First there had been the stolen typewriter. What happened to it and whether or not it really had been stolen remained a mystery. The green car Horace had seen racing through Farringdon wasn’t much of a clue since he hadn’t noticed the license number. He did seem to recollect a couple of sixes in it, but he couldn’t be sure.
“Meta Hanley’s car was green, and her license number started with two sixes,” thought Judy.
It was ridiculous to suppose that Miss Hanley or one of her orphans had stolen Holly’s typewriter. And yet Judy had seen Horace making a note of her license number. He made notes of everything. Even before he became a reporter he had always kept a notebook for his own amusement.
“I ought to keep a notebook or a diary or something,” Judy told herself.
She did jot things down on little pieces of paper. An old sales slip had been used to record the license number of that other green car parked alongside Hugh Sammis’ used-furniture shop. Remembering how unfair he had been, Judy decided to call up her father and ask about him. It was Mrs. Bolton who answered the telephone.
“Mother,” Judy asked over the wire, “does Dad have a patient named Hugh Sammis?”
“The used-furniture dealer? His wife is your father’s patient,” Mrs. Bolton said. “She fell on the ice last winter and broke her hip.”
“Does she still use crutches?” asked Judy, thinking of the noises she had heard upstairs in the shop.
“I believe she does. It takes time for bones to knit.”
“Does he owe Dad money?”