the coroner’s office—of acute poison-ivy poisoning. Investigation by police had shown that the weed grew profusely on parts of his canyon property, and it was thought by authorities that, not knowing himself to be abnormally susceptible to poison ivy, Reed had inadvertently chewed on a twig of it while working around the place.
“Stuff and nonsense again,” said Miss Withers to the poodle. “That doesn’t explain anything; it’s just a convenient cover-up. Reed hadn’t been gardening, he was all dressed up and had just got home from the studio. He parked his car hastily in the flowerbeds and rushed inside leaving his keys in the dashboard, indicating that he was very ill.” She nodded to herself and then put through a long distance call to New York City; it was a time for action and she needed all the help she could get. All the circuits were at the moment busy, of course, but she had barely finished making a frugal supper for herself and opening a can of horse meat for Talley when the bell rang—not the phone as she had hoped, but the doorbell.
“Who on earth—?” she said. She opened the door and found that it was Janet Poole.
“Excuse me—I mean us—for disturbing you,” the girl was saying in the doorway. And then the schoolteacher saw that close behind her was a tall, palely handsome young man who must obviously be her musician; he looked just as a pianist-composer should look, only perhaps with a neater haircut and more expensive if well-worn clothes. Yes, Janet introduced him as her fiancé, Guy Fowler, somewhat pridefully. “We’re here because Guy put his foot down and insisted. There’s maybe something you ought to know.”
“There are many things I ought to know,” admitted Miss Withers ruefully. “Most of which I don’t.” She found them chairs and ash trays, forcibly cut short the poodle’s usual fanfare of welcome, and settled herself down. “Well?”
Jan looked at her young man for comfort, evidently found it, and plunged on in. “You must understand—this was something I had completely forgotten. I don’t see what it could have had to do with the valentines, but—well, about a year ago the studio decided to preview a cartoon feature and three short subjects out at Santa Ana, down in the orange country. Of course, everybody who’d worked on the pictures wanted to see the preview, but the studio staff cars were all busy so they sent some of us down in rented limousines. Just as it happened, Mr. Karas, Rollo Bayles, Larry Reed and I all went in one. I’d forgotten about it, but Guy reminded me at dinner tonight.”
“Yes,” Guy Fowler said very serious. “I’m naturally most disturbed,” he admitted in a faint Ivy-League accent. “From what Jan tells me, there’s supposed to be a mysterious link between those four people. I’m fairly a newcomer here, but it occurred to me that that was one time the four were together, if that’s worth anything to you.”
“I don’t see—” began Miss Withers, slightly puzzled.
“We were together by purest accident,” Jan cut in hurriedly. “In this car from the limousine service. It was a perfectly horrible night for driving, one of those impossible deluges we have sometimes during the rainy season, and even the birds were walking. Down in some dismal street in southeast Los Angeles the driver had an accident. He hit a woman who ran out in front of him, against the lights, to catch a bus. We saw nothing of it, just felt the thud and heard a scream. The driver stopped and an ambulance came. The police asked a lot of questions, but they didn’t hold him. We went on to the preview and the woman was taken away to a hospital and lingered on and on and I guess maybe later she died though there was nothing much about her in the papers. But do you suppose, maybe—?”
“I can suppose anything,” said the schoolteacher. “But perhaps it is something to think about.”
Guy Fowler absently flicked his cigarette ash into the
“Stuff and nonsense again,” said Miss Withers to the poodle. “That doesn’t explain anything; it’s just a convenient cover-up. Reed hadn’t been gardening, he was all dressed up and had just got home from the studio. He parked his car hastily in the flowerbeds and rushed inside leaving his keys in the dashboard, indicating that he was very ill.” She nodded to herself and then put through a long distance call to New York City; it was a time for action and she needed all the help she could get. All the circuits were at the moment busy, of course, but she had barely finished making a frugal supper for herself and opening a can of horse meat for Talley when the bell rang—not the phone as she had hoped, but the doorbell.
“Who on earth—?” she said. She opened the door and found that it was Janet Poole.
“Excuse me—I mean us—for disturbing you,” the girl was saying in the doorway. And then the schoolteacher saw that close behind her was a tall, palely handsome young man who must obviously be her musician; he looked just as a pianist-composer should look, only perhaps with a neater haircut and more expensive if well-worn clothes. Yes, Janet introduced him as her fiancé, Guy Fowler, somewhat pridefully. “We’re here because Guy put his foot down and insisted. There’s maybe something you ought to know.”
“There are many things I ought to know,” admitted Miss Withers ruefully. “Most of which I don’t.” She found them chairs and ash trays, forcibly cut short the poodle’s usual fanfare of welcome, and settled herself down. “Well?”
Jan looked at her young man for comfort, evidently found it, and plunged on in. “You must understand—this was something I had completely forgotten. I don’t see what it could have had to do with the valentines, but—well, about a year ago the studio decided to preview a cartoon feature and three short subjects out at Santa Ana, down in the orange country. Of course, everybody who’d worked on the pictures wanted to see the preview, but the studio staff cars were all busy so they sent some of us down in rented limousines. Just as it happened, Mr. Karas, Rollo Bayles, Larry Reed and I all went in one. I’d forgotten about it, but Guy reminded me at dinner tonight.”
“Yes,” Guy Fowler said very serious. “I’m naturally most disturbed,” he admitted in a faint Ivy-League accent. “From what Jan tells me, there’s supposed to be a mysterious link between those four people. I’m fairly a newcomer here, but it occurred to me that that was one time the four were together, if that’s worth anything to you.”
“I don’t see—” began Miss Withers, slightly puzzled.
“We were together by purest accident,” Jan cut in hurriedly. “In this car from the limousine service. It was a perfectly horrible night for driving, one of those impossible deluges we have sometimes during the rainy season, and even the birds were walking. Down in some dismal street in southeast Los Angeles the driver had an accident. He hit a woman who ran out in front of him, against the lights, to catch a bus. We saw nothing of it, just felt the thud and heard a scream. The driver stopped and an ambulance came. The police asked a lot of questions, but they didn’t hold him. We went on to the preview and the woman was taken away to a hospital and lingered on and on and I guess maybe later she died though there was nothing much about her in the papers. But do you suppose, maybe—?”
“I can suppose anything,” said the schoolteacher. “But perhaps it is something to think about.”
Guy Fowler absently flicked his cigarette ash into the
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