“Got it! Haul away, Flo.”
Florence pulled me to safety.
“You tore your dress,” Flo pointed out.
“Never mind that. Let’s see what’s inside this package.”
The bundle was wrapped in ordinary newspaper.
“I’ll venture it contains nothing more than the remains of a lunch,” declared Florence. “This is going to be a good joke on you, Jane.”
I saw a long strand of dark hair protruding through an opening torn in the newspaper-wrapped parcel. Florence saw it at the same instant and uttered a choked, horrified scream. “Human hair—” she gasped. “Oh, Jane! Turn it over to the police!”
Chapter Three
“It’s hardly heavy enough to contain a severed head,” I said, but my fingers trembled as I untied the string. The paper fell away, and several objects dropped at my feet. Stooping, I picked up a black wig cut into a sleek bob. In addition, there was a dark veil, a crushed felt cloche, and a cheap cloth jacket.
“A disguise!” exclaimed Florence.
“Yes, the girl who tossed this bundle into the river was the same one we saw aboard the steamer! But why did she wear these things and then try to get rid of them?”
“Don’t you understand?” Florence demanded impressively. “She was a crook just as I thought. And she must have been the one who robbed Rosie Larkin!”
I looked at the curious array of objects from the discarded bundle. Unquestionably, they had been worn by the mysterious young woman we had observed aboard the Flamingo. However, I did not agree with Florence that the woman or her escort had robbed Rosie Larkin.
“I never heard of a professional pickpocket bothering with a disguise,” I said. “And what kind of pickpocket can afford to go around in such luxurious clothes as she was wearing after she shed these shabby things?”
“Perhaps, picking pockets is more profitable than you think,” Flo insisted. “Why else would the woman have been disguising herself?”
“I haven’t any idea,” I admitted. “Everything about it is odd. For instance, what became of her escort after the steamer docked? And who were the other two young men awaiting her with that rather luxurious gray car?”
“They all appeared to be quite well-to-do.”
Florence kicked at the bundle with her foot.
“What shall we do with these things? Toss them away?”
“Certainly not!” I carefully rewrapped the wig, jacket, and other articles in the crumpled newspaper. “I shall take them home with me. One never knows what may develop.”
A taxi drew up nearby.
“Why, it’s Jack Bancroft!” I said.
“Did you invite him?” Flo asked. “If he planned on dancing with you, I’m afraid he’s a trifle late.”
I elbowed Flo in the ribs as Jack emerged from the taxi.
“Hello,” Jack said cheerily. “Marvelous night for a murder.”
“I hope you’re not carrying any concealed weaponry,” I said. “Where’s Dad?”
“That’s rich coming from a woman who carries both a cosh and a knife in her handbag.”
“It’s a pocket knife. Strictly utilitarian. I most often employ it to peel apples,” I protested. “And the cosh is purely for purposes of self-defense.”
“Your father was delayed at the Examiner office,” Jack explained. “He sent me to meet the boat in his place. The fog made traffic slow. That’s why I’m late.”
Taking Flo and I each by an elbow, he steered us to the waiting taxi.
“Greenville Examiner,” he instructed the driver.
The fog was not so dense after the cab left the docks, but the entire river valley was blanketed, making it necessary for automobiles to proceed with headlights turned on.
“Have a nice time?” Jack asked as the cab crept along the waterfront streets.
“Not very,” I answered, “but we ran into a little adventure.”
“Trust you for that.” Jack laughed. “City Editor DeWitt was telling the boys at the office that he bet you’d come home dragging a mystery by its tail.”
“Here it is,” I said, thrusting the newspaper bundle into Jack’s hands. “Flo and I did a little fishing from the dock, and this is what we hooked.”
While Jack examined the contents of the strange package, I told him what had happened aboard the steamer. Jack could offer no additional theories to explain why the young woman had discarded the bundle of clothing.
“Florence’s guess seems as good as any,” he said. “The woman may have been the one who robbed Rosie Larkin.”
“Pickpockets usually frequent crowds,” I said. “During the entire trip, both the girl and her escort kept strictly to themselves.”
Jack retied the bundle and tossed it into my lap.
“Your mystery is too much for me,” he said. “Afraid you’ll have to solve it yourself.”
I lapsed into meditative silence. For a reason I have never tried to explain, the waterfront seldom fails to cast its magical spell over me. I love the medley of sounds, deep-throated blasts of coal boats mingling with the staccato toots of the tugboats, and the rumble and clank of bridges being raised and lowered.
I have always felt an intimate connection with the river, for the home I grew up in and now again occupy with my father overlooks the Grassy River. After Timothy died, I came back home again to live with my father and our housekeeper, Mrs. Timms. My own mother died when I was only ten, so Mrs. Timms sometimes seems more like a mother to me than a housekeeper.
The taxi came to a sudden halt, and I emerged from my reverie. Jack leaned forward to ask the driver why we had stopped.
“I can’t see the road very well,” the man replied. “And there’s a bridge up ahead.”
As the car crept forward again, I peered from the window. The lights which marked the arching steel bridge were only faintly visible through the swirling gray fog. A pillar gradually emerged from the mist and, beside it, the shadowy figure of a crouching man. His burning cigarette made a pin point of light as he tossed it into the river.
A second man appeared on the bridge. Stealthily, he approached the one who gazed with such absorption into the inky waters. His purpose was shockingly clear.
I screamed a warning; the taxi driver halted his cab, shouting huskily out the window, but our warning came too late.
We watched, helpless, as the attacker tackled his victim. There was a brief, intense struggle, then a body went hurtling from the bridge, fifty feet to the water below.
“That man was pushed off the bridge. He’ll drown!” I said.
“We’ve got to save him,” said Jack.
As the cab came to a standstill, we all sprang to the pavement. In the murky darkness, the bridge appeared deserted, but we could hear the pounding footsteps of the attacker escaping.
“Leave that guy to me,” said the cab driver. “I’ll get him!”
Abandoning his taxi, the driver darted across the bridge in hot pursuit.
The rest of us ran to the river bank. A man was struggling in the water below and crying out for help.
Jack started to kick off his shoes.
“Wait!” I said. “You may not need to jump in after him. That boat will be there in a minute.”
I pointed to a tugboat which had passed beneath the bridge and was veering toward the struggling man. As we watched, the boat came alongside, and the captain fished the victim from the water with a boat-hook.
“Thank goodness for that,” I said. “I hope the poor fellow is all right.”
“And I hope our driver catches the man who did the pushing,” said Florence. “I never witnessed a more vicious attack in my entire life.”
As she spoke, the cabman returned across the bridge.
“The fellow got away,” he reported. “He had a car waiting.”
“You didn’t see the license number?” Jack asked.
“Not a chance.”
“Too bad.”
The tugboat had tied up only a short distance from the bridge.
“Jack, let’s go down there,” I proposed. “I want to be certain that man is all right.”
Jack hesitated, then agreed. We left Florence with the cab driver—she was concerned about ruining her shoes— and Jack and I descended the steep, muddy slope.
The boat had been made fast to a piling. Face downward on the long leather seat of the pilot-house lay the rescued man. The captain, a short, stocky man with grease-smeared hands and clothing saturated with coal dust, stood over the half-drowned man.
“Anything we can do?” Jack called from the bank.
“Don’t know yet if he’ll need a doctor,” answered the tugboat captain, barely glancing up. “It was a nasty fall.”
We leaped from the river bank onto the deck. Inside the cabin, the man on the seat showed signs of reviving.
“Struck the water flat on his back,” the captain said. “Lucky I saw him fall, or I never could have fished him out. Not on a night like this.”
“The fellow didn’t fall,” I said. “He was pushed.”
The man on the seat groaned and rolled over.
“Steady,” said the captain. “Take it easy. You’ll tumble off the seat if you don’t stay quiet.”
“My back,” mumbled the man.
His face was ghastly white and contorted with pain. He looked to be in his early thirties and wore tight-fitting blue trousers and a coarse flannel shirt.
“My back,” he moaned again, pressing his hand to it.
“You took a hard wrench when you hit the water,” said the captain. “Here, let’s see.”
He unbuttoned the man’s shirt, and rolling him over, started to strip it off.
“No!” snarled the other with surprising spirit. “Leave me alone! Get away!”
Jack stepped forward to assist the captain. Ignoring the man’s feeble struggles, they pulled off his shirt.
Across his bruised and battered back had been tattooed in blue and black, the fearsome figure of an octopus.
Chapter Four
Jack bent closer to examine the strange tattoo. Between the two foremost arms of the octopus was sketched a single word, All.
“All,” he read aloud. “What does that signify?”
His question angered the man on the couch. Snatching the shirt from the captain, he made a feeble, ineffectual effort to get his arms into it.
“I want out o’ here,” he muttered. “Quit starin’ and give me a hand!”
“Take it easy,” advised the tugboat captain. “We was just tryin’ to see if your back was badly hurt.”
“Sorry,” the man muttered. Relaxing, he leaned weakly against the leather cushions. “I ain’t myself.”
“You swallowed a little water,” remarked the captain.
“A little?” growled the other. “Half the river went down my gullet.” As an afterthought, he added: “Thanks for pullin’ me out.”
“You’re welcome,” responded the captain. “Ex-sailor aren’t you?”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“I can usually tell ’em. Out of work?”
“No.”
“You haven’t told us your name.”
“Richard Hamsted,” the man replied after a slight hesitation.
“We tried to catch the man who pushed you off the bridge,” Jack said. “He got away.”
“No one pushed me off the bridge,” the man said. “I fell.”
“You fell?” I said. “I saw you and another man struggling—”
“You saw wrong,” the sailor interrupted. “I was leaning over, lookin’ into the water an’ I lost my balance. That was how it happened.”
“As you please, Mr. Hamsted,” said Jack with exaggerated politeness. “Oh, by the way, what’s the significance of that octopus thing on your back?”
“Leave me alone, will you?” the sailor muttered. “Ain’t a man got any right to privacy?”
“Better not bother him while he’s feeling so low,” said the tugboat captain. “I’ll get him into some dry clothes.”
“Nothing we can do?” I asked.
“No, thanks, he’ll be all right.”
“Well, so long,” said Jack.
“Jack, what was the matter with that fellow?” I demanded in a whisper as soon as we were back on shore. “I didn’t get a good look at that tattoo on his back.”
“It was as strange a tattoo as I’ve ever seen. The picture of an octopus. Between its forearms was the word, All.”
“What could that mean?”
“I would have asked, but Mr. Richard Hamsted wasn’t in a talkative mood.”
“It seems rather mysterious, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Jack took my arm to help me back up the steep bank. “Sailors have some funny ideas regarding self-decoration. This Hamsted was a peculiar fellow.”
“It was odd that he would lie about being pushed off the bridge. Jack, will you write about it for the paper?”
“The story isn’t worth more than a few lines. We can’t say that Hamsted was pushed off the bridge.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“Hamsted would deny it, and then the Examiner would appear ridiculous.”
“If I owned a paper, I would certainly use the story,” I said. “It has wonderful dramatic possibilities.”
“Serious journalists aren’t supposed to be swayed by such things as ‘dramatic possibilities.’ Your father never would agree to write such a story. You talk him into printing the yarn, and I’ll be glad to write it.”
“Oh well, I suppose I might as well forget about it,” I grumbled.
We cleaned the mud from our shoes on the pavement before walking on to the waiting taxi. Florence immediately plied us with questions, displaying interest in the octopus tattoo.
“Do you suppose the man knew who pushed him off the bridge?” she asked.
“I’ll venture he did,” I answered. “Probably, that was the reason he lied to us.”
The taxi crossed the bridge and made slow progress away from the river. As the road gradually wound toward higher ground, the fog became lighter and the driver was able to make faster time. As we passed Reverend Radcliff’s church, the clock in the tower chimed the hour of eleven.
“How about stopping somewhere for a bite to eat?” Jack suggested.
“Won’t Dad be waiting at the Examiner office?” I asked.
“He suggested that I keep you ladies entertained until around eleven-thirty if I could.”
“That being the case, we’ll accept your invitation with alacrity. How about the Golden Pheasant?”
“Oh no, you don’t! Phillip’s Bean Pot is nearer my speed.”
A block farther down the street Jack paid the driver and escorted us into a clean but low-priced restaurant.
“No item on the menu over five cents,” he told Flo and me. “Do your worst. I can take it.”
Florence and I ordered sandwiches, while Jack fortified himself with a plate of scrambled eggs, two doughnuts, and a cup of coffee. Returning to the front counter for a forgotten napkin, he nodded at an older man with faded blue eyes who sat alone, sipping a glass of orange juice.
The man acknowledged the greeting in an embarrassed way, quickly lowering his head. Then he got up from the counter and left the café.
“Jack, who was he?” I asked. “I am sure I’ve seen him before, but I can’t remember where.”
“That was Marcus Roberts.”
“The former publisher of the Morning Press?”
“Yes, the old man’s been going to pieces fast since he closed his newspaper plant. Looks seedy, doesn’t he?”
“His clothes were a bit shiny. I thought he seemed rather embarrassed because you spoke to him.”
“Old Roberts feels his come-down I guess. In the flush days, he wouldn’t be caught dead in a beanery.”
“Is he really that poor, Jack?”
“Probably down to his last hundred thousand.” Jack grinned.
“What you say is conflicting. Fi
rst, you imply that Mr. Roberts is poor, and then that he’s rich. I wish you would make up your mind.”
“Frankly, I don’t know. Roberts owns a fine home—I’d call it a mansion—on Drexell Boulevard, but he’s allowed the place to run down over the last year or so. I’ve been told he sold the Morning Press building—which had also fallen into disrepair—several months ago. Some say Roberts has piles of cash squirreled away, others say that he’s flat broke.”
“How did he lose so much of his money, Jack?”
“No one seems to know for certain. According to rumor, he played the stock market and suffered heavy losses.”
“It’s strange he closed down the Morning Press,” I said. “I always thought it was a profitable paper.”
“So did everyone else. The Press had a large circulation, but one bright Monday morning Roberts posted a notice, closed the plant, and threw over a thousand employees out of work.”
“That was nearly a year ago, wasn’t it, Jack?”
“Thirteen months to be exact. Why this sudden interest in Marcus Roberts?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “His case seems rather pathetic. Then, too, he reminds me of someone I’ve seen recently. I wish I could recall—”
Jack glanced at the wall clock, swallowing his coffee with a gulp.
“Time to move along,” he announced. “We mustn’t keep your father waiting, Jane.”
We left the café, and Jack hailed a passing taxicab.
“It’s only four blocks to the Examiner building,” I protested. “Aren’t you being too lavish with your money, Jack?”
“Oh, I’ll add this item to my expense account. Jump in.”
The taxi turned left at Adams street, rolling slowly through the downtown business section where an enormous four-story stone building occupied a large corner lot.
“That place sure looks like a morgue these days,” Jack said as he pointed up at the building. “The Morning Press.”
I twisted sideways to stare at the dark, deserted building. The windows were plastered with disfiguring posters and the white stone blocks, once beautiful, were streaked with city grime.
“When the Press closed, machinery, furniture and everything else was left exactly as it stood,” remarked Jack. “Too bad an enterprising newspaperman doesn’t take over the place before it’s a complete loss. The present owner doesn’t even employ a watchman to protect the property.”
Jane Carter Historical Cozies: Omnibus Edition (Six Mystery Novels) Page 44