My father just grunted as he tapped away at his typewriter, so I took my leave and headed out through the newsroom. I paused beside Jack’s desk.
“Covering the Franklin fire, I suppose?” I asked him.
“Nothing that spectacular. DeWitt’s sending me out to the Greenville Orphans’ Home to dig up human interest material in connection with the camp-fund campaign. Want to ride along as ballast?”
“Well, I don’t know,” I said. “I have rather a lot to do today.”
“Oh, come on,” Jack coaxed, getting up from his desk and taking me by the arm. “You can talk to the orphans while I gather my material, and on the way back we can stop off for a friendly ice cream in some nice quiet corner booth somewhere.”
“Oh, all right,” I said and followed Jack out to the parking lot.
We got into one of the press cars, and Jack drove us through the heavy downtown traffic.
“What’s the latest on the Franklin case?” I asked as I clutched my hat to keep it from blowing out the window.
“There is no latest. The Franklins won’t talk, Mrs. Dorner won’t talk, the sheriff won’t talk. So far it totals up to one little story about a fire.”
“Dad said the sheriff had learned Sidney Dorner was a member of a secret organization, probably known as the Black-Hooded Hoodlums.”
“Sheriff Daniels claims he has documentary proof,” Jack admitted. “He won’t produce it though, and I have a sneaking suspicion that he may be bluffing.”
“Then you think he wants to convict Sidney Dorner whether or not he’s guilty?”
“He wants to end the case just as quickly as he can, Jane. The November elections aren’t that far away. If this night rider story gets a start, the dear public might turn on him, demanding action or his job.”
“Do you think there actually is such an organization as the Black-Hooded Hoodlums, Jack?”
“I do. After talking with the Franklins and Mrs. Dorner, I’m convinced they could tell quite a bit about it.”
It pleased me that Jack’s opinion so neatly coincided with my own. I told him of my own talk with Mrs. Dorner and my belief that someone had been hiding in the cornfield near the cabin.
“What time was that?” Jack asked, stopping the car at a traffic light.
“Shortly after twelve o’clock.”
“Then it couldn’t have been Sheriff Daniels or his any of his deputies,” Jack said. “I was at the county office talking to them about that same time.”
“It might have been Sidney Dorner,” I suggested. “I’m sure his wife knows where he is hiding.”
As the car sped over the country road, I told Jack about the watch charm which I had picked up at the Dorner’s barn. Jack had not seen the picture of the little boy but promised to inspect it just as soon as he returned to the Examiner offices.
“Sidney Dorner has no children,” he told me, “so it’s unlikely the charm ever belonged to him. You may have found an important clue.”
We approached the Greenville Orphans’ Home, a large brick building set back some distance from the road. Children in drab blue uniforms played in the front yard, supervised by a woman official.
“Poor kids,” Jack said, “you can’t help feeling sorry for ’em. We deserve the best summer camp this town can provide.”
“The project is certain to be possible now,” I replied. “Mr. Bronson’s check put the campaign over the top.”
Jack turned the car into the private road.
“Don’t tell me that old bird actually parted with any money. He’s famous for being a skinflint.”
“Oh, he did, Jack. He donated a check for a hundred and fifty dollars.”
“And no strings attached?”
“Well, he hinted that he wanted a nice write-up about himself. I was strong-armed into taking him down to the photographer’s lair to be captured on film—although, in the end, he browbeat Shep into destroying the film.”
“It’s mighty strange,” Jack said. “Leopards don’t change their spots. Bronson must expect something more tangible than publicity out of the deal.”
Jack gave no thought to his driving. He whirled the car into the play area of the institution, drawing up with a loud screeching of brakes. He was going far too fast and the children scattered in all directions, all except one little girl who remained squarely in front of the car. She covered her face with her hands and began to scream.
“Gosh all fish hooks! I didn’t mean to frighten the kid.”
We jumped out and ran to the child.
“You’re all right,” Jack said, stooping beside the little girl. “The car didn’t come within a mile of you. I’m mighty sorry I frightened you.”
Nothing that either he nor I could say seemed to comfort the child. Her screams did not subside until a matron appeared and took her by the hand.
“Come, Amelia,” she said gently. “We’ll go into the house.”
“I’m as sorry as I can be,” Jack apologized, doffing his hat. “I didn’t intend to drive into the yard so fast. It’s all my fault.”
The attendant smiled to set him at ease. “Don’t worry yourself over it,” she said. “Amelia is very easily upset. I’ll explain to you later.”
Chapter Nine
“Maybe I can send the kid a box of candy or make it up to her in some way,” Jack said.
We talked to the matron watching the children, then roved the yard and talked to many of the orphans. Nearly all the children answered questions self-consciously and had little to say.
“We’ll not get much of a story here,” Jack said. “These youngsters are as much alike as if they had been cut from one pattern.”
“Amelia was different,” I said. “Almost too much so.”
Miss Crismond, the young woman who had taken Amelia away, returned to the play yard. Jack and I immediately inquired about the little girl.
“Oh, she is quite herself again,” the young woman said. “The upset was only a temporary one.”
“Is Amelia easily frightened?” I said.
“Unfortunately, she is terrified of automobiles. I am afraid it is becoming a complex. About a year ago, both of her parents were killed in a motor accident, and ever since she’s become very fearful of cars.”
“How dreadful,” I said.
“Amelia was in the car but escaped with a broken leg,” Miss Crismond said. “The incident made a profound impression upon her.”
“I should think so,” said Jack. “How did the accident occur?”
“We don’t know. Amelia was the only witness. According to her story, the Hanover automobile was crowded off the road by another motorist who drove at a reckless speed, without lights. The car Amelia’s family was traveling in flipped over, pinning the occupants beneath it.”
“It seems to me I remember that story,” Jack said. “The hit-skip driver never was caught.”
“No, according to Amelia he stopped, only to drive on again when he saw that her parents were beyond help.”
“The man must have been heartless,” I said. “How could he run away?”
“Because he feared the consequences,” Miss Crismond answered. “Had he been apprehended he would have faced charges for manslaughter, and undoubtedly would have been assessed heavy damages.”
“I take it the child has no property or family, or she wouldn’t be at this institution,” Jack said.
“Amelia is penniless. Her parents were her only relatives, so she was brought to us.”
“It’s a shame,” I said. “Wasn’t there any clue as to the identity of the man who caused the fatal accident?”
“No worthwhile ones. Amelia insists that she saw the driver’s face plainly and could recognize him again. However, she never was able to give a very good description, nor to make an identification.”
“Miss Crismond, isn’t there something I can do to make amends for frightening her?” Jack asked. “What would a little girl like? Candy, toys?”
“It isn’t necessary tha
t you give her anything.”
“I want to do it,” Jack insisted.
“In that case, why not make some small bequest to the institution, or send something which may be enjoyed by all the children.”
“Jack, I have an idea,” I said impulsively. “Why not give a party? Would that be permissible, Miss Crismond?”
“Indeed, yes. The children love them, and outings away from the institution are their special delight.”
“Let’s give a watermelon party,” I proposed. “We could take the children to a nearby farm and let them gorge themselves.”
“The children would enjoy it, I’m sure,” Miss Crismond said. “But can transportation be arranged? We have sixty boys and girls.”
“I’ll take care of everything,” Jack promised. “Suppose we set tomorrow afternoon as the date.”
“Oh, can’t we have the party at night?” I said. “There will be a full moon. A watermelon feast wouldn’t be as much fun by daylight.”
Miss Crismond said that she thought the children might be allowed to attend such a party, providing it was held early enough in the evening. Jack and I talked with her about various details of the plan and then drove away from the orphanage.
“Well, you certainly got me into something,” Jack said as the car turned into the main road. “Where are we going to throw this party?”
“Oh, any melon farmer will be glad to let the children invade his patch, providing we pay for the privilege. You might turn in at the next farm.”
My confidence proved to be ill-founded, for Mr. Rhimes, the farmer whom we accosted, would not consider the proposition.
“The children will trample the vines, and do a lot of damage,” he declined. “Why don’t you try the Wentworth place?”
At the Wentworth farm, Jack and I likewise were turned down.
“No one wants sixty orphans running rampant over his place,” Jack said. “We may as well give up the idea.”
“It’s possible Mrs. Dorner would allow us to hold a muskmelon party at her farm,” I said. “Now that her husband has skipped, she must be in need of money.”
The chance of success seemed unlikely. However, to please me, Jack drove to the Dorner property. To my surprise, we found the place humming with activity. Professional melon pickers were at work in the patch, and Mrs. Dorner, dressed in overalls, was personally supervising the laborers.
“I have no time to answer questions,” she announced to Jack before he could speak. “Please go away and leave me alone.”
“Oh, I’m not here in an official capacity this time,” Jack grinned. “We want to make you a business proposition.”
He then explained what he had in mind. Mrs. Dorner listened attentively but with suspicion.
“It’s likely some trick,” she declared. “I’ll have nothing to do with it.”
“Mrs. Dorner, we’re not trying to deceive you,” I said. “We’ve tried several other farms before we came here. No one is willing to let the children trample the vines.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt mine,” the woman admitted. “By tomorrow night we’ll have all the best melons picked and sorted. I reckon the youngsters can have what’s left in the patch.”
“We’ll pay you well for the privilege,” Jack promised, taking out his wallet.
“I don’t want your money,” the woman answered shortly. “Just see to it that the youngsters don’t tear up the place.”
Jack nor I wished to accept such a favor, but Mrs. Dorner firmly refused to take any payment.
“You know, I think the old girl has a tender heart beneath a hard exterior,” Jack remarked after the woman had gone back to the patch. “Down under she’s a pretty decent sort.”
Jack and I watched the laborers at their work as they brought heaping baskets of melons from the patch to the barn. There the melons were sorted, stamped, and packed into crates which were loaded into a truck.
“Nice looking melons,” Jack said. “Mrs. Dorner should make a pretty fair profit.”
An elderly workman, who was sorting melons, glanced sideways at Jack and grinned knowingly.
“Maybe,” he said.
“What do you mean by that?” Jack questioned him.
“Sellin’ melons is a speculative business,” the old fellow shrugged. “You ain’t sure o’ anything until your harvest is sold, and you get the money in your fist.”
Jack and I watched the sorting work for a few minutes longer and then returned to the car.
“You know, for a minute I thought that old duffer was hinting at something,” Jack remarked. “He acted as if it would give him real pleasure to see something happen to Mrs. Dorner’ melons.”
“Oh, I didn’t take it that way,” I said. “He was only waxing philosophical.”
The hour was late. Knowing that he might be wanted at the Examiner office, Jack drove rather fast over the bumpy road.
As the press car sped around a bend, a man who stood leaning against a fence post quickly retreated into the woods. His act, however, had drawn my attention.
“Stop the car, Jack!” I said. “That could be him.”
“Who?” demanded Jack, slamming on brakes.
“It could be the same man who hid in the cornfield,” I exclaimed excitedly. “It could be Sidney Dorner!”
Chapter Ten
“Which way did the fellow go?” Jack demanded, bringing the car to a standstill.
“Into the woods.”
I leaped from the automobile, climbed the fence, and reached the edge of the woods. I paused there listening. Jack joined me, and we stood there in silence. It was utterly still, not even the sound of rustling leaves or the snap of a twig emanated from the dark forest which bordered the road.
“This timber land extends for miles,” said Jack. “We’d only waste time playing hide and seek in there. Our best bet is to notify Sheriff Daniels and let him throw a net around the entire section.”
“I guess you’re right,” I said.
When we reached Greenville, we stopped briefly at the sheriff’s office to make our report. I said goodbye to Jack outside the Examiner building where I had parked Bouncing Betsy. The car would not start. Experienced in such matters, I raised the hood and posed beside it, a picture of a young lady in deep distress. Soon a taxi-cab cruised along.
“Having trouble?” the driver asked.
I slammed down the hood and scrambled into the driver’s seat.
“Just give me a little push,” I said.
The taxi driver backed into position behind Old Bets. After the two cars had gathered speed, I shifted gears. Betsy responded with an ailing cough and then a steady chug.
“Thanks!” I shouted, waving farewell to my benefactor. “I’ll return the favor someday.”
“Not with that mess of junk, you won’t,” the taxi man shouted back.
I kept Betsy’s motor running at high speed, and I reached home without mishap. I could see that my father had arrived ahead of me, for his car was put away for the night.
I locked the garage doors and entered the house by way of the kitchen.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked Mrs. Timms, as I helped myself to a saffron-flavored shortbread cookie from the seemingly-bottomless cookie jar on the counter.
“Listen, and I think you can tell,” Mrs. Timms answered.
A loud hammering sound came up from the basement.
Inspired by an advertisement for Waldon’s Oak Paneling, my father had decided to wall up a room in the basement to use as his personal study. He was insistent upon doing this without the services of a carpenter. Much of his spare time, lately, was spent carrying on a personal feud with boards which refused to fit into the right places.
“Poor Dad,” I said as listened to a particularly loud exclamation of wrath. “I’ll go down and dispense a few consoling phrases.”
I wanted to add that I rather thought that consoling Dad was more Mrs. Timms’ job now that I had discovered they were a hot item, but Doris Timms is a woman n
ot to be trifled with, so I bit my tongue and descended the stairs. I stood watching my father from the doorway of his future study.
“Hello, Jane,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “You may as well make yourself useful. Hold this board while I nail it in place.”
“All right, but be careful where you pound. Remember, I have only two hands, and I prize them both. We lady novelists can’t be too careful about keeping all of our digits intact. I have no desire to type the remaining one-hundred-forty-eight pages of Perpetua’s Pride with a splinted finger.
I held the board while my father nailed it to the underpinning.
“Well, what do you think of the job?” he asked, standing back to admire his work.
“Aren’t walls supposed to come together at the corners?”
“I made a little mistake in my calculations. Later on, I may build a corner cupboard to cover up the slight gap.”
“Slight!” I said. “Dad, if I were you I wouldn’t get tangled up in any more carpentry jobs. It’s too hard on your disposition.”
“I never was in a better mood in my life,” my father insisted. “Good reason, too. At last, I’ve got the best of Mr. Seth Burrows.”
“Burrows?”
“That crank who keeps sending me collect messages.”
“Oh, to be sure. I’d forgotten all about him.”
“He sent another telegram today,” Dad said. “I suspected it came from him and refused to pay for it.”
“Bravo, I knew you could get the best of that fellow if you just put your mind to it.”
Upstairs, the telephone rang, but neither of us paid any heed, knowing that Mrs. Timms would answer it. In a moment, the housekeeper called down the stairway, telling my father he was wanted on the telephone.
“It’s Mr. DeWitt from the office,” she informed him.
Putting aside his hammer, my father went upstairs. Soon he returned to the basement, his manner noticeably subdued.
“What’s the matter, Dad? You look as if you had just received a stunning blow.”
A Country Catastrophe: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Five) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 5) Page 6