I reached up to smooth my hair and straightened my clothing.
“I’m confident that Mr. Fitzpatrick is now safely locked in the tool shed at the edge of the property. Shep rattled some old buckets and such from behind the shed, I’m sure Mr. Fitzpatrick was sure he was being burgled. Then when old Fitzy went in to investigate what was going on in the shed, I imagine that there was an unfortunate gust of wind.”
“It’s very still this evening,” I pointed out.
“Still, I’m sure there was a freak gust at the very moment that Mr. Fitzpatrick stepped inside the toolshed.”
“And this freak gust of wind closed the door?” I asked.
“Undoubtedly. Locked it from the outside, as well.”
“That is mighty unfortunate,” I said. “First, Mr. Fitzpatrick must deal with a drunk and disorderly, and then he is assailed by burglars. He really is finding himself beset by criminal types.”
“Let’s hope the trend continues,” Jack said. “Your father and the others are stationed around the tower behind various bushes and things, but all this cloak and dagger stuff will be wasted effort if the boys in black hoods don’t show up.”
We waited for twenty minutes in virtual silence. It would have been an ideal time for a little canoodling, but we were both too on edge to even entertain the thought.
We finally went back up to the belfry for a better vantage point.
“See anyone?” I whispered, scanning the street below.
“No sign of anyone yet.”
Several automobiles had driven past the tower, but presently one drew up not far from the building. The driver got out of the car and walked toward the Moresby Tower.
“Who is he?” Jack whispered. “Can you tell?”
“I’m not sure,” I said uncertainly. “It may be Harold Browning.”
As the man stepped into the light that illuminated the entrance to the tower, it became certain that my identification was correct. The man rapped on the door several times. When he received no answer, he went in anyway.
“Clarence! Where are you?” I heard him call out from the room below.
After that there was silence, but no one exited the tower, so I presumed that Mr. Browning had decided to wait.
Soon, two other men approached the tower. I recognized one of them as a workman who had sorted melons at the Dorner farm, but his companion was unknown to me. They entered the building without bothering to knock.
“Where’s Clarence?” I heard one of the men ask.
“That’s what I was wondering,” Harold Browning replied. “For that matter, I can’t figure out why this special meeting was called. Something important must have come up.”
Within ten minutes, three other men arrived. Jack was able to identify two of them by name, but we had no way of relaying the information to Dad, who remained somewhere outside the tower, waiting for the critical moment to summon the police, should the Hoodlums make a move to do anything more sinister than swig bootleg liqueur and tell bawdy stories.
I wondered how Mr. Fitzpatrick was getting on in the tool shed with nothing but a whiskey bottle full of water for company.
“What’s to keep Mr. Fitzpatrick from raising a hue and cry from the toolshed?” I whispered to Jack.
“We’re counting on it being far enough from both the street and the tower that any shouts he makes from there won’t be heard,” Jack whispered back. Besides, that shed is built from the same stone as the tower, and the wooden door must be at least six inches thick.”
The men downstairs had resumed talking.
“There’s something mighty strange about this meeting,” Harold Browning growled. “Where is the Master? And what’s become of Clarence?”
I heard footsteps in the room below and the squeak of poorly maintained hinges as the massive front door swung open again. At the same time, I saw a dark figure move swiftly along the hedge, crouching low.
“Who’s there?” Harold called out.
“Quiet, you fool.”
The man wearing a dark robe and a black hood which completely hid his face brushed past Browning and entered the tower.
“Close the door,” I heard him order.
I heard the door swing shut again and then a tense silence had fallen upon the men gathered in the room.
“Now what is the meaning of this? Who called this meeting?”
“Didn’t you?” I heard Browning answer.
“I did not.”
“All I know is that I heard the clock strike an extra stroke,” Browning explained. “I thought it was strange to be having another meeting so soon. Then I found Clarence wasn’t here—”
“Clarence not here?”
“He must have stepped out somewhere. The lights were on, and the door partly open.”
“I don’t like this,” the Master said. “Clarence has no right to call a meeting without a special order from me. It is becoming increasingly dangerous for us to gather here.”
The Master’s voice sounded very familiar, but I couldn’t yet place who it belonged to.
“Now you’re talking,” another voice said. “Anthony Fielding of the Greenville Examiner is on the warpath again. One of his reporters has been prying into the books of the County Cooperative.”
“He’ll learn nothing from that source, I trust.”
“Not enough to do any harm.”
“You act as though you had a grievance, Browning. Any complaints?”
“No, the Cooperative has made a lot of money since you’ve taken over. We want to go along with you if your flair for the dramatic doesn’t get us in too deep.”
“What do you mean by that, Browning?”
“This night riding business is getting risky. If Sidney Dorner should talk—”
“We’re not through with him yet. He won’t dare breath a word when we’re done with him. Neither will that meddling wife of his.”
“Another thing, most of us never did approve of holding meetings here at the tower,” Harold Browning went on. “It’s too public a place, and sooner or later someone will start asking questions about what goes on here.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, we think you ought to show yourself—let us know who you are. We’re all in this together, and we ought to take the same risks. I’ve been carrying the heavy end.”
“That settles it!” said the voice I presumed belonged to the hooded man. “We’re through.”
“How do you mean?” Browning asked.
“We’re breaking up the organization—now—tonight.”
“There’s no call to do that.”
“Browning, you do a lot of talking and not much thinking,” the other snapped. “This will be our last meeting. We’ll divide the profits, and for a time at least, remain inactive.”
“That’s all very well for you,” Browning complained. “You step out of it without anyone even knowing who you are. But some of us are tied up with the County Cooperative. If there’s any investigation, we’ll take the rap.”
“There will be no investigation.”
“That’s easy to say,” Browning argued. “I don’t like the way things have been going lately. If we’re breaking up, we have a right to know who you are.”
“Sure,” chimed in another here-to-fore silent voice. “Remove your mask, and let’s have a look. We think we have your number, but we ain’t positive.”
During this exchange, the voices had been rising, and under the cover of the argument, Jack and I had crept down the stairs until we were overlooking the room below while huddled in the concealing shadows.
“You never will be sure of my identity.” The hooded man was backing toward the door. “And now, goodnight.”
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Browning cried, trying to head him off.
“Stand back!” ordered the Master as he whipped out a revolver from beneath his robes.
“All right,” Browning sneered. “I never argue when I’m looking into a muzzle.”
Dur
ing this dramatic scene, I’d been battling a tickle in my nose, and it was during this decisive moment that I lost the war.
“ACHOO!”
“Someone is hiding up the stairs!” Browning exclaimed.
Startled, the Master postponed his flight. Still holding the revolver, he started to ascend the stairs.
“Come on, Chief!” whispered Jack. “Now would be the ideal time to send in the boys in blue.”
We didn’t get the boys in blue, but just when I was considering hurling my cosh at Browning in an attempt to knock the revolver out of his hand, my father, Shep and the two other reporters burst in the entrance door to the tower. They must have been listening at the window and concluded that there was no time to wait for the police. I couldn’t have agreed more heartily.
The four of them, joined by Jack, hurled themselves on Browning and the masked man. Catching the latter unaware, Jack knocked the revolver from his hand, and it went spinning over the floor.
I darted down the stairs and picked up the revolver.
“Stay where you are!” I shouted, clutching the revolver in my hand, but no one was listening.
We outnumbered our opponents by one man, but the Hoodlums were all strong, powerful fellows who fought desperately. A chair crashed against the lamp, shattering it. In the resulting darkness, I no longer could see what was happening. I felt my way to the door and stood just inside pressed against the wall, still clutching the revolver.
Suddenly a figure broke away from the general tangle of bodies and darted toward the doorway. For a moment I believed that he must be one of the newspaper boys, but then I saw that the man wore a hood over his face.
Chills raced up my spine. He was trying to get away, and I was the only one who could stop him.
Chapter Twenty-four
As the black-robed man started through the door, I attempted to block his path. Failing to trip him, I seized his arms and thrust the point of the revolver into his side.
He became instantly still, and I thought I had succeeded in frightening him sufficiently to arrest his flight, then he abruptly gave me a hard push.
The hooded man easily outweighed me by a hundred pounds. The revolver, which fortunately did not discharge, fell to the floor with a clatter.
I clung tightly to the man and struggled to reach the hood which covered his face.
The man jerked free and darted down the stone steps. Pursuing him, I was able to seize the long flowing black robe, only to have it tear loose in my hands.
It was time for desperate measures, I decided. I abhor violence in all its forms, but there is a time and a season for everything in this life, and, at this particular moment, it was time to put the cosh in my pocket to work.
I gripped the cosh firmly in my right hand, leaped forward and caught the man in the jaw with a sharp upward swing.
The man fell in a heap at the base of the steps. For a few seconds he remained motionless, but as I watched, he slowly stumbled to his feet and staggered off.
Before the man ducked behind the high hedge surrounding the tower, I saw him plainly silhouetted in the moonlight. Although his black hood remained in place, his body no longer was covered by the dark robe.
Even with his mask on, I was sure who the man was.
I raised a hue and cry, shouting that the Master of the Hoodlums had escaped. By this time, my father’s crew of reporters had gained the upper hand of the remaining members of the organization.
“Which way did the fellow go?” Dad demanded, running out the door.
“Along the hedge toward the street!” I directed. “He’s moving rather slowly, however. He made unfortunate contact with my cosh a couple of minutes ago and is now a rather spent force.”
Leaving Jack, Shep, and the others to guard the prisoners, my father and I hastened outdoors. There was no sign of anyone in the vicinity of the tower.
“He can’t be far away,” I insisted. “Anyway, I know his identity.”
“You saw his face?”
“No, but as he ran across the yard, I noticed that one arm was much shorter than the other.”
“Clark Bronson.”
“That’s what I think. Maybe we can catch him at his home.”
“If Bronson is our man, we’ll get him,” my father said tersely. “We may need help, though.”
Reentering the tower building, he telephoned police headquarters, asking that a patrol wagon be sent for Harold Browning, Clarence Fitzpatrick, and the other prisoners.
“Send a squad to Clark Bronson’s home,” he added crisply. “I’ll meet your men there and provide all the evidence you’ll need to make the arrests.”
Jack, Shep, and the two reporters were instructed to remain at the tower pending the arrival of the patrol wagon. There was slight danger that any of the prisoners could escape for all the captives were now locked into the machinery room.
My father and I hurried to the waiting press car.
“Dad,” I said as we passed near a street light, “you should see your eye. It’s turning black. Someone must have pasted you hard.”
“Never mind that now. We’re out for a big story, and we’re going to get it, too.”
The police cruiser which had been summoned was not in sight by the time my father and I reached the Bronson home. At first glance, the house seemed to be dark. However, a dim light glowed from the windows of one of the upstairs, rear bedrooms.
“We’ll not wait for the police,” my father said, starting up the walk.
His knock at the door went unanswered. Even when Dad pounded with his fist, no one came to admit him.
“Someone is inside,” I said, peering up at the lighted window. “It must be Bronson.”
My father tried the door and finding it unlocked, stepped boldly into the living room.
“Bronson!” he shouted.
On the floor above, I heard the soft pad of slippered feet. The real estate man, garbed in a black silk dressing gown, gazed down over the balustrade.
“Who is there?” he called out.
“Anthony Carter from the Greenville Examiner. I want to talk with you.”
Slowly, Clark Bronson descended the stairway. His jaw was noticeably swollen, and he was limping.
“You seem to have gotten a doozy of a bee sting on your jaw,” my father said. “Is that how you hurt your leg, running away from a swarm of angry bees?”
“I stumbled on the stairway not fifteen minutes ago,” Bronson answered stiffly. “Twisted my ankle. As for my jaw, I seem to have developed a rather severe toothache. May I ask why I am honored with a visit at this hour?”
“You know why I am here,” my father retorted, reaching to switch on a living room light.
“Indeed, I don’t.” Bronson moved away from the bridge lamp into the shadow.
“It’s no use to pretend,” my father said sharply. “I have all the evidence I need to convict you of being a ringleader of the Hoodlums.”
“You are quite mad,” the real estate man sneered. “Carter, I’ve put up with you and your methods quite long enough. You strangled my deal with the Orphans’ Camp Board. Now you accuse me of being a member of a disreputable organization. You must be out of your mind.”
“You’ve always been a good talker, Bronson, but this time it will get you nowhere. My reporters were at the Moresby Tower. We all heard every word that was spoken there, this evening. Not only that, but one of my reporters concealed a photographic recording device which now contains irrefutable evidence.
The phonographic recording was news to me. Perhaps, Jack had hidden it in the living room of the tower before he’d alerted Fitzpatrick to his presence by slamming the door, or perhaps, my father was bluffing.
“Either give yourself up, Bronson,” Dad continued, “or the police will take you by force.”
“So, you’ve notified the police?”
“I have.”
“In that case—” Bronson’s smile was tight. With a dexterousness which caught both my father and m
e completely off guard, he whipped a revolver—a different one than had been knocked from his hand at the tower—from beneath his dressing robe. “In that case,” he ordered, “we’ll handle it this way. Raise your hands, if you please.”
“Your politeness quite overpowers me,” Dad said.
“Now turn your back and walk to the telephone,” Bronson went on. “Call the police station and tell the chief that you made a mistake in asking for my arrest.”
“This will get you nowhere, Bronson.”
“Do as I say!”
My father went to the telephone, stalling for time by pretending that he did not know the police station number.
“Garfield 4508,” Bronson supplied. “Say exactly what I tell you, or that pretty daughter of yours will be the first to taste one of my little bullets.”
The real estate man stood with his back to the darkened dining room, in such a position that he could cover both my father and me. As Dad began to dial the phone, he backed a step nearer the archway. Behind him, the dark velvet curtains moved slightly.
I noted the movement but gave no indication of it. The next instant a muscular arm reached through the velvet folds, seizing Bronson from the rear. The revolver was torn from his hand.
Dropping the telephone, my father snatched up the weapon and covered Bronson.
“All right, it’s your turn to reach,” he said.
As Bronson slowly raised his hands, another man stepped into the circle of light. He wore rough garments and had not shaved in many days.
“Sidney Dorner!” I exclaimed.
“I came here to get Bronson,” the man said briefly. “I’ve thought for a long time he was the person responsible for all my trouble. Tonight, when the clock struck thirteen, I watched the Moresby Tower. I saw Bronson put on his hood and robe and then enter the building, so I knew he was the Master.”
“You’re willing to testify to that?” my father asked.
“Yes,” Sidney Dorner nodded, “I’ve been thinking things over. I’m ready to give myself up and tell everything I know.”
“You’ll have a very difficult time of it proving your absurd charges,” Bronson said scathingly.
A Country Catastrophe: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Five) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 5) Page 14