The Yellow Violet

By Frances Crane

In this mystery filled with “lively and exciting doings,” a PI in 1940s San Francisco tries to determine whether a beautiful woman is being framed (The New York Times).

Corpses have been turning up with yellow violets accompanying them, and the clue seems to point to a Spanish performer who is in town with her dachshund, Pancho. But private detective Pat Abbott suspects the plants were a plant—and now he’s juggling the murders with a missing person case that may involve a fascist conspiracy, even if means postponing his wedding, in this compelling crime novel in the acclaimed long-running series.

Praise for the Pat and Jean Abbott Mysteries

“Amusing and sophisticated.” —The Star (London)

“[A] well-plotted and mystifying case.” —Saturday Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Jul 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9781504075442

Book preview

I

We stood together in Patrick Abbott’s private office, beside a northeast window, one of two looking towards the Golden Gate. It was a big rectangular room with windows on two sides, a thick taupe carpet, Patrick’s big flat-topped desk, a number of straight chairs and a couple of easy ones, a safe, a few pictures and tall shelves full of professional-looking books.

What’s wrong with this afternoon? he asked.

Nothing, I said. It’s gorgeous. The San Francisco climate’s been slandered, darling. They’ve got a heavenly climate.

Patrick tightened his right arm around my waist.

You’re side-stepping, chum.

I said, But we planned for tomorrow?

That was before I knew I could get away this afternoon. He kissed me. Well?

Nope.

Why not?

Well, I said, for one thing it’s Friday—

Oh. He stood me away a little. Superstitious?

Certainly not, I said.

He kissed me a couple of times. I put my cheek against his lapel, smelled wool and tobacco, and began weakening.

Everything’s all set, Jeanie. The necessary document is here in my pocket. The Mercury’s washed. We’ve got three days all our own. We’ll roll along down the coast to a certain little church near Santa Cruz, get spliced, roll on along to Del Monte … His suit was a gray herringbone weave with a blue thread in it. He wore a gray shirt. The blue design in his necktie was the same blue in his long, lazy-looking eyes—that is, when they were blue. Sometimes they looked green. I certainly was lucky at my age—twenty-six getting close to twenty-seven—to hook a tall, lean, interesting-looking Westerner like Patrick Abbott. You know, I’d like to marry you, he’d said, a couple of weeks before Christmas, back in Illinois.* I’d said, I was wondering if you’d get around to asking me. He’d said, What’s your idea of my idea? Then he’d kissed me and I’d replied, I think it’s a fine idea—when? He’d been yanked back then to his office in San Francisco to do some sort of detecting for the Government and this was the first break he’d had. All winter I couldn’t quite believe in my luck. I’d gone back where I lived—in Santa Maria, New Mexico—to turn over my shop and temporarily my cat to my friend Julia Price, and to close up my house. I’d kept imagining things. Something awful may happen, I’d think. Flying out here four days ago I became positive, for instance, that we wouldn’t click. Or that maybe he wouldn’t be so tall as I imagined, or his hair wouldn’t be so smooth and dark—maybe he wouldn’t be so keen as he’d thought about a girl with black hair and yellow eyes … but now everything was fine.

Patrick held up my left hand. I’m glad you aren’t superstitious. Lulu Murphy calls emeralds unlucky.

Anyhow, they’re wonderful, I said.

You think they’re bad luck?

Not when they’re mine.

He stepped away a step. He took out his cigarettes. Smoke? I shook my head. I don’t smoke much but I do like to be asked. Patrick lit one and said, The fact is, you ought to put off marrying me indefinitely.

I felt a thrill of anxiety. Why?

"I’m a bad lot. For a home you’ll get a hotel apartment. Your income will be the up and down kind. That’s not a very happy sort of income, Jean. And you can never count on me being around when you want me—when on a case I eat and sleep when it’s handy—Good God, even now, I can’t wangle time for a proper wedding, in your home town, with relations present, you in a wedding-veil and such things—orange blossoms, somebody singing Oh Promise Me—"

It’s wartime. Everybody’s in the same boat.

It’s not fair—to you—what with irregular hours, uncertain income, general neglect—and the company we’ll keep—thugs, crooks, murderers, other detectives even—

I rubbed my nose against his shoulder.

I’ll have to have a couple of hours, to pack and get a hair-do.

Patrick looked at his watch. One hour’s plenty.

Two!

A neat but firm knock sounded on the door. I stepped across the window and eyed Patrick for lipstick. He was okay. My new petunia one was a honey, strictly indelible.

Come in, Murphy, Patrick said.

Lulu Murphy entered, carefully closed the door and walked towards us. Patrick’s secretary was thirty-eight, pert, tidy, and Irish-looking. She had round innocent gray eyes and short, wavy, black hair with plenty of gray in it. She wore a navy suit, a white poplin blouse, beige lisle stockings and sensible black oxfords.

She held out a visiting card.

Excuse me, she said. Lulu had a roughly pleasant voice. There’s a girl outside who simply wouldn’t take No for an answer, Mr. Abbott. I made all the excuses I could think of, but—

Tell her I’m getting married?

Lulu shook her head. Oh, I couldn’t tell her that, Mr. Abbott. You’re happy. She’s miserable.

Don’t be sentimental! Patrick said.

Why is she miserable? I asked. I hate feeling anyone’s miserable.

Lulu gave Patrick a scornful glance.

I never saw anyone so completely miserable as this poor young thing is, Miss Holly. I’m a pretty hardened female myself, after five years in this office, but this girl sure does get to your heart, what with being so young, and so pretty—

Pretty? Patrick reached for the card.

I felt a violent twinge. Jealousy.

Lulu looked hopeful.

Patrick’s eyes narrowed and turned green. I sensed complications. Quietly, I moved over and had a look at that card. It looked usual to me. It was elegantly white, thin and the name engraved on it was Miss Alice Mary Terrill. Down in one corner, in blue ink still fresh, was written, Topaz Street, 6.

Lulu said, If you’d talk to her just a moment, Mr. Abbott, maybe she’d feel better, and even though you can’t take the case, you could perhaps advise—

Nothing doing! Patrick snapped.

I said, to test myself,—but hoping she wasn’t as pretty as Lulu thought—, Why don’t you? I can’t be ready for at least two hours, so—

I don’t want people’s troubles on my mind just now. That’s why. Send her down to Charley Dickens, Murphy. He’s not doing anything—or wasn’t this morning.

Lulu’s neat face bloomed. That’s a splendid idea, Mr. Abbott. Charley’s awfully hard up, what with Laura just having had another baby and all. She looked perfectly delighted. Shall I take the card?

Patrick said, so nonchalantly that my curiosity zoomed, I’ll keep it. He dropped the card in a coat pocket.

Lulu stopped halfway to the door.

Suppose Dickens is busy, Mr. Abbott? Who then?

Oh, you’ll think of someone, Murphy. Scram out of here, before we get into something we’ll regret.

All right, but detectives are awfully scarce now, what with so many being in uniform and so many others working with the F.B.I. You’d be in the army yourself, Mr. Abbott, if the Government didn’t need you more as a detective. Well, being a detective these days in this town’s a lot more dangerous than a front-line trench, so—

My heart gave a leap.

Patrick cocked an eyebrow. "Now, now, Miss Murphy! Beat it! And why don’t you take the pretty lady downstairs to Detective Dickens yourself? Lulu glowed again and said she would. And if your heart gets soft again today, try to remember that the next three days will be the first in six months I can call my own. He gave me a tender look. Our own, darling."

Lulu glowed radiantly because of that love look and started out again.

A tapping like that by some timid child sounded on the door.

Lulu halted and looked at Patrick.

Patrick glared.

The doorknob turned, slowly. The door opened outward, very slowly, and the businesslike office beyond became a frame for one of the loveliest-looking femmes I’d ever set eyes on. She was the fragile rose-leafy sort. She wore blue, a blue wool ensemble in a dainty shade which would probably make me look like a milkmaid but was exactly right for her small shape, flowerblue eyes and pale hair. Her hat was a little blob of lilacs in a cloud of lilac veil. In her ears were large round uncut amethysts. Her bag and shoes matched her suit.

The outfit was perfect for her, and, skating on the edge of the oversweet as it did, meant that its chic had cost plenty, or that she herself had exquisite taste. Maybe both.

She paused uncertainly in the doorway. Patrick, still glaring, strode over to his desk and stubbed out his cigarette. She watched him with bright worried eyes.

She spoke first. I know I shouldn’t intrude like this, Mr. Abbott. She had a sweet low voice.

No, you shouldn’t, Patrick said.

His brusque tone made me wince.

The girl’s lips trembled.

There isn’t a minute to waste, she begged. She started moving towards him, her eyes fixed on his. It’s my brother. You see, he joined up with the Italian army in Rome—seven years ago—at the time of Abyssinia—

Patrick’s frown was quick and angry. Seven years ago? You’ve taken your time, haven’t you?

Tears swam into her eyes.

Oh, I know how you feel, Mr. Abbott. She was slowly moving towards the desk, her eyes fixed on his. I felt the same. I hated Johnny for it when he did it, too. He even declared allegiance to the Fascist party and signed a paper giving them his property, in the event of his death. Her chin hardened a little. Well, they haven’t got that yet, at least. Her voice quivered then. It’s all been so queer. Sometimes I’ve been sure he isn’t dead at all. Sometimes I’m certain he is. But I never had any sign that he might really be alive until yesterday, in New York, when I had a telegram, sent from here, saying he was in. San Francisco and asking me to come at once, because he was in grave danger.

She had got to the desk. She put a hand on it, for support. None of us spoke.

She glanced deprecatingly at her clothes. I was just about to leave my apartment to go to a tea when the wire arrived.

Patrick’s face looked hard and crisp. Her eyes showed that he was hurting her.

I flew, of course. I took a taxi at once to the airport. There was a last-minute cancellation on a westbound plane and I was on my way ninety minutes after I had the wire. But we were held up at Salt Lake City—the weather—so I arrived here only an hour ago. I’ve come to you now because there is no such address as the one on the telegram.

What is that address?

921 Halfmoon Street.

Patrick sounded more equable as he said, There are no numbers above 700 on Halfmoon Street.

Her eyes brightened. You must know your San Francisco?

Halfmoon, unfortunately, is a street a man in my business gets too well acquainted with. How did you happen to come to me?

But everyone knows you’re the best!

Patrick’s eyes narrowed.

She saw it and said, I mean, here in San Francisco. I lived here several months, last year.

She had been weaving a little. Suddenly she seemed about to faint. Patrick reached across the desk, took her arm and guided her to one of the easy chairs. Lulu dashed out for ice-water. I just stood, by the window.

If you could only give me ten minutes! Miss Terrill murmured, as she settled back against the grayblue chair. The color might have been invented as a background for her blue and lilac.

I said, when I saw Patrick considering it, I’ll run along to my hotel.

Be seeing you, he replied. Too readily, almost.

Did you say two hours? I reminded him, very sweetly.

Right, Patrick said. Pick you up promptly at four. Darling.

Right, I said. I started for the door. Darling, I added, distinctly.

At the door I glanced back. Alice Mary Terrill had her eyes closed. She looked demure against the grayblue chair. Patrick stood gazing down at her, his hands’ in his pockets. He looked up and caught my eyes. I made a face meaning that I hated to leave him alone with such helpless loveliness.

He winked.

* The Golden Box.

II

Patrick’s office was on the ninth floor of a skyscraper called the Durward Building, on Kearny Street not far off Market. I was staying about three minutes’ walk uphill in a room on the sixth floor of the Hotel Chelsea. As I stepped from the elevator into the ground-floor lobby of the office building I noticed a man waiting, apparently, to go up. He had a smooth-looking spadeshaped cream-colored face, very black hair, and eyes so greenly blue they were almost turquoise. He wore a brown suit and an unbecoming brown felt hat. Other people’s bad taste in hats was nothing to weigh my mind down with just then, however, for, though I’d been getting ready to get married ever since I got in four days ago, two hours seemed very short notice. I walked out into the street mentally dividing these two hours into segments, this one for packing, this one for the hairdresser, this for a bath, and so on. I hadn’t one minute to waste.

The air caught me up and seemed to carry me along feeling specially alive. The light was brilliant and restless. I could smell the sea. The sky was an arrogant blue oblong set like a lean jewel between skyscrapers. I loved everything—the quick-moving citified people—the sound of automobile horns mingling with the bells clanging—the singsong calls of vendors. I was crazy, in fact, about San Francisco.

The Chelsea was small but rather smart, conveniently situated, and, with the exception of the desk, had excellent service. The manager, Mr. Scott, a small gray man who dressed in beige suits, was always complaining because he was short a couple of clerks. The lobby was square and large enough not to be too intimate. The desk was over to the left from the entrance, the two automatic elevators straight ahead and at the back, and on the right an archway led into a lounge. A couple of tall wingchairs upholstered in salmon brocade, like the draperies, and a few straight chairs and Oriental rugs furnished the lobby. After we were married we would live at Patrick’s hotel, several blocks away and on the top of one of the hills.

I walked straight to the desk to get my key. There was no one in charge. I pressed a button which rang a bell in an office behind the desk and, waiting, looked about the room. It was unoccupied. No—in one of the wingchairs there was a man. The back of the chair was towards me. All I could see of the man was one hand and a bit of dark sleeve which rested on the chair-arm. The hand looked waxen from its stillness and whiteness, had long tapered fingers, small ink-black splotches of hair between the joints, and almondshaped nails yellowish as the keys of an ancient piano.

It was such an extraordinary hand that I decided to stroll about and have a look at its owner, but at this moment my curiosity was diverted by a big well-dressed fresh-complexioned man who marched in from the street dragging on its lead a small stubborn red dachshund. He stopped a step inside, shot angry glances round the lobby, then lit a cigarette, and teetered on his heels. The dog fidgeted. For God’s sake! Sit down! the man said.

The dachshund gave him a hurt look, and sat, looking uncomfortable as dachshunds always look sitting.

I turned back to the desk and pressed the button once more. I could hear the bell ringing. No one came.

I glanced around the lobby again. That hand lay as motionless on the chair-arm as though it were dead. I looked back at the dog. It sat waiting. My glance went up to the fresh-skinned man. He was staring at me. Specifically, he was staring at my legs. Suddenly the little dog began to jump about and wriggle, and a young woman with an elegant figure and a dark-eyed oval face, walking lightly on very beautiful feet, entered from the street. She wore a black tailored suit which buttoned almost to her throat; a large off-the-face black hat, and a corsage of yellow violets.

She came in smiling at the fresh-faced man, but as she opened her mouth to speak I saw her look at the man in the chair, the one with the peculiar hand. She frowned, gave her head a funny little shake, and then she cried gaily to the man with the dog, Sorry to be late, darling. She bent down to stroke the ardent dachshund. "Pancho, chico!" she said.

The man complained, You address that animal and me in exactly the same tone of voice.

The woman caught his hand and laughed softly up at him. She was in love with him. Erik, darling! she said.

They went out together, the woman leading the dog.

She was very vivid. After she was gone I could still almost hear her brash agreeable voice and feel her sparkling vitality.

Pancho was a fine name for a dachshund, I thought. Most people with great triteness gave them German names.

One of the elevators came down. Out stepped Mr. Scott. Oh, you want your key, Miss Holly, he called in his bleating voice. He came over and got it and handed it across the desk. I’m afraid you’ve been kept waiting? he said.

No, I lied, to save time.

He swung a petulant glance about the lobby. I left Soong in charge. Have you seen him?

I said, because I didn’t like informing on the young overworked Chinese clerk, I’ve only just come in. By the way, I’ll be checking out at four o’clock, Mr. Scott.

Mr. Scott said; with a smirk which was a habit, We shall miss you. He watched me, still smirking, until I was in the elevator and had closed the grilles.

As it ascended I forgot Mr. Scott, and the hand on the chair-arm, and even the lovely sparkling dark-eyed girl, and thought only about getting married.

In my room I phoned the hotel beauty-shop and got an appointment for two-thirty, which gave me half an hour now for packing. I tossed my brown tweed coat and brown felt hat on a chair and lined up my cases. This was not mere packing, I thought, as I divided old things from new things. This was stowing away an old life for a new. It would be fun to throw away all the old things. But I didn’t. I put the brown tweed into one of the cases to be sent to Patrick’s hotel.

Everything dovetailed. I finished packing on schedule, went to the hairdresser’s, had my hair and nails done, and was back in my room at three-thirty, with half an hour left for a bath and getting dressed.

Patrick’s flowers had come, a corsage of little yellow orchids, delicious flyaway things magically just the right shade for the soft greens and yellows of my wedding ensemble. The orchids were in a cellophane box. There was a wide yellow satin ribbon wrapped around two corners of the box and tied in a flat bow on one corner. I held the box in my hands for a moment and sniffed at the scentless exquisites, through the cellophane. I set them on a table near a window and opened it slightly to give them a cooling draught. I hoped it was the right thing. It was the first time I’d ever had orchids.

The telephone bell rang. I felt a stab of apprehension, which was wasted, for it was Patrick, saying that Detective Charley Dickens had accepted Miss Terrill’s case.

Ready? he asked.

Oh, no, I said.

I am.

I’ve got to get my bath. And dress.

Well, step on it, darling.

Right.

Bye for now, he said tenderly.

Bye.

I undressed. I packed everything I’d been wearing in the case with the tweeds. As soon as I was Mrs. Abbott, I decided I’d give away those brown tweeds. You’ve got a natural glamour, with your very black hair and yellow eyes, the saleswoman had said,—the one who sold me all the greens and yellows in my trousseau, and that chic black suit with the pinstripe which I meant to wear back to town after the honeymoon—but not in brown tweed. Dearie, you should dress up to your looks. It was selling talk, maybe, but nice.

I didn’t hurry. I took my time. I meant to be perfect.

I walked around in a pair of toweling scuffs, finishing up, packing away Jean Holly forever. On the bed I laid out my wedding clothes, my lingerie, dress, hat and coat. I tied a handtowel around my hair and to protect the coiffure took a tub-bath instead of my favorite shower. The water was just warm enough, spicily fragrant and deliciously bubbly, but I resisted an impulse to soak, got out, dried myself—not too pink—with a big white towel, sprayed myself with spicy perfume like that in the bathsalts—a perfume suited to my spicy personality, according to another expert. I slipped into the scuffs and stepped into the bedroom to dress.

My bras was real lace. I put it on the way the corsetière says you should, for once.

I drew on my gossamer stockings, properly, made sure then that the seams were straight, felt glad that I had good legs even though