I reached over to rearrange the blanket which Jack’s fluttering hands had disturbed. I sat back down again, listening for the nurse to enter the house. I felt uneasy as if I were being watched by hostile eyes.
It was just nerves, I told myself, but when I looked again at the room’s only small window, bare of curtains, I stiffened in my chair. Someone was outside looking in.
CHAPTER 21
The face vanished so quickly that there was only one thing I was sure of, it had been the face of a man. A cold chill passed over me. The man at the window had been staring, not at me, but at Jack, as he lay on the bed.
I ran to the cottage door, not taking the time to wake Flo. No one was in sight. I went out into the cool night air and quickly did a circuit around the cottage. The yard was deserted, and the only sound came from the bullfrogs down by the river.
I knew I should go back and wake Joe—or at the very least retrieve the cosh I kept tucked into the bottom of my handbag—but I paused to look down by the dense bushes overhanging the river banks. It was the perfect spot for a prowler to lurk, but I dared not beat the bushes on my own.
I knew what I had seen, and even if I’d had any doubts, those would have been dispelled by the large footprints embedded in the soft earth underneath the bedroom window.
With a final uneasy glance toward the river, I retreated to the cottage and woke up Mud Cat Joe.
“I’ll have a look around,” he said, reaching for his lantern. “Maybe ’twas only Silas Slocum you saw. He’s a feller to go prowlin’ around at night, takin’ care of his nets.”
Mud Cat made the rounds, returning to report he could find no one near the cottage. I said no more and resumed my vigil by Jack’s bedside, but I did not believe the prowler had been Silas Slocum.
Later, when Flo woke up, I told her about the face at the window.
“Is it safe for Jack to remain here?” Florence asked.
“Probably not very, but until the doctor says he can be moved, we’d better not do otherwise.”
“At least Jack should be well guarded,” Flo said.
“Yes, I mean to talk with Dad about it when he comes.”
“Jack must have gone through a dreadful experience. What do you suppose happened to him?”
“I wish I knew. It’s not certain if we ever shall.”
An hour later, Dad arrived at the cottage. He was taken aback at Jack’s condition. I’d tried to prepare him, over the telephone, but he’d obviously not fully grasped the seriousness of the situation until presented with it face-to-face.
“I’ll get the fiends who did this if it’s the last act of my life!” Dad said. “Has he tried to talk, Jane?”
“Yes, but he’s not very coherent. He keeps repeating the word ‘houseboat,’ and something nonsensical about flaming eyes.”
I was so weary, I let Dad take charge. He was disappointed that Jack could not be removed at once to a hospital, but in his usual efficient way, he quietly made the best of the situation. The nurse finally arrived, and Mud Cat Joe patrolled the yard.
I wanted to stay, but Dad insisted that Flo—who’d at least snatched a few winks in an armchair—drive me home. I protested, but Dad prevailed. Flo and I returned to Greenville, arriving a few hours before dawn.
When I awoke the next morning, the events of the night seemed unreal, yet my aching joint and muscles were evidence otherwise.
I had intended to wake early and motor back to White Falls, but instead, I’d slept until well past dawn. I was just finishing breakfast when the doorbell rang.
“That may be someone with a message about Jack,” I said to Mrs. Timms. “I’ll answer.”
I ran to the door. On the doorstep was an elderly, well-dressed lady.
“Are you by chance Miss Jane Carter?”
“Mrs. Carter, actually,” I said. “Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you.”
The woman sat down on the davenport, loosening her wraps.
“I am Mrs. Fairchild,” she said. “You sent me a telegram, I believe.”
“I did.”
“Your information alarmed me exceedingly, Mrs. Carter. I had planned a trip back here for some months, so when I received your message, I decided to start at once. Tell me, did you not exaggerate the situation at Old Mansion?”
“I did not, Mrs. Fairchild. If anything, I kept serious matters from you. Have you talked with the Conrads or Clarence Emerson?”
“No, I came directly here from the railroad station,” Mrs. Fairchild replied.
“Then I urge you go to Old Mansion at once.”
“Just what is wrong there?” Mrs. Fairchild looked alarmed. “You speak so seriously.”
“I prefer to have Clarence Emerson tell you everything.”
“And who is Mr. Emerson?”
“A detective.”
“Now you do alarm me,” said Mrs. Fairchild.
“I am going to White Falls momentarily,” I said. “If you wish, I’ll take you to Old Mansion.”
Within half an hour, Mrs. Fairchild and I were motoring toward White Falls. Mrs. Fairchild was chatty, so I ventured to ask if she had any other property near White Falls. I was not surprised to learn that the shed formerly occupied by the Mud Cat Joe and his family never had belonged to Glen Conrad.
“I am ashamed of the man for turning a poor family from the place,” Mrs. Fairchild said when I’d explained what had happened.
“Mr. Conrad has done other things, too, which I fear will never meet with your approval,” I said. “The Conrads have turned Old Mansion into a hotel.”
“Indeed! Well, we shall see about that. My valuable paintings might have been stolen!”
I had my own opinion of Mrs. Fairchild’s valuable pictures, but I kept it to myself.
Dad had informed me that Glen Conrad and his wife were allowed the freedom to move freely inside Old Mansion, although Clarence Emerson or one of his men watched them constantly. I imagined they deeply resented the arrangement and had accepted it solely because refusal would mean they would be turned over to the police.
As we drove up to the house, Mrs. Fairchild remarked that since her absence the river had cut deeply into the rear yard. She was displeased by the run-down appearance of Old Mansion, mentioning that only the previous year she had sent the Conrads money to have it painted.
“You did right to send me that telegram, Mrs. Carter,” she said. “I have been cheated outrageously.”
She looked at the laundry adjoining the mansion.
“Such an ugly structure! The city fathers never should have allowed the builder to jam it close to my house. It completely ruins the property.”
“It doesn’t improve it,” I said. “However, I imagined you knew the building had been erected.”
“No, it has been put up since I left White Falls.”
We entered the house, and there Mrs. Fairchild’s indignation mounted to a fever pitch. She wandered from room to room, exclaiming at the damage done to her antique furniture.
Suddenly she paused before one of the paintings in the library.
“Roll up the window shade, please,” she said.
I obeyed, and the bright sunlight flooding into the room made the painting look more hideous than ever. Mrs. Fairchild moved a step nearer, running her hand over the canvas. Then she turned to me, her eyes flashing.
“This is only a crude copy of the original portrait!” she declared. “I’ve been robbed!”
CHAPTER 22
Mrs. Fairchild went from room to room of Old Mansion, examining the paintings. In the parlor, she found one which she declared was an original, but all the others were cheap imitations.
“I hired the Conrads to protect my portraits, and this is the way they betrayed my trust!”
“I don’t wonder you are indignant,” I said. “How valuable were the paintings?”
“At a conservative estimate, thirty thousand dollars. Where are the Conrads now?”
“They should be somewher
e in the house,” I said.
As she spoke, the kitchen door slammed. A few seconds later Emma Brown came into the room.
“I’m very glad to see you, Jane,” she said. “I was just talking with Clarence Emerson outside the house. He tells me there no longer is any need for me to remain here.”
I presented Emma to Mrs. Fairchild, and then asked, “Emma, what has become of Mr. and Mrs. Conrad?”
“They should be in their room. I’ll run up and see.”
“And please call Mr. Emerson, the detective,” Mrs. Fairchild requested.
Within a minute or two, Emma came back down the stairway, followed by Glen Conrad and his wife. The couple had no inkling of what was in store for them. They entered the parlor and stopped short.
“Mrs. Fairchild!” said Earnestine Conrad. “You ought to have written us you were coming!”
“Such information would have been a convenience to you, I’m sure.”
“We been doing the best we could here,” Glen Conrad insisted. “Whatever they tell you,” he paused to look from me to Emma, and back to me again, “it ain’t true!”
“It is unnecessary for anyone to tell me anything, Mr. Conrad. I have a very good pair of eyes. What have you done with my beautiful paintings?”
“Your paintings—” stammered Mrs. Conrad. “Of course, they’re here. I dust ’em every day like you tell me to do.”
“Don’t try to pretend,” Mrs. Fairchild said. “You have sold my original portraits and substituted these cheap, gaudy imitations!”
“That ain’t so,” Glen said sullenly.
“Then what has become of my paintings?”
“We don’t know anything, about it,” Mr. Conrad insisted. “These are the same ones you left here when you went away.”
Mrs. Fairchild was losing all patience.
“Very well,” she said, “we will see how far that attitude gets you with the police.”
“The police!” Mrs. Conrad protested. “Surely, you won’t have us arrested?”
Before Mrs. Fairchild could answer, Clarence Emerson, summoned by Emma, came into the room. I explained the situation to him. Mr. Emerson took a paper from his pocket.
“This will add another charge to your growing list, Conrad,” he said. “You were slated for arrest anyway. I turned the case over to the police this morning, and they sent out this warrant. I’ll have to take you both to the jug.”
“Don’t arrest us,” pleaded Mrs. Conrad. “We’ve been cooperating every way we can.”
“It’s out of my hands now.” The detective shrugged. “You’ll have to come along with me unless you prefer to have the police haul you away in the patrol wagon.”
“No! No!” Mrs. Conrad protested. “We’ll go now, but it ain’t fair! We didn’t mean to get into trouble. We only wanted to make a little money.”
“So, you did sell the paintings,” the detective said.
“No, we didn’t!” Mr. Conrad snapped. “Come on, let’s get started if we have to go.”
Emma, Mrs. Fairchild, and I stepped out on the porch as Clarence Emerson led Mr. and Mrs. Conrad to the car. We were not the only spectators. Next door, Ralph leaned indolently against the laundry building and watched as the Conrads were escorted to the detective’s car.
As Glen was getting into Mr. Emerson’s automobile, he turned and saw Ralph. An expression of rage came over his face. For a second I thought he might say something to the man, but he closed his mouth again and got into the car. Ralph smiled and disappeared into his laundry. The car drove away.
“Perhaps, I was too harsh upon the Conrads,” Mrs. Fairchild said. She was looking a bit shocked by it all.
“No, you weren’t,” I said. “As a matter of record, Mr. and Mrs. Conrad are involved in far more serious a matter than the theft of paintings. Since the police have been notified, I may as well take you to room seven and tell you the entire story.”
“The door is locked,” Emma said, “but I know where Mr. Conrad keeps his second master key. I’ll get it now.”
Returning with it a moment later, Emma led us upstairs to room seven. Mrs. Fairchild was horrified when she learned that three persons had disappeared while sleeping in the chamber.
“Oh, this is shocking! I hope the police will not blame me because I am the owner of the house.”
“It’s fairly evident you could have had no part in the affair,” I said. “However, I did hope you might be able to throw a bit of light on the mystery.”
“This is the first I have heard about it!”
“I thought perhaps you might know of a secret exit from the room or something of that sort.”
“Indeed, I don’t. I lived in this house for almost forty years and room seven—of course, it hadn’t any number on the door then—was never anything but an ordinary bed chamber.”
I took the key from Emma and unlocked the door. We stepped inside. Immediately, Mrs. Fairchild’s gaze focused upon the four massive paintings.
“These are imitations, too, I suppose,” I said.
“No,” said Mrs. Fairchild. They are not even copies. I never owned anything so hideous in my life! And to think of placing four of them on one wall!”
“It’s strange, to say the least,” I said. “I wonder—”
I decided to keep my suppositions to myself.
Mrs. Fairchild could contribute nothing by way of any explanation for the mysterious disappearances from the room, so I locked the door and returned the key to Emma.
I was anxious to see the patient, so I left Mrs. Fairchild with Emma and drove on to Mud Cat Joe’s cottage.
I found Jack considerably improved, although his mind was still far from rational. He had recovered consciousness, and had taken a little food, but wasn’t yet sitting up. Doctor Hamsted had called again. It was the doctor’s opinion that by late afternoon Jack could be moved to a hospital.
“Has Jack—talked?” I asked the nurse when we were left alone for a minute.
“He jabbers constantly, but nothing he says makes sense.”
“Poor Jack,” I said.
“Would you mind sitting with him for a few minutes while I fix myself a bite of breakfast?” the nurse asked.
I sat down by the bedside. Jack lay motionless, but his color had improved, and his breathing was even now.
I knew that I shouldn’t try to arouse the patient, but I couldn’t stop myself from leaning closer and whispering: “Jack, Jack, don’t you know me? It’s Jane.”
Jack’s eyelids fluttered open. He looked up at me and for the first time seemed like himself.
“Jane,” he said, and closed his eyes.
“Jack, what happened? Can’t you remember? Was it something about a houseboat?”
“Houseboat,” he repeated thickly, without opening his eyes again. “Moving wall.”
He began to roll restlessly, and I was afraid to ask any more questions. The nurse came back, and I took my leave.
During my absence from Old Mansion, Emma and Mrs. Fairchild had become well acquainted. I offered them a ride to Greenville, but they both declined.
“I have decided to remain here in White Falls for at least a few days,” said Mrs. Fairchild. “So many things must be done to the house, and then, of course, the Conrad case will be coming up. I couldn’t bear to stay in the house alone, but Miss Brown has agreed to share the adventure with me.”
“Staying in this house is an adventure,” I agreed. “However, I think you’ll be safe enough if you keep away from room seven.”
I drove back alone to Greenville, my mind working furiously. By the time I’d reached Greenville I had formulated a theory about room seven, and I was eager to consult with my father.
I went straight to the Examiner’s office, only to be told that Dad had departed a few minutes earlier for White Falls. I thought it strange that I hadn’t seen him on the road, but perhaps we had passed each other, and I’d just been too preoccupied to notice.
I returned home just long enough f
or luncheon. Mrs. Timms had made butter chicken and masala-flavored biscuits.
I washed my plate and then told Mrs. Timms that I would be driving back to White Falls.
“Again? You’ll wear out the tires of your car, Jane. I declare, it seems as if you’re always going or coming.”
“I must see Dad, Mrs. Timms.”
I telephoned Flo to see if she was free to go with me. By four o’clock we were back in White Falls. We stopped first at the Gains cottage where Jennie told us Dad and Doctor Hamsted had left less than half an hour earlier. They’d gone with the ambulance taking Jack to the hospital.
“Right after they went, some o’ them reporter fellers came here,” Mud Cat Joe revealed. “They sure kin ask a lot o’ useless questions.”
“Reporters?” I asked. “From what paper?”
“Reckon they said they was from The Times.”
“You didn’t answer their questions?”
“Sure, I answered ’em.” Mud Cat grinned. “But when they got through, they didn’t know no more’n they did when they started.”
“It’s only a matter of time now until The Times has the story. The case isn’t solved, and Dad will miss his scoop and count himself lucky if he doesn’t end up in stir.”
“I guess there’s nothing we can do,” said Florence. “Shall we start back home again?”
“No,” I said. “I have a few ideas of my own.”
CHAPTER 23
I didn’t want Mud Cat to overhear, so I waited until we were on the road again to reveal my plan to Flo.
“Isn’t it odd,” I began, “that a Chinese laundry should be so apparently devoid of Chinese persons?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Flo.
“I hadn’t, either,” I said. “But this morning, as I was dressing, I came across something I’d forgotten.”
“What?”
“You remember that shirt of Mr. Conrad’s that got stained with bluing?”
“Yes.”
“You remember how beautifully starched and pressed it was?”
Jane Carter Historical Cozies: Omnibus Edition (Six Mystery Novels) Page 26