“Well, I was looking at the moon,” I said. “I suppose we were alone if you don’t count Paul Firth and whoever was attempting to give him the walloping of a lifetime.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Timms, looking even more like a feline who’d just withdrawn its head from a jug containing dairy products.
“I did allow him to hold my hand,” I said. “Which is a far greater excess than I’ve ever consented to before.”
Mrs. Timms was practically licking her whiskers now.
“But then we were interrupted,” I added. “Now back to this key.”
I held up the key once more.
“It does resemble one I’ve seen Firth use,” Mrs. Timms said.
“Then it must unlock the cave. Tomorrow I’ll go there and find out.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” replied Mrs. Timms firmly. “Going there alone would be foolhardy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed.”
“I wish you would forget that storm cave and the octopus tattoo,” said Florence unsympathetically. “Maybe then we could get out another issue of this wretched magazine.”
“You’re sick of it, aren’t you?” I said.
“No,” Florence denied, “it’s been fun, and we’ve learned a lot. But there’s so much work. It never ends.”
“It will soon,” I said. “Our advertisers are dropping off one by one. Sales are falling, too.”
“We can always quit,” said Florence cheerfully.
“No, we can’t,” I said, “not until I get a positive response from Litchfield Press on Perpetua’s Promise. Then I can retire from my editorial duties with dignity and devote myself to writing the sequel.”
“But you just said we are failing—”
“Where there’s life, there’s hope,” I said.
“You’re nothing if not persistent. Oh, before I forget it, Mr. Horner has been up here several times inquiring for you.”
“More bad news, I suppose.”
“He didn’t say why he wished to talk with you. I thought he seemed rather disturbed, though.”
“I’ll see what he wants.”
I looked for Harry in the composing department and pressroom and even ventured into the basement. He was not to be found. I concluded that he had left the building and gave up the search.
I helped Florence read proof until six o’clock, and then telephoned home to inquire if my father was there. Mrs. Timms told me that he did not expect to come until later. I decided to remain downtown for my own dinner.
“Why don’t you stay with me, Flo?” I said. “Afterwards, I’ll take you on a little adventure.”
“Not to Firth’s?” Flo eyed me suspiciously.
“Unfortunately, I haven’t the time. There’s another bit of spade work to be done. I intend to watch Ellis Pruitt’s shop. This is Thursday, you know, the day the mystery man comes to get his octopus tattoo taken off.”
“It may be a long, tedious wait,” Flo said.
“I’ll consider it well worth the time if I learn the identity of Pruitt’s customer. You don’t care to come, I suppose?”
“On the contrary, I do. I’ll telephone Mother and inform her not to expect me home for dinner.”
We dined at a café not far from the old Press building and, soon thereafter, stationed ourselves a half block from Ellis Pruitt’s shop. An hour elapsed. Several times we became hopeful as someone paused to gaze at the exhibits in the show window, but no one entered. A cold wind made our vigil increasingly uncomfortable.
“If we don’t get action in another fifteen minutes I am going home,” said Florence through chattering teeth.
A clock struck eight-thirty. Five minutes later, a familiar figure walked briskly down the street. I touched Flo’s arm.
“It’s Paul Firth,” Florence murmured. “You don’t think he’s the one?”
“We’ll soon see,” I said.
Firth was too far away to notice us. As we watched, he walked to the doorway of Ellis Pruitt’s shop. He glanced about as if to reassure himself that the street was deserted. Then he slipped into the shop, closing the door firmly behind him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Paul Firth,” murmured Florence. “Can there be any doubt that he is the customer Ellis Pruitt meant?”
“Not in my opinion,” I said.
“Isn’t it possible that he went into the shop to have a photograph taken or for some other reason?”
“Possible but not probable. No, Flo, we should have guessed long ago that Firth is an ex-sailor. It’s all becoming clear now.”
“Then I wish you would explain to me.”
“Don’t you see? Anchor Jim, Richard Hamsted, Paul Firth, and probably a fourth man must have been good friends at one time. They had their tattoos with that phrase, All for one, one for all, printed on their backs. Then Firth must have done something which made the others angry. They followed him here to get even with him.”
“What makes you think that?” Florence asked.
“Anchor Jim gave us a good broad hint. We know that he and at least one other man have been spying on the Willows.”
“What can Firth have done to offend them?”
“I can’t guess that part,” I admitted. “And another thing, why should Firth decide to have his octopus tattoo removed?”
“And who pushed Richard Hamsted off the bridge?” Florence added. “We’re as much in the dark as ever.”
“Not quite,” I said. “I feel that if only we could get into that storm cave, we might learn the answer to some of our questions.”
“You’re not thinking of investigating it tonight?”
“No. I’m practically a human icicle. It’s home and into a hot bath for me.”
There was nothing more to be learned by waiting, so we returned to Bouncing Betsy. As we motored toward Florence’s home, we discussed various angles of the baffling case. The fact remained that Paul Firth’s reputation in Greenville was excellent, while Anchor Jim and Richard Hamsted appeared to be persons of questionable character.
“You never learned why Jim was wanted by the authorities?” Florence inquired, alighting at her doorstep.
“No, I haven’t seen Mr. Mortimer since that day at the cottage. I’m reasonably sure Jim Loewen is still at liberty.”
“He may be the one at the bottom of all the trouble,” declared Florence. “We tend to suspect Firth of evildoing because we dislike him so heartily for his disagreeable personality.”
“That’s true, Flo. The best way is to have no opinions and wait for the facts but waiting wears me to a frazzle.”
After I left the Radcliffs’, I did not drive home. Instead, I turned into Drexel Boulevard, and to the Roberts’ home.
The door was opened by Marcus Roberts. I had not expected to meet the former publisher. Somewhat confusedly I inquired for Henrietta.
“My daughter isn’t here, right now,” replied Mr. Roberts. “I expect her home within a few minutes. Won’t you wait?”
“No, thank you,” I said. “I’ll drop in some other time.”
“I wish you would stay,” Mr. Roberts urged. “I find an empty house so depressing.”
I hesitated, and then followed the former publisher to the same shabby living room where I had conducted my painful interview with Henrietta. Mr. Roberts had been reading the newspaper. He swept it from a chair so that I could sit opposite him.
“Tell me how you are getting on with your All-Story Weekly,” he said.
I talked entertainingly, relating the various difficulties which beset a fledgling publisher.
“I’ve even received threatening notes,” I said. “Or rather, one. I think it was left on my desk by a man named Paul Firth.”
“Firth?” Mr. Roberts’ face darkened.
“Yes, do you know him?” I watched the publisher face.
“Only by reputation. He’s a scoundrel!” Mr. Roberts’ voice rose.
“Can you tell me anything definite against him?”
“N
o—no, I can’t. I only advise you to have nothing whatsoever to do with him.”
The telephone rang, and Mr. Roberts arose to answer it. During his absence, I tried to decide what to do next. Dare I mention the clipping which I had found in the publisher’s old desk? I did not wish to antagonize him, yet there were many questions I longed to ask.
Mr. Roberts returned, and I decided to risk his anger.
Casually, I introduced the subject by mentioning that I was using his former office and desk as my own.
“Yesterday, I came upon a clipping caught beneath the lower drawer,” I said. “It concerned a man named Marcus Jewel. He bore a striking resemblance to you.”
The publisher’s hands gripped the chair arms so hard that the knuckles became a bluish-white. Splotches of red appeared on his forehead.
“Marcus Jewel?” he murmured at last.
“Yes, Mr. Roberts, but you have nothing to fear from me. I shall not expose you.”
“Then you know?”
“The likeness was unmistakable. I read the clipping, too.”
The publisher arose, nervously walking to the fireplace. His hands trembled as he rearranged the dusty ornaments on the mantlepiece.
“I searched everywhere for that clipping when I cleaned out my desk,” he mumbled. “I’ve gone through every imaginable torture fearing it would be found. And now I am to be exposed!”
“But I assure you I have no intention of telling anyone,” I said. “Your past is your own.”
“A man’s past never is his own,” responded Mr. Roberts bitterly.
“I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I hoped I might be able to help you.”
“You haven’t told Henrietta?”
“No, nor any other person.”
Mr. Roberts’ tenseness relaxed slightly. He paced across the room and back, then stood before me and looked me in the eye.
“All my life,” he said very quietly, “I have tried to spare Henrietta the knowledge that her father was—a convict. I haven’t much to offer, but I’ll give anything within reason to keep the story out of the paper.”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “I have no intention of telling anyone. I’m running an All-Story Weekly, not a newspaper. We print pure works of fiction. Furthermore, I have no thought of taking the story to the Examiner. I want nothing from you. But I do wish you would tell me the true story. I am sure there were extenuating circumstances.”
Mr. Roberts sagged into an armchair.
“None,” he said. “None whatsoever. I used money which did not belong to me. My wife was desperately sick at the time, and I wanted her to have the care of specialists. She died while I was serving my sentence.”
“You did have a compelling reason for taking the money,” I said. “You should have been granted a pardon.”
“A theft is a theft. When I left prison, I made a new start here, and devoted myself to Henrietta who was still a little girl then.”
“How old was she?”
Mr. Roberts gave no indication that he heard the question and continued talking.
“The truth has been concealed from Henrietta. She believes that I was abroad during those years I spent in prison. Here in Greenville, I prospered, and people were kind to me. I made a great deal of money, and I made it honestly. The future was very bright until a year ago.”
“Then you gave up your newspaper,” I said. “Why?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“Blackmail?”
Mr. Roberts nodded.
“One day a man came to me, a man I had known in prison. He threatened to expose me unless I paid him a large sum of money.”
“And you agreed?”
“I did.”
“Wasn’t that rather foolish? People would have been charitable if you had admitted the truth.”
“I considered it from every angle, particularly from Henrietta’s standpoint. I gave the man what he asked, although it cost me the Morning Press. But that was not the end.”
“He still hounds you?”
“Yes, I’ll pay as long as I have a dime. I’ve thought of taking Henrietta and going away, but he would trace me.”
“Who is the man, Mr. Roberts?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Is it either Anchor Jim Loewen or Paul Firth?”
Mr. Roberts’ face did not alter.
“I can’t tell you,” he repeated.
“I wish you would talk to my father,” I said after a moment. “He might be able to help you.”
“No,” returned Mr. Roberts, growing agitated again, “you gave your promise that you would not tell anyone what you know.”
“Of course, and I’ll keep it,” I said. “It does seem to me, though, that the easiest thing would be to admit the truth and be rid of the man who robs you. Henrietta would understand.”
Mr. Roberts shook his head.
“I have made my decision,” he said. “As long as I can, I shall abide by it.”
There was nothing I could do but bid Mr. Roberts good evening and leave the house. His secret troubled me. If he had been entirely truthful with me, it seemed very foolish of him to meet the demands of a blackmailer. I wondered if there were aspects of the case which Mr. Roberts had kept from me.
I pulled Bouncing Betsy into our driveway and jumped out to open the garage doors. I was startled by a man who had been sitting on the back doorstep of the house. He got up and came toward me. His face was hidden, but I knew it was not my father. It was not Jack, either.
“Who is it?” I called out uneasily.
“It’s Harry, Mrs. Carter. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“What brings you here?” I asked, hurrying to meet him. “I hope nothing bad has happened at the Press building.”
“Everything’s fine there, but I’ve got a letter here that I thought you would want to see right away. Found it tonight when I was sweeping up. It answers a lot of questions you’ve been askin’.”
I took the paper from Harry’s gnarled hand.
“Not about Marcus Roberts?” I asked.
“Read it and you’ll see. Roberts was blackmailed just as I always thought. And by the man who signed this letter.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was too dark for me to read the letter. Stepping to the car, I switched on Bouncing Betsy’s headlights and held the paper in her brilliant beam.
The letter read:
Dear Marcus,
Sorry to bother you again, Old Pal, but I know you’re always willing to give an old buddy and cellmate a helping hand. I don’t want to tip off the New York cops where you are, and you can trust me to keep mum if you come through with another six thousand. This is my last request.
Paul F.
“Paul Firth!” I said. “And it’s no surprise, either! Harry, where did you find this letter?”
“It was in a pile of rubbish down in the basement. I don’t know how it got there.”
“Paul Firth has a habit of leaving notes on Mr. Roberts’ desk,” I said. “This one may have blown off and been swept out without the publisher seeing it!”
“Don’t you figure it’s a blackmail attempt?”
“Without question. You’ve not shown the letter to anyone?”
“Only to you. From the threat, it seems that Roberts was sent to prison years ago, but never finished his sentence, and he’s still wanted.”
I nodded as I placed the letter in my pocketbook. Harry’s guess was a shrewd one, but I could tell him nothing without breaking my promise to Mr. Roberts.
“Mr. Horner,” I said, “a great deal hinges upon this letter. You’ll not tell anyone what you’ve learned?”
“I’ll keep it to myself. I’m not one to get Roberts into additional trouble. He’s had enough of it already.”
Father’s car was not in the garage. Since he had not come home, he must be working late at the Examiner office as he frequently did.
“Jump in, Mr. Horner,” I said, swinging wide the car door.
“I’m going downtown to find Dad. I’ll give you a ride.”
I was grateful that the pressman had little to say as we sped through dimly-lit residential streets. How much he suspected I could only guess, but the letter had made it clear to me that the former publisher never had completed his ten-year prison sentence. That was why he didn’t answer me when I asked about Henrietta’s age. He must have escaped from prison soon after he was sent there. No longer did I wonder why Mr. Roberts had not refused Paul Firth’s repeated demands for money. Obviously, he had feared a far worse fate than exposure—he had feared being returned to the New York state prison.
I parked Bouncing Betsy next to the deserted loading dock at the back of the Examiner building. A few windows were lighted. At this hour, the day staff had gone home, and only the scrub women were at work. I could not see the windows of my father’s office from the street.
Harry stepped from the running board and thanked me for the ride.
“Guess I’ll amble up the street and get a cup of coffee.”
“You’ll be sure not to mention the letter?” I reminded him.
“I won’t tell a soul. You know, I was thinkin’ about it as we rode downtown. Paul Firth came into the office a couple of times just before Roberts closed the plant. He was a dirty blackmailer, all right. Wouldn’t that letter I gave you be enough to send him up?”
“I should think so, Harry. But the problem is how to take care of him without ruining Mr. Roberts.”
“Better show the letter to your father. Maybe, he’ll have some ideas.”
Harry tipped his hat headed down the sidewalk.
I entered the rear vestibule, speaking to three scrub women who were locking up their cleaning equipment in preparation to leave the building. Not even the elevator man was on duty, so I climbed the stairs. I switched on a light in the newsroom as I passed through it to my father’s office.
The room was dark. My father was gone. I decided to telephone home, so I left my handbag sitting on Jack’s desk and entered one of the glass-enclosed telephone booths at the end of the newsroom.
As I lifted the receiver, a voice from behind me said, “Put that down!”
Jane Carter Historical Cozies: Omnibus Edition (Six Mystery Novels) Page 55