The Missing Groom: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Three) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 3)

by Alice Simpson

  He obligingly lowered the drawbridge, and I crossed the river. I paused at the gear house to chat with him.

  I listened without comment to his story of the automobile accident. Thorny had his own version of how it had occurred, and I did not correct any of the details.

  “I wish I had a way to get into Sunnydale,” I said when he had finished his story.

  “If you walk down to the main road you kin catch the county bus,” he told me. “It runs every hour.”

  It was a long hike along a dusty highway and an equally tedious wait at a crossroad before I finally arrived in Sunnydale. I went directly to the Colonial Hotel and placed a telephone call to my father’s office.

  “What are you doing in Sunnydale, Jane?” my father demanded,

  “I’ve made an important discovery which may blow your case higher than a kite. No, I can’t tell you anything over the telephone. The reason I am calling is that I may need help. Is Jack still in the hospital?”

  “He never went,” my father said. “I couldn’t make him go. He and Shep are out on the river looking for the men who cracked him over the head. I expect they’ll call in any time now.”

  “If you do get in touch with Jack, ask him to meet me at the Colonial Hotel,” I told him. “I have a hunch a big story is about to break. In any event, I’ll need a ride home.”

  CHAPTER 21

  For at least an hour, I waited in the lobby of the Colonial Hotel. I watched the clock until the hands pointed to six. Tantalizing odors wafted in from the dining room, but I was resolute. I refused to give up my vigil even for a few minutes.

  Finally, my patience was rewarded. A man walked across the lobby to the reception desk. He wore well-cut, tailored clothes and a low-brimmed felt hat, yet I recognized him instantly. He was the Furstenberg’s gardener. The gardener asked man behind the desk for a key.

  “Good evening, Mr. Harris,” said the clerk, handing it over.

  I noted that the key was taken from box 381. The gardener was calling himself Mr. Harris. He had an alias. Several of them, I suspected.

  Another half-hour elapsed while the I waited patiently in my plush chair in the Colonial’s luxurious lobby. Each time the elevator descended, I watched the people get off. At exactly six-forty-five Mr. Harris stepped out of the lift, and without glancing toward me, dropped his key on the desk and went into the dining room.

  The clerk, busy with several other guests, did not immediately notice that Mr. Harris had lain his key on the reception desk. This was my chance. I slipped from my chair, sidled up to the desk and pocketed the key. My heart pounded as I walked toward the elevator, but no one called out to me to stop. It seemed I had gotten away with the key unobserved.

  “Third floor,” I said to the attendant, and the elevator shot upward.

  I located room 381 at the far end of the hall. I glanced quickly in both directions, unlocked the door and entered the room.

  A suitcase sat upon the luggage rack by the dresser. It was unlocked, so I opened it and in systematic fashion riffled through the contents. There was an assortment of interesting articles—a revolver and two wigs, one of gray hair, the other black. There were no letters or papers, nothing to positively identify the owner of the luggage. At the very bottom of the case, I found a photograph. It was a picture of Cybil Furstenberg.

  I slipped the picture into the front of my dress, hastily replaced everything as I had found it, relocked the door, and returned to the lobby. As I headed to the desk, intending to rid myself of the key, I stopped short.

  Jack Bancroft stood there talking with the clerk.

  “But I was told to come here,” I heard him protest.

  “There was a woman waiting in the lobby until a few minutes ago,” the clerk replied. “But she went off somewhere.”

  “No, here I am, Jack!”

  Jack turned around and his face lit up. My heart was doing weird things in my chest, but I told myself it was a delayed reaction to breaking into room 381.

  “Come outside, Jack,” I said, without giving him any chance to speak. “I have a great deal to tell you.”

  “And I have some news of my own,” Jack said.

  We left the hotel together. Once beyond hearing, I made a complete report of my afternoon adventures and showed Jack the picture of Cybil Furstenberg which I had pinched from the suitcase in room 381.

  “Now for my story,” said Jack. “I’ve located a place not far from here where those two sailors buy supplies. The owner of the store told me they tie their boat up there nearly every night.”

  “Where is Shep now, Jack?”

  “He’s keeping watch at the place. I came into town to telephone the Examiner office. Your father made me promise to stop here and take you in tow.”

  “You’re not starting back to Greenville, already?”

  “I don’t want to, Jane. I have a feeling our big story is just about ready to break!”

  “So have I, Jack. Let’s stay with it. I’ll explain to Dad when we get home.”

  “Then let’s be on our way,” Jack said. “No telling what has developed while I’ve been in town.”

  We took the river road which led east from the Furstenberg estate. As we motored along, Jack told me how he and Shep had traced the two sailors. They had made inquiry all along the river, and quite by chance, had encountered a fisherman who had given them a valuable tip.

  “But so many rumors are false, Jack.”

  “This tip was straight. Shep and I found the white cruiser tied up at the dock not far from this store I was telling you about. We’ve been watching it for the past two hours, and Shep is still there.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police?”

  “Wouldn’t have done any good. The men we’re after haven’t been there all day. The only person on board is a girl.”

  “A girl?”

  “Well, maybe I should say a young woman. About twenty, I’d guess.”

  “Jack, you must be watching the wrong boat.”

  Jack shook his head as he drove the car into the bushes at the side of the road. “It’s the right one, I’m sure of it. Well, we’re here.”

  I followed Jack through the trees down to the winding Grassy river. We found Shep in his hiding place, behind a large boulder.

  “Anything happen since I left?” Jack demanded.

  Shep scarcely noticed my presence save to give me a quick nod.

  “You got back just in time,” Shep said. “The girl went away a minute ago. Took a basket and started for the grocery store, looked like.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” Jack said. “Come on, we’ll take a look inside that boat.”

  “Someone ought to stay here and keep watch,” Shep said. “She may come back any minute.”

  “You’re elected guard then. Jane and I will look the boat over and see what we can find. If the girl starts back, whistle.”

  We darted across the muddy shore to the sturdy, white motor-launch which had been tied up at the end of a sagging dock. We climbed aboard, took a hasty glance over the deck, and went down into the cabin.

  The room was dirty and in great disorder. Boots lay on the floor, discarded garments were scattered about, and a musty odor prevailed.

  “Nothing here,” said Jack.

  “Let’s look around carefully,” I insisted. “We may find something.”

  Crossing the cabin, I opened a closet door. Save for a pair of oilskins which hung from a nail, it was quite empty.

  “Listen!” I said.

  Jack stood absolutely still, straining to hear. A long, low whistle came from the direction of the shore.

  “A warning signal!” Jack said. “Come on, Jane, we’re getting out of here.”

  CHAPTER 22

  I opened the door of the cabin, only to close it quickly again.

  “It’s too late,” I whispered. “The men have come back.”

  “Not the girl?”

  “No, they’re alone. But we’re in a trap. What shall we
do?”

  “We could make a dash for it. If we have to fight our way out, Shep will be there to help.”

  “Let’s stick around here and see what happens, Jack. We’re after information. We must expect to take chances to get it.”

  I turned the key in the lock, bolting the door from the inside.

  We stood with our ears pressed against the panel. I could hear the low rumble of voices, but was unable to distinguish words. Then, one of the men moved close to the companionway.

  “I’ll get it, John,” he called to the other man. “It’s down in the cabin.”

  We kept perfectly still as the man turned the door knob. Then there was a series of thuds against the door as if the man was heaving angrily against the panel with his shoulder.

  “Hey, John,” he shouted, “what’s the idea of locking the door?”

  “I didn’t lock it.”

  “Then Rita did.”

  Muttering under his breath, the first man tramped back up on deck.

  Ten minutes or so elapsed before we heard a woman’s voice.

  “That must be Rita,” I whispered. “What will happen when she tells them that she didn’t lock the door?”

  The voices above rose in volume until we were able to distinguish every word. John berated the girl as stupid, while his companion shouted at her so harshly that she broke down and wept.

  “I never had the key,” Rita wailed. “I don’t know what became of it. You always blame me for everything that goes wrong, and I’m good and sick of it. If I don’t get better treatment than this, I may tell a few things to the police. How would you like that?”

  I did not hear the response, but I recoiled as a crash told me that the girl had been either been thrown against something or pushed to the ground. Her cry of pain was drowned out by another noise, the sudden clatter of the boat engine starting up.

  Jack and I looked at each other.

  “We’re moving,” I whispered.

  Jack started to turn the key in the lock, but I stopped him. I took the key out of his hand and placed it in my pocket.

  “Let’s stay and see it through,” I said. “This is our chance to discover their hide-out and perhaps solve the mystery of Atwood’s disappearance.”

  “All right,” Jack said, “but I wish you weren’t in on this.”

  From the tiny window of the cabin, I observed various landmarks as the boat moved downstream. In half an hour or so, the cruiser came to the mouth of a narrow river which emptied into the Grassy. From that point on, progress became slow, and often the boat was so close to shore that I could have reached out and touched overhanging bushes.

  “I didn’t know this stream was deep enough for a motor boat,” Jack whispered. “We must be heading for a hide-out deep in the swamp.”

  “I hope Shep has sense enough to call Dad and the police,” I said. “We’re going to be a long way from help.”

  The boat crept on for another mile or so, then it stopped, and I assumed we had reached our destination. When I looked out of the window again, I saw why we had halted. A great tree with finger-like branches had fallen across the river, blocking the way.

  “Look, Jack! We’ll not be able to go any farther.”

  “Guess again,” Jack whispered back.

  One of the men had left the boat and was walking along the shore. He did not seem in the least disturbed by the great tree, and, for the first time, it dawned on me that the tree served a definite purpose.

  “Lift ’er up, George,” called the man at the wheel of the boat.

  George disappeared into the bushes. Several minutes passed, and then I heard a creaking sound as if ropes were moving on a pulley.

  “The tree!” whispered Jack. “It’s lifting!”

  Very slowly, an inch at a time, the great tree raised from the water, its huge roots serving as a hinge. When it was high enough, the motor launch passed beneath the dripping branches, then paused on the other side.

  Slowly, the tree was lowered into place once more.

  “Clever, mighty clever,” Jack muttered. “Anyone searching for the hide-out would never think of looking beyond this fallen tree. To all appearances, nature put it here.”

  “Nature probably did,” I said. “But our dishonorable friends adapted it to their own purposes.”

  Through the window, I saw George get back on the boat.

  Once more the cruiser went on up the narrow stream, making slow but steady progress. Long shadows settled over the water. Soon it became dark.

  A short distance ahead I saw a light. The boat drifted up to a wharf where a man stood with a lantern. I quickly dodged back from the cabin window to avoid being seen.

  “Everything all right, Aaron?” the man at the wheel asked, jumping ashore. He looped a coil of rope about one of the dock posts.

  “Aaron!” I whispered, gripping Jack’s hand.

  “It must be Aaron Dietz, Furstenberg’s former business associate. So, he’s the ringleader in this sinister business!”

  “Yeah, everything’s all right,” Aaron Dietz responded gruffly.

  “You don’t sound any too cheerful about it.”

  “Atwood still won’t talk. Keeps insisting he doesn’t know where the gold is hidden. I’m beginning to think we made a mistake. He may be telling the truth.”

  “This is a fine time to be finding that out!”

  “Oh, keep your shirt on, George. You and John will get your pay, anyhow. And even if Atwood doesn’t know the hiding place, we’ll make Furstenberg come through.”

  “You’ll have to find him first,” George retorted. “If you ask my opinion, you’ve made a mess of the whole affair.”

  “No one asked your opinion! We’ll make Atwood tell tonight or else—”

  The man with the lantern started away from the dock, but paused before he had taken many steps.

  “Get those supplies up to the shack,” he ordered. “Then I want to talk with you both.”

  “All right, but we have to get the cabin door open first. Rita locked it and lost the key.”

  “I didn’t,” Rita protested. “Don’t you try to blame me.”

  I knew that our situation had become precarious.

  “We’ve trapped ourselves in this cubby-hole,” Jack muttered.

  “We can hide in the closet, Jack. The men may not think to search there.”

  Noiselessly, we opened the door and slipped into the tiny space. I had never been this close to Jack before. I could feel the heat radiating off his body and smell his aftershave. My heart was pounding in my chest, and not just from fear of discovery.

  Scarcely had we hidden ourselves when there was a crash against the cabin door. The two men were trying to break through the flimsy panel.

  “Bring a light, Rita,” called one of the men.

  We flattened themselves against the closet wall, waiting.

  A panel splintered on the outside cabin door, and I heard the tramping of feet as the men entered the cabin.

  “No one in here, George.”

  “It’s just as we thought. Rita locked the door and lied about it.”

  “I didn’t! I didn’t!” Rita protested. “Someone else must have done it while I was at the store. The door was unlocked when I went away.”

  “There’s no one here now.”

  “I—I thought I heard voices while we were coming down the river.”

  “In this cabin?”

  “Yes, just a low murmur.”

  “You imagined it,” the man told her. “But I’ll look in the closet to be sure.”

  I heard footsteps approach our hiding place. I braced myself for the moment when the door would be flung open. Jack and I were trapped and now faced almost certain capture.

  CHAPTER 23

  Before the man could pull open the closet door, a booming voice called impatiently from shore: “Are you coming? We have plenty of work ahead of us tonight.”

  The approaching footsteps paused and then receded. heard the retreating
sound of voices as the men and Rita returned to the dock.

  We waited at least five minutes before we stole from our hiding place. I looked out the window to assure myself that the wharf was deserted.

  “What do we do now, start after the police?” I said to Jack.

  “Let’s make certain Atwood is here first. We can’t afford to be wrong.”

  A path led through the timber, and we followed it. I could see a moving lantern some distance ahead, and we kept it in sight until the three men and Rita disappeared into a small cabin hidden in the trees.

  Stealing on through the darkness, we crept up as close as we dared to the cabin and peered in the screen door at a barren room containing a table, a cook stove and double-deck bunks.

  “Get supper on, Rita,” one of the men ordered.

  “Am I supposed to cook anything for the prisoner?” she asked in a whining voice.

  “Not unless he decides to talk. I’ll find out if he’s changed his mind.”

  Aaron Dietz crossed the floor to an adjoining room. He unlocked the door, which had been fastened with a padlock, and started to go inside when George called him back with a question about what he wanted done with some of the supplies.

  “Atwood must be in there,” I whispered to Jack.

  Jack and I tiptoed across the sagging porch and stood under a high glassless window covered with narrow iron bars. Jack lifted me up so that I could peep into the room. An oil lantern sat on a small table, which was the only furniture in the room save a single bed. On that bed sat a haggard young man. Despite the beginnings of a beard and unkempt hair, I instantly recognized him as the missing bridegroom, still dressed in his formal day attire. He looked much worse for the wear, and his wrists were handcuffed.

  The door to the prisoner’s room was opening. Evidently, George and Aaron Dietz had finished their conference. I quickly asked Jack to put me down.

  “It’s Thomas Atwood,” I whispered to Jack as he lowered me to the ground. “They’ve treated him shamefully.”

  In the room above, the Dietz was speaking.

  “Well, Atwood, have you changed your mind? How about a little supper tonight?”