Odor of Violets, Baynard Kendrick [best short novels .txt] 📗

“We always have one, Captain Maclain. I ordered that from Hartford hoping that Miss Barbara might return home.”

“I’m hoping so too.” Maclain went on in and exchanged greetings with the policeman in the hall.

In the drawing room, Stacy was playing Debussy. The Captain stood still until the piece was finished, lending an appreciative ear. The music added a homey touch strangely at variance with the efficient state officer vigilantly alert to prevent the swift strike of some unknown catastrophe.

The Captain went on upstairs. A low hum of voices sounded from behind the closed door of Norma’s room. Maclain paused long enough to identify Norma’s visitor as Thad. Farther down the hall, an intermittent click of typewriter keys told him that Cheli Scott was working in her room. He went on into his own and closed and bolted the door against intrusion.

He took the record and stencil from the brief case and slipped the record on the portable Ediphone. Stretched out on the bed with headphones on his ears, he began to follow the cut words with his perceptive fingers, at the same time listening to Bunny’s incisive voice reading the text on the Ediphone.

Five times he played it over, checking it letter by letter, syllable by syllable, word by word, sentence by sentence, and line by line; hunting for hidden meanings, trying vainly to evolve some complex mathematical key. Thoroughly dissatisfied, he got up, found several packages of paper matches, and lay down on the bed again.

He began to count the vowels, taking the letter word by word and tearing off a match each time a vowel appeared. The e’s predominated, as they should have, with sixty-three. Then came forty-seven i’s, forty-seven o’s, thirty-nine a’s, and sixteen u’s. He included the salutation “Dear Madam” in his count because he considered it an integral part of the letter, for the salutation might be easily changed if it had anything to do with a code. The sender could use “Dear Mrs. Tredwill,” or “Dear Mrs. Thaddeus Tredwill,” or any particular combination that might fit his purpose. For the same reason, Maclain eliminated counting the vowels in the signature, “By The House of Bonnée.” He considered that the signature was unlikely to be changed even for the purpose of a code.

He played around with the idea of the vowels for two hours or more before he rejected it as not making sense. Disgustedly he left the bed, found his jigsaw puzzle, and dumped the pieces on the floor. He sat down beside them and carefully began to put them together while Schnucke watched uncomprehendingly. The afternoon light was fading fast when he rumpled the almost completed puzzle into fragments again and returned it to the drawer.

He took his small noiseless typewriter from its case, set it on the writing table, and inserted the stencil into the roller, carefully counting the lines as he began to wind it into the machine.

THE HOUSE OF BONNÉE

TANNER BUILDING

EAST 57TH STREET

NEW YORK CITY

Dear Madam,

The problem of the well-groomed woman is to obtain, in the city’s turmoil and grime, a complexion superior to, and more vital than, that of her country cousin.

Unfortunately most modern cosmetics have failed on many points. Nothing is more detrimental than force when cleansing and purifying the delicate skin. Once use caustics and the entire defensive membrane is injured. The sight of rough pitted skin more often than not indicates some balm of injurious content. It’s important to demand far more than economy when purchasing. Don’t forget this pertinent fact—the integrity of the makers is an essential ingredient. In purchasing face cream look for these assuring words—

By THE HOUSE OF BONNÉE

The salutation “Dear Madam” came up into writing position at thirty-nine.

Maclain’s lithe body was seized with a strange rigidity. There were thirty-nine a’s in the letter, a coincidence perhaps, but he doubted if that were so. It must have something to do with the setup—must be some indication of where the letter began.

The room was dark when he went to the brief case and took out the envelope with the original letter enclosed. As he did so, his highly trained sense of smell was caught once again by the lingering violet perfume.

He propped himself up on the bed with two pillows, closed his sightless eyes, and held the letter out before him as though his wonderful brain, shrouded in darkness, might give him what his eyes forever lacked—the power to see.

Violets.

How in the name of the ancient gods could a code be buried in violets—a code which was hidden even from the searing penetration of the ultraviolet ray. Someone intended to get that letter, to decipher its contents. The only way they could know that its contents was important was by its smell. Yet how could a smell be applied to a code? How could an odor become something that a reader with eyes could see?

In the back of his mind, a picture began to form; a picture, not of flowers, but of letters wavering and burning with vivid intensity. One by one he shut them off and turned them on. They flickered and danced, then suddenly the first two of them stood out flashingly, like the only two letters left burning in a faulty neon sign. You could apply those letters to a piece of paper.

He jumped from the bed, startling Schnucke into a muffled bark, and snatched the stencil from his typewriter. Coldly and without a quiver to betray his agitation, he ran a finger down over the perforated words and up again. Only once he paused to give a chuckle which was cold as a falling icicle snapping against a pane.

He selected a fresh record from the stock in his Gladstone bag, slid it onto the Ediphone, and began to dictate. The usual, pleasant cadence of his voice was gone, replaced by words sharp and metallic as the clip of a gardener’s shears: —

“Spud: The game has changed. Go immediately to the Tanner Building, East Fifty-seventh Street.