pot where Miss Withers’ precious African violets were growing. “I’m just wondering,” he said. “Suppose the woman who was hit had a boy friend who was knocked off his rocker by the shock of her death and set out to get even?”
The schoolteacher sniffed a prodigious sniff. “Come, come, young man! A boy friend who’d get a job at the studio with intent to murder all the people who just happened to be passengers in the car that struck her? It sounds rather farfetched to me at first glance, though I’ll confess that in my humble opinion there is never a really sufficient motive for murder. But it will stand looking into, I suppose. Was the woman’s name Lucy, by any chance?”
Jan shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“I’ll find out. We have to pursue every avenue and every blind alley. Because in spite of what it says in the newspapers, Larry Reed was murdered by the sender of those Lucy valentines.”
“But,” cried Jan, bewildered, “he died of poison ivy!”
“And I think,” observed the schoolteacher quietly, “that that will stand looking into, too; there have been wrong diagnoses before this.”
“Well, whether it’s wrong or whether it’s right,” the young man said almost belligerently, “I’m not going to have Jan left on a spot. Something drastic has to be done about it, right now. I wish the studio would call in a regular private agency like Burns or Pinkerton….”
“Guy dear!” Janet interrupted. “Please hush!”
He subsided, a bit sulkily. “She bosses him a little,” Miss Withers said to herself. But she’d learn, if she were wise. The schoolteacher pondered for a moment. “I have a suggestion. You two could get married and go off somewhere on a honeymoon right away, far out of danger.”
There was a stiffish silence. Then Janet, fumbling in her handbag briefly, said, “Guy darling, will you run out and see if I left my cigarettes in the glove compartment?”
He started to offer her his own case, but she shook her head. “You know I can’t stand those king-sized things of yours.”
“Certainly.” Guy gave her a look; then excused himself with easy politeness and went out the door, followed by Jan’s fondly possessive glance and also by Talley the poodle who was tired of all this conversation and thought it was time for a breather.
Alone with the girl, Miss Withers said, “My dear, you must forgive me if I touched on a tender subject or something, but it did seem an eminently sensible idea in the present circumstances. Eloping, I mean.”
Janet Poole frowned. “Since you know this much, you might as well know the rest of it. Guy and I are going to get married as soon as we can, but he’s a dear foolish idealist and so he stubbornly says that he won’t make an honest woman of me until he pays back every cent of the money he borrowed from me while he was on his uppers.” The girl leaned confidentially closer, her eyes warmly maternal. “You see, when I first met Guy he’d been having a rough time. His family back East had more or less thrown him out on his ear because he wouldn’t toe the line, get his degree from Yale or Harvard and come into the firm—they’ve been investment counselors or something like that since Plymouth Rock was a pebble. He had a brief, unhappy marriage that they arranged—to a high-nosed society deb next door; she finally got a divorce in Paris. Everything went wrong for Guy, with too much bossing from her and from his parents. He’d drifted out here to Hollywood and was trying to be an actor, without getting anywhere. He tried to be a writer, too—he did literally dozens of stories in the hard-boiled detective field and also some science-fiction, but he never sold anything. He was drinking too much and going to hell in a handbasket, if you’ll pardon my French. But he moved into my rooming-house, and that time I heard him play the piano I knew right away that he had something he’d never been able to find.
The schoolteacher sniffed a prodigious sniff. “Come, come, young man! A boy friend who’d get a job at the studio with intent to murder all the people who just happened to be passengers in the car that struck her? It sounds rather farfetched to me at first glance, though I’ll confess that in my humble opinion there is never a really sufficient motive for murder. But it will stand looking into, I suppose. Was the woman’s name Lucy, by any chance?”
Jan shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“I’ll find out. We have to pursue every avenue and every blind alley. Because in spite of what it says in the newspapers, Larry Reed was murdered by the sender of those Lucy valentines.”
“But,” cried Jan, bewildered, “he died of poison ivy!”
“And I think,” observed the schoolteacher quietly, “that that will stand looking into, too; there have been wrong diagnoses before this.”
“Well, whether it’s wrong or whether it’s right,” the young man said almost belligerently, “I’m not going to have Jan left on a spot. Something drastic has to be done about it, right now. I wish the studio would call in a regular private agency like Burns or Pinkerton….”
“Guy dear!” Janet interrupted. “Please hush!”
He subsided, a bit sulkily. “She bosses him a little,” Miss Withers said to herself. But she’d learn, if she were wise. The schoolteacher pondered for a moment. “I have a suggestion. You two could get married and go off somewhere on a honeymoon right away, far out of danger.”
There was a stiffish silence. Then Janet, fumbling in her handbag briefly, said, “Guy darling, will you run out and see if I left my cigarettes in the glove compartment?”
He started to offer her his own case, but she shook her head. “You know I can’t stand those king-sized things of yours.”
“Certainly.” Guy gave her a look; then excused himself with easy politeness and went out the door, followed by Jan’s fondly possessive glance and also by Talley the poodle who was tired of all this conversation and thought it was time for a breather.
Alone with the girl, Miss Withers said, “My dear, you must forgive me if I touched on a tender subject or something, but it did seem an eminently sensible idea in the present circumstances. Eloping, I mean.”
Janet Poole frowned. “Since you know this much, you might as well know the rest of it. Guy and I are going to get married as soon as we can, but he’s a dear foolish idealist and so he stubbornly says that he won’t make an honest woman of me until he pays back every cent of the money he borrowed from me while he was on his uppers.” The girl leaned confidentially closer, her eyes warmly maternal. “You see, when I first met Guy he’d been having a rough time. His family back East had more or less thrown him out on his ear because he wouldn’t toe the line, get his degree from Yale or Harvard and come into the firm—they’ve been investment counselors or something like that since Plymouth Rock was a pebble. He had a brief, unhappy marriage that they arranged—to a high-nosed society deb next door; she finally got a divorce in Paris. Everything went wrong for Guy, with too much bossing from her and from his parents. He’d drifted out here to Hollywood and was trying to be an actor, without getting anywhere. He tried to be a writer, too—he did literally dozens of stories in the hard-boiled detective field and also some science-fiction, but he never sold anything. He was drinking too much and going to hell in a handbasket, if you’ll pardon my French. But he moved into my rooming-house, and that time I heard him play the piano I knew right away that he had something he’d never been able to find.
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