Carter Historical Cozies: Omnibus Edition (Six Mystery Novels) Page 6
