A Country Catastrophe: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Five) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 5)

by Alice Simpson

  He started into the woods.

  “Don’t forget to meet us tomorrow night,” I called after him. “We’ll be waiting here about this same time.”

  I drove straight home and made a full report to my father. I revealed that the Hoodlums held monthly meetings at the Moresby Tower and that both Harold Browning and Clarence Fitzpatrick were members of the order.

  “You weren’t able to learn the name of the ringleader?” Dad asked.

  “No, Mr. Dorner didn’t know it himself. At least that’s what he told me. He says the Master never shows himself to anyone, but always appears wearing a mask.”

  My father began to pace the floor, a habit of his when under mental stress.

  “We must move cautiously on this story,” he said at last. “Should we make false accusations against innocent persons, the Examiner would face disastrous lawsuits.”

  “You’re not going to withhold the information from the public?”

  “For the present, I must. The thing for us to do is to try to learn the identity of the ringleader. Any news published in the Examiner would only serve as a tip-off to him.”

  Dad was right, so I held my tongue.

  “Now that we have such a splendid start,” my father continued, “it should be easy to gain additional information. You say the meetings usually are held on the thirteenth of the month?”

  “That’s what Sidney Dorner told me.”

  “Then we’ll arrange to have the tower watched on that night. In the meantime, I’ll see Dorner and learn what I can from him. Jack is working on the County Cooperative angle of the story and should have some interesting facts soon.”

  I knew that my father’s wait-and-see strategy was a wise one, but I could not help feeling a bit disappointed. I had hoped that Sidney Dorner’ disclosures would lead to the immediate arrest of both Harold Browning and Clarence Fitzpatrick. However, I brightened at the thought that at least some additional revelations might follow my father’s meeting with the fugitive Dorner.

  The following night, shortly after six-thirty, Dad and I presented ourselves at the orphans’ campsite. We had brought a basket of food, coffee, and a generous supply of cigarettes.

  “What time did Dorner promise to meet you?” my father asked.

  “He should be here now. I can’t imagine why he’s late.”

  We waited half an hour, but still, Mr. Dorner did not appear. My father paced restlessly beside the picnic table, becoming increasingly impatient.

  “He’s probably waiting until after dark,” I suggested, although I did not really think so.

  Another hour elapsed. The shadows deepened, and a chill wind blew from the river. Hungry mosquitoes came out in force to make our vigil all the more miserable.

  “Well, I’ve had enough of this,” Dad announced. “The man isn’t coming.”

  “Oh, Dad, let’s wait just a little longer. I’m sure he meant to keep his promise.”

  “Perhaps he did, although I’m inclined to think otherwise. At any rate, I am going home.”

  I had no choice but to follow Dad to his car. I could not understand Sidney Dorner’s failure to appear unless he had feared that he would be placed under arrest. While it was quite possible that the man might come to the picnic grounds the following night, I was afraid I might never see him again.

  “I half expected this to happen,” my father said as we drove back to Greenville. “Unless we can get Dorner to swear to his story, we haven’t a scrap of real evidence against the Hoodlums.”

  “We may learn something on the night of the thirteenth,” I said.

  “Possibly, but I’m beginning to wonder if everything Dorner told you may not have been a lie.”

  “He seemed sincere. I can’t believe he deliberately deceived me.”

  “Never mind,” my father said. “It wasn’t your fault. We’ll find another way to get our information.”

  As we drove through downtown Greenville, I saw a man in a gray suit walking close to the curb.

  “Dad, stop the car! There he is now!”

  “Sidney Dorner?”

  My father swerved the automobile toward a vacant space near the sidewalk.

  “No! No! Seth Burrows. I’m sure it is.”

  I sprang out of the car and glanced up the street. I was just in time to see the man in gray enter a telegraph office.

  “What nonsense is this?” my father demanded. “Why do you think the fellow is Burrows?”

  “I’m sure he’s the same man I saw at Clackston. The one who tried to pass a forged check. Oh, please Dad, we can’t let him get away.”

  My father switched off the car ignition and stepped to the curb.

  “If it should prove to be Seth Burrows, nothing would please me better than to nab him. But if you’ve made a mistake—”

  “Come on,” I urged. “We can’t stand here on the pavement lollygagging while Burrows slips through our fingers.”

  Dad and I went and peered through the huge plate glass window of the telegraph office. The man in gray stood at counters with his back to the street. He appeared to be composing a message.

  “I’m sure it’s Seth Burrows,” I insisted. “Why not go inside and ask him if that’s his name?”

  “I shall. But I’m warning you again if you’ve made one of your little mistakes—”

  “Go ahead, faint heart never won odious Burrows,” I told my father. “I’ll stay just inside the door ready to stop him if he gets by you.”

  My father sauntered into the telegraph office. He stood at the counter close beside the man in gray, pretending to write a message.

  “Get this off right away,” the man in gray instructed the clerk. “Send it collect.”

  The clerk examined the message. She seemed to be having difficulty deciphering the handwriting.

  “This night letter is to be sent to Anthony Fielding?” she asked.

  “That’s right,” said the man in gray.

  My father waited no longer.

  “I’ll save you the trouble of sending that message,” my father said. “I am Anthony Fielding.”

  The man whirled around, plainly alarmed.

  “You are Seth Burrows, I assume,” my father said. “I’ve long looked forward to meeting you.”

  “You’ve got me mixed up with someone else.” The man edged toward the door. “My name’s Clark Edgewater. See, I signed it to this telegram.”

  He pointed to the lengthy communication which lay on the counter.

  “I don’t care how you sign your name,” Dad said. “You are Seth Burrows. We have a few matters to talk over.”

  The man started to speak, then changed his mind. He made a sudden break for the exit.

  “Stop him!” my father shouted. “Don’t let him get away!”

  I stood close to the door. As the man rushed toward me, I shot a bolt into place and stood in front of it.

  “Not quite so fast, Mr. Burrows,” I said. “We really must have a chat with you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  With the door locked, the man saw that he could not hope to escape without tackling me. He was not so desperate to get away that he was prepared to assault a young woman to do it.

  He’d have been very ill-advised to lay a hand on me, at any rate. I had one arm outstretched, blocking his way, and the other buried in my handbag clutching my cosh.

  “All right, my name is Seth Burrows,” the man in gray conceded. “What about it?”

  “You’re the man who has been sending me collect messages for the past three months,” my father said.

  “And what if I have? Is there any law against it? You run a lousy paper, and as a reader, I have a right to complain.”

  “But not at my expense. Another thing, I want to know what connection you’ve had with Clark Bronson.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Then you don’t own property in this city?”

  “Nor anywhere else. Now if you’re through giving me the third degree, I’ll mov
e on.”

  “Not so fast,” I said, my back still firmly to the door, “if I’m not mistaken you’re the same man who is wanted at Clackston for forging a check.”

  “Really, this is too much,” Seth Burrows said. “Unless you permit me to pass, I shall protest to the police.”

  “I see an officer just across the street,” said my father. “Jane, will you go out and call him over?”

  “Don’t be so hasty.” Seth Burrows altered his tone. “We can settle this ourselves. I’ll admit I was wrong in sending those messages collect—just a way to let off steam, I guess. If you’re willing to forget about it, I’ll repay you for every dollar you spent.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t forget that easily,” Dad told him. “No, unless you’re willing to come clean about your connection with Clark Bronson, I’ll have to call the police.”

  “What do you want to know about him?”

  “Is he acting as your real estate agent?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “You do know the man?”

  “I’ve done a little work for him.”

  “Didn’t he pay you to allow him to use your name on a deed?”

  “He gave me twenty-five dollars to make out some papers for him. I only copied what he told me to write.”

  “That’s all I want to know,” my father said grimly. “Jane, call the policeman.”

  “See here,” Burrows protested, “you intimated that if I told what I knew about Bronson, you’d let me off. You’re as yellow as that paper you run.”

  “I make no deals with men of your stamp.”

  As I unlocked the door, Seth Burrows made a break for freedom. However, Dad was entirely prepared. Seizing the man, he held him until I could summon the policeman. Still struggling, Burrows was loaded into a patrol wagon and taken to police headquarters.

  “I guess that earns me a nice little one-hundred-dollar bill,” I said as we returned to Dad’s car. “Thanks very much.”

  “You’re entirely welcome.” My father grinned. “I never took greater pleasure in acknowledging a debt.”

  “What’s your next move, Dad? Will you expose Clark Bronson in tomorrow’s Examiner?”

  “I’m tempted to do it, I. The evidence still is rather flimsy, but even if Seth Burrows denies his story, I think we can prove our charges.”

  “It’s a pity you can’t break the Black-Hooded Hoodlums yarn in the same edition,” I said. “What a front-page story that would make!”

  “It certainly would be a good three-pennies worth,” Dad agreed. “Unfortunately, it will be many days before the Hoodlums are supposed to hold their meeting at the tower.”

  “But why wait? We could call that gathering ourselves.”

  “Just how?”

  “Simple as pie. All we would need to do would be to have the clock strike thirteen instead of twelve.” I glanced at my wrist watch and added persuasively: “We have several hours in which to work.”

  “You’re completely crazy. Just how would you arrange to have the clock strike thirteen?”

  “I’ll take care of that part, Dad. All I’ll need is a hammer.”

  “To use on the caretaker, Clarence Fitzpatrick, I suppose?”

  “Oh, no. A real lady never throws the first punch, besides I have a small serviceable rubber bludgeon which would do the job so much more neatly. No, I propose to turn all the strongarm work over to you and your gang of reporters. Naturally, Fitzpatrick will have to be removed from the scene.”

  “What you propose is out of the question,” Dad said. “Even so, I’ll admit that I find your idea rather intriguing.”

  “This is no time for being conservative, Dad. The Black-Hooded Hoodlums must know you are out to break up their organization. Every day you wait lessens your chance of getting the story.”

  “I realize that only too well, I. I pinned quite a bit of hope on Sidney Dorner. His failure to appear puts everything in a different light.”

  “Why not test what he told us?” I argued. “It will be easy to learn if the striking of the clock is a signal to call the Hoodlums meeting. If the men should come, we’ll have them arrested, and run a big story tomorrow morning.”

  “Coming from your lips, it sounds so very simple. Has it occurred to you that if we fail, we’ll probably breakfast at the city jail?”

  My father sat for several minutes lost in thought.

  “You know, I’ve always been lucky,” I coaxed. “I feel a double dose of it coming on tonight.”

  “I believe in hunches myself. No doubt I’m making the biggest mistake of my life, but I’m going to try your wild scheme. Crazy as it is, it may just work.”

  At the Examiner office, my father hastily summoned a special staff meeting, warning a select group of reporters to hold themselves in readiness to get out a special edition on short notice. From this group, he chose Shep Murphy, Jack Bancroft, and two other reporters known for their pugilistic prowess.

  “Now this is the lineup, boys,” my father said. “We’re going to have to lure Clarence Fitzpatrick from the tower.”

  Shep asked just how Dad intended to accomplish that difficult task.

  “Jane has that end of things under control,” my father said. “However, even once Fitzpatrick is out of the way, it’s risky business unless things break right for us, so if any of you want to drop out now, this is your chance.”

  It was well after eleven o’clock by the time the overloaded press car drew up not far from the Moresby Tower. I parked Bouncing Betsy on a dark side street, and Jack was sent to look over the situation. Soon he returned with his report.

  “Clarence Fitzpatrick is alone in the tower,” he assured me.

  I tightened my grip on the carpet bag which contained my cosh, a small hammer, and a whiskey bottle—recently drained of its contents by the now temporarily teetotal Reverend Sidney Radcliff—which I’d refilled with a cup or so of water. I was counting on enough of the whiskey residue remaining to make my ruse believable. Judging by the aroma emanating from my carpet bag, the bottle still smelled of convincingly of whiskey.

  I had already pulled the top of my dress askew, mussed my hair—even beyond its usual disreputable state—and rouged my face to a realistically inebriated glow.

  Dorner had intimated that Clarence Fitzpatrick had a weakness for bootleg liqueur and bawdy jokes. The punchline on this particular joke was going to be a real letdown for Mr. Fitzpatrick, but at least the first few lines would contain his favorite elements.

  I slipped the small hammer and my cosh into the pockets of my light coat, uncapped the whiskey bottle and gripped it by the neck. I then lurched from the shadows singing, “Bye, Bye Blackbird” at the top of my lungs.

  When I reached the door of the tower, instead of knocking, I simply fell against the door with a thud.

  I then hastily righted myself and continued singing.

  “Want a wee tipple?” I said, slurring my words together, as soon as Mr. Fitzpatrick opened the door.

  Clarence Fitzpatrick looked at me wide-eyed.

  “I’ll share,” I said. “But you’ll have to catch me first.”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, young lady,” said the suddenly virtuous Mr. Fitzpatrick.

  “Should I? Why?”

  “You’re sozzled.”

  “Am I?”

  I giggled. The clock-keeper goggled.

  “I hate to drink alone,” I slurred, and lurched past Mr. Fitzpatrick and into his living room.

  “Listen!” I said.

  The clock had begun to strike the hour of midnight.

  “I want to see the big bell go ding-dong, ding-dong.” It was laying the Dumb Dora act on a bit thick, but Mr. Fitzpatrick seemed to be falling for it.

  “Come on, Fitzy,” I giggled again and stumbled a bit for effect, then lurched up the stairs to the top of the bell tower as fast as my simulated sozzledness would allow.

  When I reached the top, the bell was striking ten. I was running out of time. Fitz
patrick was on my heels, three steps below me.

  “Catch!” I said, tossing the open whiskey bottle at the pursuing man.

  I had counted on him being loath to let good liquor go to waste, and I had been accurate in my prediction.

  As he fumbled to catch the bottle and the clock struck eleven, I took both the hammer and the cosh out of my pockets and held them behind my back, prepared to either strike the bell the thirteenth time with a hammer, or Mr. Clarence Fitzpatrick’s bald pate with my cosh, whichever became necessary first.

  It was just as the clock struck the twelfth and final time, that the door at the bottom of the stairs clanged shut.

  “What was that?” Fitzy asked.

  It was Jack if things were going according to plan, but I giggled and said, “Probably a ghost.”

  Clarence started down the stairs to investigate, and I raised my hammer and brought it down with all my strength on the big brass bell, making the final and thirteenth strike.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  To my sensitive ears, the sound which resulted from my blow to the bell seemed weak and lacked resonance. I sagged back against the iron railing, feeling that I had failed.

  “That was a pippin,” a low voice said in my ear. “A perfect thirteenth stroke.”

  Turning around, I saw that Jack Bancroft had followed me into the belfry. He must have sneaked up when Fitzpatrick went down to investigate the source of the closing door.

  “Did it really sound all right?” I asked him.

  “It was good enough to fool anyone. But the question is, will it bring the Black-Hooded Hoodlums out in force?”

  Jack and I crept back down the circular stairway. The room below was empty, the front door stood ajar. We left it that way.

  Jack went and pulled down the blinds at the large circular window almost all the way down, but leaving a sliver uncovered at the bottom so that anyone without could peer in without being easily detected.

  “How about the lights?” I asked.

  “Leave them on,” Jack said. “Now that everything’s set let’s get back up on the stairs.”

  “Are you sure old Fitzy fell for it?” I whispered to Jack. “We can’t have him coming back and finding us both here.”