“I’ve had enough detective work for one day,” Flo said. “Anyway, what do you hope to discover in an old barn?”
“Maybe I can induce the horse to talk,” I said. “Sal must know all the answers if only she could speak.”
“You’ll have to give her the third degree by yourself. I shall await you in the car.”
Flo took the melons with her and marched stiffly down the lane. I watched her climb into Bouncing Betsy. She then rearranged her hair and began to pluck burs from her dress and stockings. I left Florence to her futile efforts to make herself presentable again and slipped into the barn.
A full twenty minutes elapsed before I emerged.
“Sorry to keep you waiting so long, Flo,” I said when I’d reinstalled myself in the driver’s seat of Bouncing Betsy. “See what I found.”
I held up a bright silver object which resembled a locket, save that it was smaller.
“What is it?”
“A man’s watch charm. It has a picture inside, too.”
I pried open the lid with my fingernail. Inside was the photograph of a boy who might have been ten or twelve years of age.
“Where did you get it, Jane?”
“I found it lying on the barn floor, not far from the place where we picked up the black hood last night.”
“Then it must belong to Sidney Dorner!”
“It may,” I admitted. “Still, I don’t believe the Dorners have any children.”
“What will you do with the charm? Turn it over to the sheriff?”
“I suppose I should, after I’ve shown it to Dad,” I replied, carefully tying the trinket into the corner of a handkerchief. “You know, Flo, since finding this, I wonder if Mrs. Dorner may not have told the truth.”
“About what, Jane?”
“She said that her husband was framed.”
“Then you think this watch charm was left in the barn to throw suspicion upon Sidney Dorner?”
I shook my head. “No, this is my theory, Florence: Someone planted the black hood there, then rode Sidney’s horse to make it appear he was the guilty person. Inadvertently, that same person lost this watch charm.”
“In that case, you would have a clue which might solve the case.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Get ready for a fast ride into town. I’m going to rush this evidence straight to the Examiner office and get Dad’s opinion.”
Chapter Seven
Florence asked me to drop her off at the Radcliff home. I left her there and then drove on alone to my father’s office. The newsroom hummed with activity as I sauntered through to the private office.
“Just a minute, please,” my father said, waving me into a chair.
He completed the letter he was dictating, dismissed his secretary, and then was ready to listen. Without preliminary ado, I laid the watch charm on his desk, explaining where I had found it.
“Dad, this may belong to Sidney Dorner, but I don’t think so. It’s my theory that the person who planted the black hood in the stable must have lost it.”
My father scrutinized the charm, gazing at the picture of the little boy contained within it.
“Very interesting,” he said. “However, I fear you are allowing your imagination to take you for a ride. There isn’t much question of Sidney Dorner’ guilt according to the findings of the sheriff.”
“Has any new evidence come to light, Dad?”
“Yes, Jane, the sheriff’s office has gained possession of a document showing beyond question that Sidney Dorner is a member of a renegade band known as the Black-Hooded Hoodlums.”
“Where did we get their proof?”
“Sheriff Dorner won’t disclose the source of his information. However, Jack is working on the case, and something may develop any hour.”
“Then you’re intending to make it into a big story?” I asked.
“I am. An underground, subversive organization, no matter what its purpose, has no right to an existence. The Examiner will expose the leaders, if possible, and break up the group.”
“Since the hoodlums burned the Franklin storage barn, their purpose can’t be a very noble one,” I commented. “Nor are their leaders especially clever. The trail led as plain as day to Sidney Dorner—so straight, in fact, that I couldn’t help doubting his guilt.”
“Jane, I’ll keep this watch charm, if you don’t mind,” my father said, locking the trinket into a drawer. “I’ll put Jack to work on it, and he may be able to learn the identity of the little boy in the picture.”
Abruptly changing the subject, Dad inquired regarding my success in selling Camp-Benefit tags.
“I have only one left,” I replied, presenting it with a flourish. “Twenty-five cents, please.”
“The cause is a worthy one. I’ll double the amount.” My father flipped a half dollar across the desk.
“While you’re in a giving mood I might mention that you owe me five gallons of gasoline. I saw Sam McKee this morning, and he agreed with me that the Moresby clock struck thirteen last night.
My father had no opportunity to reply, for just then his secretary came back into the office to say that a Mr. Clark Bronson wished to see him.
“I suppose that means you want me to evaporate,” I said.
“No, stay if you like. It’s probably nothing of consequence.”
I welcomed an invitation to remain. After my talk with Sam McKee, I was curious to see the man who had caused the old bell maker to lose his position at the Moresby Tower.
“Bronson probably wants to ask me to do him a personal favor,” my father confided. “He’s a pest!”
The door opened again to admit the real estate man. He was heavy-set, immaculately dressed, and the only thing noteworthy about his appearance was that his right arm was somewhat shorter than the left.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Fielding,” he said expansively. “This must be your charming daughter.”
Dad introduced me. I bowed politely and retreated to a chair by the window. I was prejudiced against Mr. Bronson and had no desire to talk to him.
“What may I do for you?” my father asked Mr. Bronson.
“Ah, this time it is I who shall bestow the favor,” Mr. Bronson responded, taking a checkbook from his pocket. “Your paper has been campaigning for a very worthy cause, namely the Orphans’ Summer Camp Fund. It wrings my heart that those unfortunate kiddies have been denied the benefit of fresh air and sunshine.”
“If you wish to make a donation, you should give your money to Mrs. Vanhee,” Dad cut him short.
“I much prefer to present my check to you,” Mr. Bronson insisted. “Shall I make it out for a hundred and fifty dollars?”
“That’s a very handsome donation,” said my father. “But why give it to me?”
Mr. Bronson coughed. “I thought you might deem the offering worthy of a brief mention in your paper.”
“Oh, I see,” Dad said.
“I don’t wish publicity for myself, you understand, but only for the real estate company which bears my name.”
“I quite understand, Mr. Bronson. If we should use your picture—”
“That will be very acceptable,” the real estate man responded, smiling with satisfaction. “I’ll be happy to oblige you by posing.”
Mr. Bronson helped himself to a pen, wrote out the check and presented it to Dad.
“Jane, how would you like to write the story?” my father said as he turned to me. “We’re a bit short on help at the moment. There’s five dollars in it for you.”
“I’m rather bogged down with work,” I demurred. “I think Mrs. Timms wants me to help her clean the attic when I get home. Plus, I need to put in some hard labor on the opening chapters of Perpetua’s Pride if I’m to bring my worthy heroine’s feud with the cruel and corrupt Duke Damion to the required thrilling conclusion before the deadline imposed on me by the powers that be at Litchfield Press.”
“Never mind the attic,” my father said petulantly. “And a pox and a pestil
ence on the cruel and corrupt Duke Damion. Kindly conduct Mr. Bronson to the photography room and ask one of the boys to take his picture.”
“A pox and a pestilence are both excellent ideas,” I said as I arose obediently. “I shall give strong consideration to subjecting the dastardly Duke Damion to not one, but both of those odious outcomes.”
I smiled brightly at my father as I said spoke, but as the real estate man left the office ahead of me, I switched off the smile and shot my father a black look. I considered a publicity story very trivial indeed, and it particularly displeased me to be asked to write honeyed words about a man I did not admire.
“You have a very nice building here, very nice,” Mr. Bronson said as I escorted him toward the photographic department. A pile of freshly printed newspapers lay on one of the desks, and he helped himself to a copy.
“I see the sheriff hasn’t captured Sidney Dorner, yet,” he commented, scanning the front page. “I hope they get him. It’s a disgrace to Greenville that such a crime could be perpetrated, and the scoundrel go unpunished.”
“He’ll probably be caught,” I replied. “But I do wonder if he’s the guilty person.”
“What’s that? You think Dorner didn’t burn the Franklin barn?”
“I was only speculating upon it.”
“Reflecting your father’s opinion, no doubt.”
“No, not anyone’s thought but my own. I am quite in the habit of forming independent opinions. Been a common practice of mine since I was going about in pigtails. All my teachers remarked upon it. They'd say things like—”
“Your father seems to be making quite a story of the fire,” Mr. Bronson interrupted, transparently disinterested in both my teachers and their opinion of me, “It will be most unfortunate for the community if he stirs up talk about underground organizations.”
“Why unfortunate?” I asked.
“Because it will give the city a bad reputation. I doubt there is anything to this Black-Hooded Hoodlums talk, but if there should be, any publicity might lead to an investigation by state authorities.”
“A very good thing, I should think.”
“You do not understand,” Mr. Bronson said. “Depredation would increase, innocent persons surely would suffer. With Greenville known unfavorably throughout the country, we would gain no new residents.”
I did not reply as I opened the door of the photographic room. While Mr. Bronson wandered about, inspecting the various equipment, I relayed my father’s instructions to Shep Murphy, one of the staff photographers.
Shep and I have been friends for almost as long as Flo and I have, although he and Flo have only recently become friendly with each other. Well, not friendly exactly. Aware of each other. That’s a better way to put. Flo insists that she could not be less interested in my old friend Shep, but despite her insistence that her heart belongs to Rudolph Valentino, or Mr. John Gilbert, when Mr. Valentino isn’t available, I think there’s a bit of a spark between her and Shep, but I daren’t broach the subject with either of them.
I’ve decided to take a strong noninterventionist stance, seeing how well it worked with Mrs. Timms and my father. Perhaps, one of these days, I’ll catch Shep and Flo canoodling, and find out they’ve been sparking away for years behind my back.
“Better get a flattering picture of Bronson,” I warned Shep in a whisper. “He’ll be madder than a hen doused with dishwater if you don’t.”
“I’ll do my best,” Shep whispered back, “but I can’t make over a man’s face.”
Mr. Bronson proved to be a trying subject. Shep posed him on a stool in front of a screen, and Mr. Bronson immediately froze into position like Patience on a monument, but only if Patience, rather than being a Greek goddess, was a man of late middle age with a balding pate, a very respectable paunch and one arm slightly longer than the other.
“Be sure to make it only a head and shoulders picture, if you please,” he ordered Shep.
“Can’t you relax?” the photographer asked wearily. “Unloosen your face. Think of all those little orphans you’re going to make happy.”
Mr. Bronson responded with a smirk which was painful to behold. Nothing that Shep could say or do caused him to become natural, and at length the Shep took two shots which I knew would not be satisfactory.
“That’ll be all,” Shep said.
Mr. Bronson arose, drawing a deep sigh. “Posing is a great ordeal for me,” he confessed. “I seldom consent to have my photograph taken, but this is a very special occasion.”
Completely at ease again, the real estate man began to converse with me. In sudden inspiration, Shep seized the small portable camera he took out on assignment, and before Mr. Bronson was aware of his act, snapped a picture.
“There, that’s more like it,” he said. “I caught you just right, Mr. Bronson.”
The real estate man turned swiftly, his eyes blazing anger.
“You dared to take a picture without my permission?” he demanded. “I’ll not have it! Destroy the film at once, or I shall protest to Mr. Fielding!”
Chapter Eight
The real estate man’s outburst was so unexpected that Shep and I could only stare at him in astonishment.
“It’s a good full-length picture,” the photographer argued. “Much better than those other shots I took.”
“I can’t allow it,” Bronson answered in a calmer tone. He touched his right arm. “You see, I am sensitive about this deformity. Unreasonable of me, perhaps, but I must insist that you destroy the film.”
“Just as you say,” Shep shrugged. “We’ll use one of the other pictures.”
“No, I’ve changed my mind,” Bronson said shortly. “I don’t care for any picture. Kindly destroy all the films—now—in my presence.”
“Mr. Bronson!” I protested. “I thought you wanted a picture to accompany the story.”
“I have no objection to the article, but I’ll have no picture. The films must be destroyed.”
“As you wish,” responded Shep. He removed two plates from the large camera he had used to take the formal portraits and exposed them to the light. He started to take the film from the candid camera but did not complete the operation. Mr. Bronson, however, failed to notice.
“Thank you, young man,” Mr. Bronson said. “I am sorry to have taken so much of your valuable time, and I appreciate your efforts.”
Mr. Bronson nodded to me, left the studio, and closed the door behind him.
“Strange duck,” said Shep. “His picture on the front page would be no break for our readers.”
“I can’t understand why Mr. Bronson became so provoked. That excuse about his arm seemed a flimsy one.”
“Let’s develop the film and see what it looks like,” Shep suggested, starting for the darkroom. “It was just an ordinary shot, though.”
I followed Shep into the developing room, watching as he ran the film through the various trays. In precisely six minutes the picture was ready, and he held it beneath the ruby light for me to see.
“Nothing unusual about it,” Shep said. “Bronson’s right arm does look a bit shorter than the left, but we could have blocked that off.”
“It’s not as if that slight deformity would be any news to the citizens of Greenville,” I pointed out. “It’s not as if anyone who’s met him in person would have failed to notice it already.”
Shep tossed the damp picture into a wastepaper basket, only to have me promptly rescue it.
“I wish you would save this,” I said. “Put it in an envelope and file it away somewhere in the office.”
“What’s the big idea, Jane?”
“Oh, just a hunch, I guess. Someday the paper may want a picture of Bronson in a hurry, and this one would serve very nicely.”
Time was fast slipping away, so I returned to my father’s office to report Mr. Bronson’s strange action. My father, well versed in the peculiarities of newspaper patrons, shrugged indifferently.
“Bronson always was a stra
nge fellow,” he commented, staring down at the check which still lay on his desk. “I’ve never trusted him, and I wish I hadn’t accepted this money.”
“How could you have refused, Dad?”
“I couldn’t very well. All the same, I have a feeling I’ll regret it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“No reason I can put my finger on. It’s just a feeling. Bronson isn’t the sort of man to give something for nothing. He aims to profit by this affair, or I’m no judge of human nature.”
“He craves publicity, that’s certain.”
“Yes, but there’s more to it than that,” my father said. “Oh, well”—he dismissed the subject, “I’ll turn the check over to the camp committee and let someone else do the worrying.”
“I’ll tell you why I dislike Mr. Bronson,” I said. “He caused Sam McKee to lose his job at the Moresby Tower.”
“That so?” Dad asked in surprise. “I hadn’t heard about it.”
“Bronson gave the position to a friend of his. Can’t you do something about it, Dad?”
“I don’t even know any of the basic facts, Jane. Why should I interfere in a matter which is none of my affair?”
“At least let’s not give Mr. Bronson a big build-up because of his donation.”
“The story must be written,” my father said with finality. “I always keep a bargain, even a bad one.”
“Then you might write the story yourself,” I said. “I refuse to be an instrument in propping up Clark Bronson’s already overinflated ego.”
“Never mind,” my father said. “I shouldn’t have asked you to begin with. I’ll get one of the junior reporters to take it on, though I’ll have to pay them double-time. You can devote the rest of the day to attics and Dukes.”
“Attics!” I said. I was experiencing a brainwave. “Perhaps, I’ll have Perpetua and the dastardly Duke face each other in the final showdown in the attic of a deserted mansion. I could introduce a swarm of bats to swoop down upon the Duke at the decisive moment, thus reducing him to a spent force, upon which Perpetua can mercifully decline to administer the deserved deathblow to the villainous Duke, thereby preserving her honor and rendering the Duke in her debt for the rest of his short, miserable life.”
A Country Catastrophe: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Five) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 5) Page 5