“I have to lock it, or folks would tamper with the machinery.”
The old man snapped a padlock on the door.
“Now I’m goin’ to mosey down to my garden and do a little hoein’,” he announced. “You ladies better run along.”
Thus dismissed, Florence started away, but I made no move to leave.
“Thorny, are you any relation to the Furstenberg’s head gardener?” I asked.
“Am I any relation to that old walrus?” Thorny was indignant. “Am I any relation to him? Say, you tryin’ to insult me?”
“Not at all, but I saw the man this morning, and I fancied I noticed a resemblance. Perhaps, you don’t know the one I mean.”
“Sure, I know him all right.” Thorny spat contemptuously. “New man. He acts as know-it-all and bossy as if he owned the whole place.”
“Then you don’t like him?”
“There ain’t no one that has anything to do with him. He’s so good he can’t live like the rest of the help. Where do you think I seen him the other night?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. Where?”
“He was at the Colonial Hotel, eatin’ in the main dining room!”
“The Colonial is quite an expensive hotel in Sunnydale, isn’t it?”
“Best there is. They soak you two bucks just to park your feet under one of their tables. Yep, if you ask me, Mrs. Furstenberg better ask that gardener of hers a few questions!”
Having delivered himself of this tirade, Thorny became calm again. He shifted his weight and said pointedly: “Well, I got to tend my garden. You ladies better get along. Mrs. Furstenberg don’t want nobody hangin’ around the bridge.”
We obligingly took leave of him and walked away. When we were some distance away, I looked back over my shoulder. I saw Thorny down on his hands and knees in front of the gear house. He was slipping some object under the wide crack of the door.
“The key to the padlock!” I chuckled. “So that was why he wanted us to leave first. I’ll remember the hiding place, Flo, just in case we ever decide to use the drawbridge.”
CHAPTER 17
After leaving the Furstenberg estate, we motored to Sunnydale. More from curiosity than for any other reason, we dined at the Colonial Hotel. The establishment was every bit as luxurious as the old watchman had intimated. It took us a full hour and a half to eat the fine dinner that was served in the hotel dining room. I tried not to think about how many gallons of gas I could have put in Bouncing Betsy’s tank with the money I was going to be paying out for the meal in front of me.
“Our friend, the gardener, does have excellent taste in food,” Flo said. “What puzzles me is where does he get the money for all this?”
“The obvious answer is that he’s not a gardener.”
“Maybe he has rooms here too, Jane.”
“I’ve been wondering about it. I mean to investigate.”
Florence glanced at her wristwatch.
“Do you think we should take the time?” she asked. “It will be late afternoon now before we reach home.”
“Oh, it won’t take a minute to inquire at the desk.”
We left the dining room and went to the lobby. When the desk clerk had a free moment, I asked him if anyone by the name of Peter Henderson had taken rooms at the hotel.
“No one here by that name,” the young man behind the reception desk told me. “Wait a minute, and I’ll look to be sure.”
He consulted a card filing system which served as a register and confirmed his first statement.
“The man I mean would be around sixty years of age,” I said. “He works as a gardener at the Furstenberg estate.”
“Perhaps you have come to the wrong hotel,” said the clerk, clearly offended. “We do not cater to gardeners.”
“Only to people who employ gardeners, I take it.”
“Our rates start at ten dollars a day.”
“And does that include free linen and a bath?” I asked with pretended awe.
“Certainly. All of our rooms have private baths.”
“How wonderful,” I giggled. “We thought this might be one of those places with a single shared bath on every floor!”
Suddenly comprehending that he was being made an object of sport, the clerk glared at us and turned his back. We went cheerfully out to Bouncing Betsy, pleased with ourselves for having deflated such a conceited man.
It was late afternoon by the time we arrived in Greenville, tired and dusty from our long trip. After dropping Flo off at home, I drove to the Examiner office. There were no empty parking places available on the street, so I ran my car into the loading area at the rear of the building, nosing into a narrow space which had just been vacated by a paper truck.
“Hey, you lady,” shouted an employee. “You can’t park that scrap iron here. Another paper truck will be along in a minute.”
I switched off the engine.
“I guess you’re new around here,” I said, climbing out. “The next truck isn’t due until five-twenty-three.”
“Say, who do you think you are, tellin’ me—?”
The employee trailed off into silence as another workman gave him a sharp nudge in the ribs.
“Pipe down,” he was warned. “If the boss’ daughter wants to park her jitney in the paper chute it’s okay, see?”
“Sure, I get it,” the other mumbled.
I grinned broadly as I crossed the loading area.
“After this, you might mention my automobile in a more respectful tone,” I tossed over my shoulder. “It’s not scrap iron or a jitney, either!”
I passed a few pleasantries with the operator of the freight elevator while I rode up and then stepped off at the editorial floor. I noticed as I went through the news room that Jack Bancroft’s desk was vacant. Because the waste basket was empty and the floor beside it free from paper wads, I knew he had written no story that day. I felt disappointed that I had missed Jack and then scolded myself for the feeling.
I tapped lightly on the closed door of my father’s private office and went in.
“Hello,” he said, glancing up. “Just get back from Sunnydale?”
“Yes, Florence and I had plenty of excitement, but I didn’t dig up any facts you’ll dare print in the paper.”
“Did you meet Jack anywhere?”
“No, Dad, did you expect I would?”
“The young cub is taking a vacation at my expense, running up a big motorboat bill! He should have been back here three hours ago.”
“Oh, be reasonable, Dad,” I said. “You can’t expect him to trace down those men just in a minute.”
“It was a wild goose chase, anyway,” my father groused. “I let him do it more to please you than for any sensible reason, but that’s beside the point. He was told to be back here by four o’clock at the latest, even if he had nothing to report.”
“Jack is usually punctual, Dad. I suppose being on the river he couldn’t get here just when he expected.”
“He’s probably gone fishing,” Dad said.
He slammed down the roll top on his desk and picked up his hat.
“Will you ride home with me?” I said. “Bouncing Betsy would be highly honored.”
“It’s a mighty sight more comfortable on the bus. But then, I can stand a jolting.”
As we went out through the main room, Dad paused to speak with Mr. DeWitt, leaving an order that he was to be called at home as soon as Jack Bancroft returned.
My father raised his eyebrows as he saw where I had stabled Bouncing Betsy.
“Haven’t I told you that the trucks need this space to load and unload? There is a five-cent parking lot across the street.”
“But Dad, I haven’t five-cents to spare. The truth is, I spent nearly all of my last check from Mr. Pittman today over at Sunnydale.”
We drove in silence for a few blocks, and then I indicated the gasoline gauge on the dashboard.
“Why, it’s nearly empty!” I said. “We won’t have e
nough to reach home!”
“Well, get some,” said my father automatically. “We don’t want to stall on the street.”
I brought the car to a standstill in front of a gasoline pump.
“Fill her up,” I said to the attendant.
While Dad read his newspaper, the attendant polished the windshield and checked the oil. He found it was low, and I told him to add two quarts.
“That will be exactly one fifty-eight,” the attendant said when he was finished.
I repeated the figure in a louder tone, giving my father a nudge. “Wake up, Dad. One fifty-eight.”
Absently, Dad reached for his wallet. Not until the attendant brought the change did it dawn upon him that I had scored once more.
“Tricked again,” he groaned.
“Why, it was your own suggestion that we stop for gasoline,” I reminded him. “I shouldn’t have minded taking a chance myself. The gauge is usually at least a gallon off.”
“I suppose I would rather pay for it than have you siphon it out of my car,” my father said.
“Thanks for the present.”
Dinner was waiting by the time we reached home. Afterwards, I helped Mrs. Timms with the dishes while Dad mowed the lawn. When the telephone ring, he came to the kitchen door.
“Was that a call for me?” he asked.
“No, Dad, it was for Mrs. Timms.”
“Strange DeWitt hasn’t called,” my father said. “I believe I’ll telephone him.”
After Mrs. Timms had finished with the phone, Dad called the newspaper office only to be told that Jack Bancroft still had not put in an appearance.
“At least he might have communicated with the office,” my father said as he hung up the receiver.
Dad went back to mowing the lawn, but I noticed that he paused now and then to stare moodily down at the Grassy river which wound through the valley far below the terrace. I finished drying the dishes and went outside to join him.
“You’re worried about Jack, aren’t you?”
“Not exactly,” Dad said. “But he should have been back long ago.”
“He never would have stayed away without good reason. We both know Jack isn’t like that.”
“No, he’s either run into a big story, or he’s in trouble. When I sent him away this morning, I didn’t look upon the assignment as a particularly dangerous one.”
“And yet, if he met those two sailors anything could have happened. They were tough customers, Dad.”
“I could notify the police if Jack isn’t back within an hour or two,” Dad said. “Still, I hate to do it.”
“Where did Jack rent his boat, Dad?”
“I told him to get one at Griffith’s dock at twenty-third street.”
“Then why don’t we go there?” I suggested. “If he hasn’t come in we might rent a boat of our own and start a search.”
Dad nodded.
“Bring a heavy coat,” he told me. “It may be cold on the river.”
I ran into the house after my coat. I took a flashlight from my bureau drawer. When I hurried outdoors again, my father had backed his own car from the garage and was waiting.
By the time we reached the twenty-third street dock, it had grown dark. Harry Griffith, the owner of the boat house, told us Jack Bancroft had rented a motor boat early that morning, but had not yet returned it.
“I been worryin’ about that young feller,” he said to Dad. “You’re not Mr. Fielding, are you?”
“Yes, that’s my name.”
“Then I got a letter here for you. I reckon maybe it explains what became of the young feller.”
The boatman took a greasy envelope from his trousers pocket and gave it to my father.
“Where did you get this, Mr. Griffith?”
“A boy in a rowboat brought it up the river about two hours ago. He said the young feller gave him twenty-five cents to deliver it to a Mr. Fielding. But the kid was mixed up on the address, so I just held it here.”
“Dad, it must be from Jack.”
As my father opened the envelope, I held the flashlight close. In a nearly illegible scrawl Jack had written: “Following up a hot tip. Think I’ve struck trail of key men. Taking off in boat. Expect to get back by nightfall unless Old Man Trouble catches up with me.”
Dad looked up from the message, his gaze meeting my frightened eyes.
“Oh, Dad, it’s long after dark now. What do you think has become of Jack?”
CHAPTER 18
We wasted no time in useless conversation. Dad rented a fast motor boat and prevailed upon Harry Griffith to operate it for him. Guided by the stars and a half moon, which was slowly rising over the treetops, we headed down the river.
Riding with the current, we came before long to the spot where Jack and I had first sighted the two sailors’ cruiser. Now there was no sign of a boat, either large or small.
We moved slowly along the shoreline, searching as we went, but the river had never seemed more deserted.
“Jack might have stopped anywhere along here,” Dad observed. “If he drew the boat into the bushes, we haven’t a chance of finding him.”
We went on, finally arriving at the Furstenberg estate. As we passed beneath the open drawbridge, I noted how low it had been swung over the water. A boat with a high cabin could not possibly go through when the cantilevers were down.
Gazing upward, I saw a swinging red light at the entrance to the bridge. A lantern, no doubt, hung there to warn any motorists who might come down the private road in the darkness.
“Thorny probably isn’t on duty at this hour,” I said. “But I should think an open drawbridge might prove more dangerous at night than in the daytime.”
As I lost sight of the bridge around a bend in the river, I transferred all my attention to watching the coves and inlets. My father sat hunched over in the seat beside me, slapping at mosquitoes. Every now and then he switched on the flashlight to look at his watch.
Gradually the river widened, so that it was possible to cover only one shore.
“We’ll search the other side on our return trip,” Dad told Mr. Griffith. “But it looks to me as if we’re not going to have any luck.”
Dark clouds began to edge across the sky. One by one, the stars were inked out. My heavy coat offered inadequate protection from the cold wind.
Harry Griffith throttled down the motor and spun the wheel sharply to starboard. He leaned forward, trying to pierce the black void ahead of the boat’s bright beam.
“Looks like something over there,” he said pointing. “Might be a log. No, it’s a boat.”
“I can’t see anyone in it!” I said. “It’s drifting with the current.”
“That looks like one of my boats, sure as you’re born,” Griffith declared, idling the engine. “The same I rented the young feller this morning.”
“But where is Jack?”
Griffith maneuvered his own boat close to the one which drifted with the current. Dad was able to reach out and grasp the long rope dangling in the water.
“The flashlight, Jane!”
I turned the beam on, and as it focused upon the floor of the boat, I drew in my breath. On the bottom, laying face downward, was a man.
“It’s Jack! Oh, Dad, he’s—”
“Steady,” said my father. “Steady.”
While Griffith held the two boats together, Dad stepped aboard the smaller one. He bent over the crumpled figure, felt Jack’s pulse, and gently turned him over on his back.
“Is he alive, Dad?”
“His pulse is weak, but I can feel it. Yes, he’s breathing! Hold that light steady, Jane.”
“Dad, there’s blood on his head! I—I can see it trickling down.”
“He’s been struck with a club or some blunt object,” my father said grimly. “He may have a fractured skull.”
“Oh, Dad!”
“Keep a grip on yourself,” Dad told me. “It may not be as bad as it looks, but we’ll have to rush him to the nea
rest doctor.”
“If it was me, I wouldn’t try to move him out of there,” advised Harry Griffith. “Leave him where he is. I’ll get aboard, and we’ll take this boat in tow.”
I helped the boatman make our craft fast to the other boat, and then we both climbed aboard the one that Jack had rented. Griffith started the engine and turned around in the river.
“I’ll head for Covert,” he said. “That’s about the closest place. There ought to be a good doctor in a town that size.”
While Griffith handled the boat, my father and I did what we could to make Jack comfortable. We stripped off our coats, using one for a pillow, and the other to cover his body.
“Those two men he was sent to follow must be responsible for this!” I said to Dad. “How could they do such a brutal thing?”
“I’ll notify the police as soon as we touch shore,” my father said grimly. “We’ll search every cove and inlet until we find the ones responsible!”
I bent lower to examine the wound on Jack’s head. Blood had nearly stopped flowing, and I was hopeful that it came from a flesh wound. I pressed Dad’s clean handkerchief against it, and Jack stirred.
“How long do you suppose he’s been like this, Dad?”
“Hard to tell. An hour, maybe two.”
As the boat made full speed up the river, Jack stirred once more. His lips moved, but the words were indistinguishable.
“How far to Covert?” Dad asked the boatman.
“About four miles from this point,” Griffith flung over his shoulder. “It’s the next town above the Furstenberg estate. I’m making the best time I can.”
Jack moved restlessly, his hands plucking at the coat which covered him.
“Flaming eyes,” he muttered. “Looking at me—looking at me—”
“He’s completely out of his head,” I said.
“He’s gone back to that other accident which happened last year. The sinister affair in Old Mansion.”
“Jack’s had more than his share of bad luck, Dad. Twice now, on this same river, he’s met with disaster. What if he doesn’t pull through?”
I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
The Missing Groom: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Three) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 3) Page 10