“I don’t know whether it’s valuable or not,” she said. “But as a friend of Florence’s you ought to know. She was seen getting into a car, the night she was killed. Two people saw her.” “What kind of a car?” “A large one; a limousine.” “Did they notice the color?” “They don’t agree about that. They’re the Italians who keep the fruit stand at the corner. I don’t know their names. We call him Tony. They knew Florence well; she often bought apples there. Tony says it was black, but Mrs. Tony says it was blue.” The stor…
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