Joan of the Journal

by Helen Diehl Olds

  CHAPTER XVIII

  DUMMY’S STORY

  Joan continued to stare at Dummy. Could it have been his voice? AsGertie had said, he was a creepy sort of person. While she was standingthere, the voice came again—and Dummy’s lips were moving!

  “I hope you’re not carrying off that fire story, Miss Joan,” he said ina slow sort of voice as though he were not sure of his speech. Joanwondered whether his voice had suddenly been restored to him, but no, hetalked too naturally for that. “You’re not supposed to run off with copythat way.”

  “But—” Joan was embarrassed. It was hard to explain to him just why shehad taken the story. And hearing him speak gave her a spooky feeling allup and down her spine. It was queer to be talking to him. She had afeeling she should shout and her voice rose without her knowing it.“But,” she shouted, “there’s something wrong with this story.”

  “I know it,” nodded Dummy, calmly.

  Yes, and she knew he knew it! But—Mr. Johnson had told her not to accuseany one. It was hard to know what to do.

  Dummy held out his hand, with bulgy blue veins. “Just let me look atthat story, please.”

  But Joan clutched it to the front of her sweater. “What for?” shedemanded.

  Dummy resented this. “Look here, girl, you have no right to take thatoff the hook like that, and I want it.”

  “But—” Well, she would tell him. “There’s a terrible mistake in it, andyou let it go through.” That wasn’t really accusing him, she defendedherself.

  “I know it.” Was that a sigh that escaped Dummy’s lips? “I just realizedthat there was something phony about that story. It said the fire wascaused by defective wiring and then in that last paragraph, it saidsomething different. It just struck me, now—and I did let it gothrough.”

  Forgetting all about Mr. Johnson’s caution about accusing, Joan gazedstraight into Dummy’s mild, blue eyes. “Didn’t you put it there?” sheasked as innocently as she could.

  “Put it there!” Poor Dummy got red all over his face. Was it a guiltykind of red or a mad kind? Joan decided that if he were not showingrighteous indignation, then he was one of the best actors she had everseen. But she knew he was a good actor. Look how he had fooled them allinto believing he was a deaf-mute.

  No, he wasn’t acting. He was genuinely _mad_. “Are you—are you—” hisvoice fairly shook, “are you accusing me of putting that libelousparagraph on to that story? Why how could I, and why should I?”

  “Well, the hook is right there, and you might have done it.” Joan wasn’tgoing to give up without a struggle. “We—Chub and I—figured it all out—”she might as well go on, “that you were a spy from the _Star_, to getMr. Hutton and the paper in bad.”

  Dummy’s mouth dropped completely open, showing two gold teeth. “Youthought that! And may I ask whether you and that red-headed imp havebroadcast your insinuations?” he drawled.

  “Oh, no!” began Joan, and then stopped. Chub _had_ told the office forcethat afternoon, when Gertie was laughing about Dummy. “Why—” shefaltered.

  “So-o!” Dummy glared indignantly. “And do you know, young woman, that Icould have you put in jail for that?”

  Joan turned scarlet. Then she clutched at straws. “But,” she sputtered,“you did act spooky. And why did you act like a Dum—like a deaf person?”Oh, my goodness, he had often heard them all call him Dummy. Oh, howhorrid they had been!

  “Go on and say it. Call me Dummy,” said the man, without a smile. “I’mused to it now.”

  He paused and seemed to be waiting for her to say something.

  “Well,” she began, “we saw you with Tebbets of the _Star_ at the picnic.It did look suspicious—because he’s such an awful man, and we thought hehad you under his thumb—because, of course, you wouldn’t do such a thingunless you _had_ to—” she hardly knew what she was saying.

  “And what else?” he asked.

  “Then, I found the story about the charity play. That was another clew.It was stuffed behind some rolls of paper in the pressroom.”

  “Was it?” Dummy looked innocent. “I never did find it, though I hunted.You thought I was a spy, did you?” His eyes were glittering as they hadthe day he and Mack had been arguing over that lost story. “Well, now,I’ll tell my story, but as long as you did your talking before thestaff, I want to tell my story to them all, too. I’ll go tell Mr. Nixon,now.”

  Mr. Nixon was sitting at his desk. Joan hated to meet him for he wasreally cross, since he was thoroughly convinced that Tim had made themistake in the fire story.

  Tim’s desk was vacant—the green swinging light above it, with the cordknotted to make it the right length, looked mournful and lonely,somehow. The desk was suspiciously clean and bare.

  Joan, having gone to trail one mystery, was completely sidetracked byDummy’s proving such a stumblingblock to her theory. She still clutchedTim’s story in her hand. She’d let Dummy tell his story, and then assoon as he was through she’d tell her theory just the same. After all,it looked more suspicious than ever, because Dummy had apparently onlyplayed deaf and dumb in order to work his misdeeds.

  “Are you a deaf-mute or aren’t you?”]

  “Look here, Mr. Nixon.” Dummy went right up to the editor’s desk.

  Mr. Nixon gave one look and then yelled, “Holy Moses! The Dummy cantalk.” Then he looked embarrassed a bit, as though trying to rememberwhat he had ever said in Dummy’s presence that he shouldn’t have. Whenhe got over that feeling, he demanded, “Well, what’s the big idea? Areyou a deaf-mute or aren’t you?”

  “I pretended to be one, and I’ll tell you why, if you’ll only give me achance. It seems that this young woman has spread a malicious reportconcerning me—”

  “Cut it short,” ordered the editor. He was used to saying that toreporters. It would have been natural to have him add, “Hold it down tofive hundred words.”

  But Dummy, having been silent for so long a time, found it mostagreeable to talk, and he drawled worse than ever.

  “Well, I’ll begin at the beginning and tell you my right name.” Thewhole office force, Miss Betty, Mack, and Cookie, clustered around andDummy waved them into the group. Chub ventured out from the frontoffice, but Mr. Nixon motioned him to go back to his work. “It’s RichardMarat,” stated Dummy.

  Mr. Nixon looked as though the name were slightly familiar, and hewrinkled up his nose a bit, trying to remember. But mostly he lookedrather bored at Dummy. He seemed to think that the _Journal_ family hadhad enough excitement for one day without all this disturbance comingup.

  Cookie looked a bit puzzled over the name, but Mack and Miss Bettyshowed plainly that they had never heard of the name before, as far asthey could remember.

  Richard Marat! Richard Marat! The name began to burn in Joan’s mind.Why, it did sound familiar. She was sure she had heard it somewhere—andnot so very long ago, either. There, she had it—! She remembered the“Ten Years Ago To-Day” story.

  “Why, that’s the bookkeeper who had such a large deficit!”

  Every one looked at her as though she were absolutely crazy, but Dummyleaped forward and took both her hands in his, and looked into her face.

  “Just so, little maid,” he said, quaintly. “The first time I noticed youwas when I heard you say, ‘My brother wrote that!’ the first day Tim wason the paper. I hoped then that he appreciated his sister’s greatinterest in him. And when I realized what an inquisitive little miss youwere, I was actually scared that you’d somehow discover I was not aDummy. But it’s to you, perhaps that I owe my good fortune, for you werethe one to pick my story out of the files to reprint—but I mustn’t getahead of my story. Yes, I am Richard Marat, the bookkeeper, who thoughthe had a deficit. I’ve always been a moody and impulsive sort of person,and when I discovered I had—or thought I had—such a great mistake in mybooks, I took the easiest way out, and ran away.”

  “I remember that,” said Cookie. “It was just about ten years ago, Iguess. But you didn’t have a mi
stake, after all.”

  “That’s why he was so quick and accurate, because he was a bookkeeper,”Miss Betty whispered to Mack.

  “Oh, lawsy!” said a voice. Bossy had come in through the swinging door,and was standing there, his eyes getting larger and whiter all the time.“Dummy kin talk! There’s quare goin’s on around heah. Dummy kin talk!”

  No one paid any attention to Bossy.

  “I was afraid of being arrested,” Dummy went on, “and I beat it, as thesaying goes. These ten years, I have been wandering, scared as a rabbit.I began to act hard of hearing to escape what I thought might beembarrassing questions, and gradually I pretended to be a Dummy.” Hesmiled around at the _Journal_ staff when he said the nickname they hadgiven him. “That was easier and safest of all, just to be a deaf-mute.”

  “I got to hankering for little old Plainfield,” he continued. “And so Icame back. Not a soul knew me or remembered and if it hadn’t been forthat column here, Ten Years Ago To-Day, I’d probably still be thinking Iwas guilty of a mistake that never happened. One day last week thecolumn told of a bookkeeper named Richard Marat, who had discovered adeficit in his books, and fearing arrest, had fled—no one knew where.Then to-day, the paper has the story that experts had gone over mybooks, had found no deficiency and reported that I had simply made amistake. But I never knew all this until to-day. My panic cost me tenyears of weary wandering....”

  A piercing, feminine scream sounded from the front office.

  “Just like a nice murder story to break after we’ve gone to press!” saidMack.

  Every one rushed to the front office. There was Amy, in her pale orchidsweater, standing in front of the rear counter, her face frozen withhorror, her mouth open for another scream. Her hands were held, fingersextended stiffly, out in front of her, as though paralyzed.

  “What’s all the rumpus?” asked Mr. Nixon from the doorway.

  Joan caught a glimpse of Chub’s grinning face. Then she saw that Amy’shands were held over the counter, where Chub had been inking thehand-roller for the advertising stuff. The wide sheet of inky paper wasspread there. Amy’s palms were blacker than Em’s fur.

  “He told me to hold my hands over it, and feel how the heat rushed outfrom it,” sobbed Amy. “And I did. Then he slapped ’em right down on toall that fresh ink. I’ll never speak to him again—”

  “He was only fooling, Amy,” cheered Joan.

  But Amy’s sobs rose higher. “Look at my hands. I’ll never get the stuffoff. I just stopped in to see if you were here, Jo, and he stopped me—”

  Mr. Nixon was waving his hands about like a madman. “Such an office! Onedumb-bell reporter isn’t enough. The whole force is dumb! I won’t put upwith this. I guess I’m still city editor. Clear out of here, you kids.”He turned from Amy to Joan. “And you, too.”

  “Me?”

  He nodded.

  “But Mr. Johnson said—” she began.

  “I don’t care what Mr. Johnson said!” he cut her short. “I won’t havethis office turning into a kindergarten. Where is that boy? I’ll skinhim alive for this.” But the red-haired office boy had vanished from thescene.

  There was nothing to do but depart. Amy went ahead, stalking out withdignity, holding her inky hands aloft, her tear-wet nose high in theair.

  Joan gave a wild glance around, appealingly. No one dared go against thecity editor. Mack was scowling. Dummy looked bewildered. Cookie wassympathetic but helpless. Miss Betty flashed her a smile, in spite ofeverything.

  “I’ll see you to-morrow, Jo,” she said. “I may want you to pay a bill atthe toggery shop for me.”

  “Sure,” said Joan, weakly.

  The editor groaned and they all filed back into the editorial room. Joancouldn’t follow—even though Mr. Johnson had said she could stay at the_Journal_ as much as she liked. It was all Amy’s fault, screaming likethat and acting so silly. Mr. Nixon had just banished her, too; becauseshe was Amy’s friend. As they went past the front counter, there wasGertie with an expression of horror on her face as great as Amy’s hadbeen over her contact with the inky roller. “To think of the things I’vesaid to that Dummy!” she was wailing. “I’ve said, ‘Oh, you dear, darlingDummy,’ and ‘Oh, angel of light!’ and all kinds of crazy things likethat. I have, really. And he heard me all the time!”

  But Joan went on. She had troubles of her own. She was anxious to tellTim about Dummy’s not being a dummy. She was disappointed not to findhim at home—he had stalked off for a walk, gloomily, mother explained.Joan went on up to her own room to muse over events. She had been oustedfrom the _Journal_, but she was still vitally interested in the officeand its unsolved mystery. She stood by the dresser, looking down at thefire story she still held in her hand. The mystery of the mistakeshadn’t been solved. She remembered now that Chub had mentioned mistakesto her the day Tim got the job. That proved it _wasn’t_ Tim. Maybe itwas Dummy, after all. He hadn’t explained about being with Mr. Tebbetsat the picnic, anyway.

  Finally, she heard the front door bang and knew Tim had come in. By thetime she got downstairs, she found him slouched in the morris chair inthe living room, his long legs stretched halfway across the room, itseemed. He nodded sullenly and silently to her question, “Are you reallyfired?”

  She had to tell him the thrilling news. “Tim, Dummy’s not a deaf-mute.He can talk.”

  Tim sat up. “Are you stringing me?”

  “No, really, it’s a fact. Every one was so surprised. You should haveseen Bossy! Dummy spoke to me, and I was so scared I nearly jumped outof my skin!” she explained. “You see, I had gone to the composing roomfor your fire story.” She suddenly realized that she still had it in herhand. “I wanted to look at that extra paragraph that got stuck on there,to see if it really was on the copy. And it was.” She held it up, andglanced at the final paragraph to reassure herself. Then she gave agasp, as she gazed at the end of the long story in her hand. “Why, Tim!The commas in this last paragraph have heads!”