Jane Carter Historical Cozies: Omnibus Edition (Six Mystery Novels)

by Alice Simpson

  As soon as they were beyond hearing, I said quietly: “Need we pretend? I am sure you recall that we met aboard the Flamingo.”

  “Yes, I remember now,” Henrietta admitted. “You were with another girl.”

  “And you were accompanied by a young man.”

  “A friend of mine.”

  “This may be something of a shock,” I said, “but my friend and I saw you drop a bundle containing a wig into the river.”

  “Oh!”

  “The bundle caught fast, and I fished it out.”

  “You have no proof it was mine! You—you won’t tell Father?”

  “Not if you can offer a good reason why I shouldn’t.”

  “There are any number of them. You mustn’t tell my father! That’s why I pretended not to know you.”

  “I certainly wish you would explain. Rosie Larkin was robbed that night.”

  “Who is Rosie Larkin?”

  “One of the passengers on the Flamingo that evening. Her pocketbook was taken shortly before the boat docked.”

  “You can’t believe I had anything to do with it!”

  “I don’t wish to think so, but your actions were very strange.”

  “I can explain everything,” Henrietta said. “My reason for wearing a disguise was a simple one. I didn’t care to have anyone on the boat recognize me.”

  “Why, may I ask?”

  Before Henrietta could answer, Mr. Roberts came around the corner of the house.

  “Please say nothing about it to Father,” the young woman pleaded in a whisper. “I’ll explain everything later.”

  I nodded, and, for Mr. Roberts’ benefit, said how well the roses were looking.

  “We once had a beautiful garden,” Henrietta said. “Now it’s in ruin, the same as the yard. Father doesn’t look after the place as he should.”

  “The grounds are very large,” replied Mr. Roberts mildly.

  “You shouldn’t try to do the work yourself,” Henrietta protested. “It was foolish of you to let the gardener go.”

  I felt increasingly ill at ease. As we wandered about the grounds, Henrietta kept making disparaging remarks, thoughtless comments which must have wounded her father. However, he offered no rebuttal, nor did he reprove his daughter for complaining.

  “I really must be going,” I said at last. “It’s getting very dark.”

  Mr. Roberts walked with me back to Bouncing Betsy, closing the gate behind me after I had reversed out into the street.

  I looked back over my shoulder. He stood there a moment, the wind rumpling his gray hair. Then he raised his hand in friendly salute and turned toward the house.

  When I arrived home, the house was dark. I let myself in. Father had not expected me home so early and, disliking an empty house, had remained at the Examiner office. There was no telling when he would return. Mrs. Timms was still at the cottage, caring for the injured Anchor Jim.

  After preparing a belated dinner for myself, I spent an hour working on the next installment of “The Mystery of the Octopus Tattoo.” However, my mind kept reverting to the events of the day. A great deal had happened. My meeting with Paul Firth had been interesting. Anchor Jim’s mishap worried me, and I remained disturbed by the threatening message left on my desk. Could it have been written by a prowler in the building? Ever since we’d started the paper, I’d felt that someone was hiding there. Before dropping off to sleep, I made up my mind that the following night I would set a trap for the intruder.

  The next day I took Florence into my confidence, and we made a plan, but we waited until the evening to carry it out. We prepared a tasty box supper, wrapped it up as usual and laid it conspicuously on the counter of the downstairs advertising room.

  “Now the stage is set,” I said in a low voice. “Florence, you go upstairs to my office and tap on the typewriter. I’ll hide here and see what happens.”

  After Florence had gone, I switched off the light and secreted myself in a storage closet not far from the counter. By leaving the door open, I could see fairly well into the darkened reception room for street lights cast a reflection through the plate glass windows.

  The minutes stretched into a half hour. Florence’s typewriting, at first very energetic, began to slacken in speed. I moved restlessly in my cramped quarters. I had not anticipated that waiting would be so tedious.

  An hour elapsed. Far down the street, a clock struck ten times. I got up from the floor. I could no longer endure sitting and waiting. As I emerged from my hiding place, intending to call Florence, a door opened at the west end of the room. I froze against the wall.

  A flashlight beam played across the floor, missing me by a scant two feet.

  I remained motionless, my heart beating at a furious rate. A shadowy figure of a man moved toward me. Boards squeaked beneath his weight.

  Midway across the room, the man paused, evidently listening to the steady clatter of Florence’s typewriter. Satisfied, he went to the window where he stood for several minutes watching street traffic.

  As he turned again, the beam of his flashlight swept across the front counter, focusing upon the package of food. The man gave a low exclamation of pleasure. With the swiftness of a cat, he darted to it and tore off the paper wrapping.

  I waited until he was eating greedily. Then stealing along the wall, I groped for the electric light switch. As I pressed it, the room was brilliantly illuminated. Then I gave a shrill whistle, a signal to Florence that the culprit had been trapped.

  The man at the counter whirled around, facing me. He was a gaunt, unshaven fellow in his late fifties with shaggy hair, and soiled, wrinkled clothing.

  Before he could retreat, Florence came down the stairway, blocking the exit.

  “What are you doing here?” I questioned him. “Why did you steal my supper?”

  The man’s lips moved nervously, but no sound came from them.

  “Shall I call the police?” I asked.

  “No, don’t do that,” the man pleaded, finding his voice. “Don’t call the police. I’ll go. I won’t bother you anymore.”

  “Why have you been hiding in the building?”

  “Because I have no other place to sleep, Ma’am. The cops chase you off the park benches.”

  “You’ve been living in this building a long while?” I asked.

  “Maybe six months. I sleep down in the furnace room. I didn’t do any harm, except to steal—” The man motioned to the box lunch.

  “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am, Ma’am. Lately, I haven’t been eating any too often.”

  “You may finish the lunch,” I said. “And there’s a thermos bottle of coffee under the counter.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am, thank you. I surely am obliged.”

  His hand trembled as he poured himself a cup of the steaming coffee.

  “You haven’t told me your name,” I said after the man had drained the cup.

  “Folks just call me Harry.”

  “What is your real name?”

  “Harold Horner,” the man answered reluctantly.

  “I’m curious to learn how you’ve been getting in and out of the building.”

  “With a key.” Harry devoured the last bite of sandwich and poured himself a second cup of coffee.

  “A skeleton key, you mean?”

  “No, Miss. I have my own key. In the old days, I used to work here.”

  “You’re a former Press employee?”

  “Sure, I know it’s hard to believe, but when a fellow’s out of a job and money, it doesn’t take long to go to seed. I lost my place when Roberts closed down.”

  “And you’ve been unable to find other work?”

  “In the past nine months. I’ve worked exactly six days. No one hires an old fellow any more. If I could have kept on with Roberts three more years I’d have been due for my pension.”

  “What work did you do on the paper?” I asked.

  “I was a pressman.”

  �
�Mr. Horner,” I said, “it’s possible I may be able to find some sort of work for you, later on. Do you mind writing your name on this paper?”

  The man took the sheet I handed him, without hesitation scrawling his name, Harold Horner.

  I studied the writing a moment. To my relief, it bore not the slightest resemblance to the warning message left on my desk the previous night.

  “Harry,” I asked, “did you ever try to frighten me away from this building?”

  “Oh, no, Ma’am,” he replied. “Once I tiptoed up to your office. When I saw you were working there, I slipped down to the basement again.”

  “Did you ever place a note on my desk?”

  “I never did.”

  I was satisfied that Harry had told the truth. Yet, if he was not the culprit, I was unable to guess who had warned me to abandon the plant.

  “Mr. Horner, I’ve decided that we need a watchman around this place,” I said abruptly. “If you want the job, it’s yours.”

  “You’re not turning me out?”

  “No, you may stay. I can’t promise much of a salary, but at least you’ll have a place to sleep and enough food.”

  “You’re mighty kind,” Harry said. “Mighty kind.” He hesitated and then added: “I promise you won’t be sorry you did it, Ma’am. Maybe you’ll find I can be of some real use around this plant. I’m at your service and what’s more, I’m for you one hundred percent.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next morning Flo and I arrived at the Times building to find that the entire lower floor had been cleaned and swept. Harry was in the composing room, stirring up a great cloud of dust with a stub of a broom.

  “I was just cleaning the place up a bit,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Mind?” I said. “I’m delighted.”

  “I set a little type for you last night, too.”

  “Why, Mr. Horner, I didn’t know you were a linotype operator.”

  “I’m not,” said the man, “but I can learn most anything if I set my mind to it. If you have any jobs you want done just turn them over to me.”

  “Mr. Horner,” I said, “more than anything else I would like to publish Carter’s All-Story Weekly in my own plant. The obstacles seem almost too great to overcome; do you think it could be accomplished?”

  “Why, sure,” said Harry. “If I had some tools and a little to do with I could get the presses ready in a day.”

  “What about the stereotyping work?”

  “I could master the trick of it,” declared Harry confidently.

  “You’re a jewel!” I said. “I’ll place you in charge of my production department, but I fear I can’t give you a salary in proportion to your duties.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Ma’am. I would rather be working than sitting around with nothing to do.”

  “Then look over the plant and make up a list of the things you must have. I’ll go over to the Examiner this minute and arrange for printing paper.”

  I left Flo in charge of the office and set out for my father’s plant. Now that Harry had been added to the staff of the Weekly, problems which previously had seemed insurmountable suddenly had become easily solved.

  When I got to the Examiner building I went directly to the stockroom, wandering about until I found Mr. Curry, the foreman.

  “Here’s something for you,” I said, offering a slip of paper.

  “What’s this?” Mr. Curry asked. “An order for a roll of paper?”

  “Yes, Mr. Curry,” I explained. “At last I am going to publish my own sheet over in the old Press building. I’ll square the bill with my father.”

  “One of these big rolls would print more copies of your paper than you could sell in six months! And paper is expensive. How about a half-roll or even a quarter? It would be a lot easier to handle.”

  “Oh, all right,” I said. “Just so I get enough to print my next issue.”

  Mr. Curry led the way to one of the presses, pointing to a roll of paper mounted on a feeding rack.

  “That one is about half used up,” he said. “Will it do?”

  “Yes, I guess so,” I agreed. “May I have it right away?”

  Mr. Curry replied by pushing a tram along a miniature railway which ran under the press. He maneuvered the roll into position on the carrier, then he pushed the tram to the elevator, moved the portable paper lift over the roll, and up it went to the platform. The elevator grounded at the first floor where the paper was rolled to the loading dock with pry bars.

  “There you are,” said the foreman.

  “All I need now is a truck. Thanks, Mr. Curry!”

  I stood guard by my roll of paper and waited until one of the Examiner drivers had finished unloading his cargo and was ready to pull from the dock.

  “How’s chances fer a ride, buddy?” I said, jerking my thumb in the manner of a hitch-hiker. “Me and my paper to the old Press building?”

  “Okay,” laughed the trucker.

  He rolled the paper onto the truck, and I climbed into the cab beside him. At the Press building, I had the roll set off at the rear entrance where Harry easily could get it to the press room.

  I mounted the steps two at a time, bursting in upon Florence who was busy proof-reading Mrs. Pruitt’s latest offering,

  “Got it!” I announced. “About six hundred pounds of paper. That should keep the Weekly going for a while.”

  “Here’s something to dampen your enthusiasm.” Florence thrust a letter toward me. “Another kick on that octopus tattoo story you wrote. A Mrs. Clarence Brown says she heartily disapproves of such outlandish tales and that she’ll never buy another copy of Carter’s All-Story Weekly.”

  “At least it proves my story attracted attention,” I said. “Anything else while I was gone?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Timms telephoned to ask that you come to the cottage as soon as possible. And that reminds me—the telephone bill. The company requires a month’s advance—”

  “Never mind the bills,” I said. “Did Mrs. Timms say anything about Anchor Jim?”

  “He appears to be much better.”

  “I’m glad of that. I suppose I should drive out to the cottage before it gets dark.”

  “Run along. I’ll look after everything here.”

  I swept my desk clear of papers and locked the drawers. I told Florence goodbye and left the office. On the stairway, I met Harry.

  “I’ve made my list,” he said. “I figure we can’t get out the next issue with less than this.”

  I glanced at the paper and slipped it into my purse.

  “I’ll get the things somehow,” I promised. “By the way, there’s a roll of paper on the loading dock.”

  “I’ve already hauled ’er in. Any other jobs for me?”

  “No, you seem to be one jump ahead.”

  We descended the stairway together, the steps creaking beneath our weight. Harry looked different. His hair had been cut and his face was clean-shaven.

  “I suppose you knew Marcus Roberts rather well?” I asked him.

  “Oh, sure.”

  “What was he like?”

  “Well—” Harry hesitated, at a loss for words. “Roberts was odd, sort of cold and unfriendly except to those who knew him best, but he was a straight-shooter.”

  “The employees liked him?”

  “Everyone did except a few chronic sore-heads.”

  “Is it true that the Press was making money at the time it closed down?”

  “That’s what everyone on the paper thought. It was a shock to us all when Roberts closed up shop. I’ll never forget the day he told us he was giving up the plant. The old man looked like death had struck him, and he cried when he said goodbye to the boys.”

  “I wonder why he closed the plant?”

  “Some say it was because he had lost a pile of money speculating on the stock market, but I never believed it. Roberts wasn’t the gambling type.”

  “Why do you think he gave up the paper?” />
  “I’ve done a lot of speculating on it,” the Harry admitted. “This is just my own idea, but I figure Roberts may have been blackmailed.”

  “Blackmailed! By whom?”

  “I can’t tell you—it’s only my guess.”

  “You have no evidence to support such a theory?”

  “Nothing you could call evidence, but the day before Roberts quit he was in the pressroom. He was sort of thinking out loud, I guess. Anyhow, he said to me, ‘Harry, the dirty blackmailer couldn’t do this to me if it weren’t for my daughter. If it didn’t mean smearing her name, I’d fight!’”

  “Did you ask him what he meant?”

  “I made some reply, and then he closed up like a clam. I figure he hadn’t realized what he was saying.”

  “You haven’t any idea as to whom he meant?”

  “I couldn’t make a guess.”

  “No matter what the reason, it was a pity the Press had to close,” I said. “I feel very sorry for Mr. Roberts.”

  I told Harry goodbye and climbed aboard Bouncing Betsy. As I drove toward the river cottage I couldn’t stop thinking about what the old pressman had told me. It was possible that Harry was right, but why should Mr. Roberts submit to blackmail even for his daughter’s sake? Somehow the pieces of the puzzle refused to fit together.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was close to dusk when I drew up at the end of the road. I parked Bouncing Betsy between a pair of scraggly box-elders and walked swiftly along the river trail, soon approaching within view of Dad’s new cottage.

  The fallen tree had been sawed into cordwood, the yard cleaned of sticks and debris, and only the damaged porch remained to remind one of the severe storm.

  As I opened the screen door, Mrs. Timms came out from the kitchen.

  “Jim is asleep,” she warned in a whisper. “Perhaps we should talk outside.”

  I nodded and followed the housekeeper to the porch swing.

  “How is he doing?” I asked.

  “Oh, much better,” replied Mrs. Timms. “The doctor was here an hour ago. Jim is out of danger but must remain in bed for at least another day.”