The Yellow Violet by Frances Crane

Author:Frances Crane
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: A Pat and Jean Abbott Mystery
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2022-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

XVII

A telephone rang.

It kept ringing. After endless time I knew it was my telephone. I dragged the thing towards me and managed a Yes.

“Lulu Murphy speaking. I’m sorry if I waked you, Miss Holly. Have you seen the morning papers?”

“Which?”

“Any. The News-Record in particular.”

I yawned. “No.”

“Well, when you do, be careful not to commit yourself. In any way, Miss Holly.”

“Has something happened?”

“I’d better not say any more now.”

My uneasiness started its creeping. “Where are you?”

“At the office.”

“Is Patrick there?”

“He’s out at the moment. Shall I have him call you?”

“No. I’ll stop in, if it’s all right, and you can tell me what this is all about.”

“Come along any time.”

I was dozing off again when memories of last night hit me with a wallop. We had left 6 Topaz Street and I had been full of suspicions of Mrs. Morgan. Then I was still slightly awake at Cliff House with Patrick pointing out the wonders of a mother-of-pearl dawn and the frightfulness of a submarine rising like some monster from the sea … even though it was one of ours it was horrid to see the sly gray thing come up like that.

I’d blacked out when I hit my pillow. It was now—I managed to look at my watch, still on my wrist—twenty minutes past nine. I’d had less than five hours’ sleep. Not counting the snatches in the taxi and the tiny snatch in Miss Terrill’s apartment.

I staggered out to a cold shower. Some semblance of what I once was revived.

The weather outside was beautiful.

I got out the black pinstripe. The minute I put on my hat I felt fine. I arranged the green veil. Then I checked on the orchids in the kitchenette. They were perfect, the same precise yellow butterflies on pale satin stems. I unlocked my small dressing-case to get my bracelet.

Somebody had tampered with my case! The bracelet was where I’d put it, but a little bundle of Patrick’s letters that I carried in the pocket inside the top of the case, was gone.

I went through the case. They were not there.

I put on the bracelet and locked the case even though it was futile. Patrick would have to be told, no matter how badly it addled him.

The News-Record was at my door. I tucked it under my arm to read at breakfast.

Mr. Scott was at the desk. “Will you be leaving today, Miss Holly?” he inquired, smirking.

“I don’t know yet.”

He rubbed his hands together. “The longer you stay the happier it makes us, Miss Holly.” I started on. He said, “You forgot to leave your key.”

I laid it on the desk and hurried out.

Señorita Antonia Ravel and the middle-aged woman with the imperious eyebrows—her mother—were coming in. The little dog recognized me and started bouncing. “Hello Pancho!” I said. I smiled up at the Señorita. She yanked the dog away and swept by. Her mother glared.

Outside Erik Waggoner was paying the cab-driver, and waiting for his change.

“But hello there!” he greeted me.

“But good-morning!” I replied.

“You look beautiful, darling,” he said.

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