“I think not,” my father said quietly from behind the revolver. “Seth Burrows was captured tonight, and he’s already confessed to his part in the real estate swindle. Even if you weren’t mixed up with the hoodlums, you’d go to jail for that.”
Bronson sagged into a chair, for the first time looking shaken.
“I’ll make a deal with you, Carter,” he began, but Dad cut him short.
“You’ll face the music. No, Bronson, you can’t squeeze out of it this time.”
A car had drawn up in front of the house. Running to the window, I saw three policemen crossing the street. I hurried to the front door to open it for them.
“Here’s your man,” my father said as the policemen tramped into the living room.
Turning the revolver over to one of the officers, he disclosed what had occurred. Bronson was immediately placed under arrest. He was granted ten minutes to change into street clothing and prepare for his long sojourn in jail.
“I am being persecuted,” he whined as he was led away. “This is all a trick to build up circulation for the Examiner. If there is such an organization as the Black-Hooded Hoodlums, Sidney Dorner is the man who heads it!”
I felt very grateful to the fugitive who had come to our aid at such a timely moment. I wished to help him if I could, but I knew he could not escape arrest. Sidney Dorner realized it too, for he made no protest when told that Sheriff Daniels must be called.
“I’m ready to give myself up,” he repeated. “I was a member of the Hoodlums, but I never went along with them once I learned that we meant to defraud the truck farmers. I hope I can prove my innocence.”
Within a few minutes, Sheriff Daniels arrived to assume charge of his prisoner. Entertaining no sympathy for the man, he told Dad and I that likely Dorner must serve a long sentence.
“He’s wanted for setting fire to the Franklin barn,” the sheriff insisted. “Arson is a grave offense. Unless he can prove an alibi for himself, he hasn’t a chance.”
“Can’t you tell where you were at the time of the fire?” my father asked the Dorner.
“I was at a place called Fisher’s Cafe.”
“That’s right, Dad,” I said. “Don’t you remember? We saw Dorner leave the place, and he was followed by two men—probably members of the Hoodlums organization.”
“We did see a man matching Sidney’s description shortly after midnight,” my father agreed.
“You wouldn’t swear he was Sidney Dorner?” the sheriff asked.
“I’m not sure. At the time, Mr. Dorner and I had never met, and we only observed the man from behind as he left the café and walked across the parking lot outside,” my father admitted truthfully. “However, it’s obvious that a man scarcely could have gone from Fisher’s Cafe at that time and still set fire to the barn. My daughter and I drove directly there, and when we arrived the building had been burning for some time.”
“All of which proves nothing unless you can show that Sidney Dorner actually was at Fisher’s Cafe after midnight.”
“Could the owner of the place identify you?” I asked Sidney.
“I doubt it,” Dorner answered. “It might be worth a try, though.”
“Perhaps, I can prove that you weren’t near the Franklin farm at midnight,” I exclaimed as a sudden idea came to me. “Sidney, you heard the Moresby clock strike the hour?”
“Yes, I did.”
“How many strokes were there?”
“Thirteen,” Dorner answered without hesitation. “I counted them and figured the Hoodlums were having one of their get-togethers.”
“What is this?” the sheriff demanded in bewilderment.
“We can prove that the Moresby clock did strike thirteen on that particular night,” I resumed. “It was a signal used by the Hoodlums, but that’s not the point.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Just this. The Moresby clock can’t be heard at the Franklin farm.”
“True.”
“One can still hear the clock at Fisher’s Café, but not a quarter of a mile beyond it. If Mr. Dorner heard the thirteenth stroke, he couldn’t have had time to reach the Franklin farm and set the fire.”
“That’s an interesting argument,” the sheriff said, smiling. “And you plead Sidney’s case very earnestly. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll investigate all these angles you’ve brought up, and if the evidence supports your theory, I promise he’ll go free.”
“That’s fair enough,” my father conceded.
The sheriff did not handcuff his prisoner. As we were leaving the house, Sidney Dorner turned to thank me for defending him to the Sheriff.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, taking a rectangular metal object from beneath his baggy coat. “Here’s something for you.”
“A rusty automobile license plate,” I said. “What is this for?”
“Found it in the swamp not far from that abandoned car I told you about.”
“Then it must have been thrown away by the driver of the hit-skip car.”
“That’s how I figure,” Sidney Dorner said. “If you can learn the owner of this license plate, you’ll know who killed that orphan’s folks.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Lights blazed on every floor of the Greenville Examiner building, proclaiming to all who passed that another special edition was in the process of birth. Pressmen industriously oiled the big rotaries ready for a big run of papers; linotype men, compositors, reporters, all were at their posts, having been hastily summoned from comfortable beds.
In Dad’s office, I sat at a typewriter hammering out copy. Jerking a long sheet of paper from beneath the roller, I offered it to my father.
“My contribution on the Moresby Clock angle,” I said with a flourish.
My father rapidly scanned the story, making several corrections with a blue pencil.
“I should slug this ‘editorial material,’” he remarked with a grin. “Quite a plug you’ve put in for Sam McKee—suggesting that he be given back his old job as caretaker of the tower.”
“Well, don’t you think it’s a good idea?”
“The old man will get his job back—I’ll see to that,” my father promised. “But the front page of the Examiner is not the place to express wishful thinking. We’ll reserve it for news if you don’t mind.”
Crossing out several lines, my father placed the copy in a pneumatic tube and shot it directly to the composing room. He glanced at his watch, noting aloud that in precisely seven minutes the giant presses would start rolling.
“Everything certainly has turned out grandly,” I sighed happily. “Harold Browning and Clark Bronson are sure to be given long prison sentences for their shady activities. You’ve promised to see that Mr. McKee gets his job back, so that part will end beautifully. He’ll adopt Amelia, and I won’t need to worry about her anymore.”
“What makes you think Sam will adopt an orphan?” my father asked.
“He’s wanted to do it from the first. He has no family. Not even a brother or sister, as far as I know. He hesitated because he had no steady work, and not enough money. By the way, Dad, how long will it take to learn the owner of that automobile license plate that Sidney Dorner gave us?”
“Jack is trying to get the information now. All the registry offices are closed, but if he can pull some official out of bed, there’s a chance he may obtain the data tonight. I’m not counting on it, however.”
The door of the office swung back, and City Editor DeWitt hurried into the room.
“Everything set?” my father inquired.
“We need a picture of Clark Bronson, and there’s nothing in the morgue.”
“Shep Murphy has one you might use,” I said. “It was taken when Bronson came here the other day. He objected to it because it showed that one arm was shorter than the other.”
“Just what we need!” DeWitt said. “I’ll rush it right out. Except for the picture, the front page is all made up.”
Th
e door closed behind the city editor, but before my father could settle comfortably into his chair, it burst open again. Jack, breathless from running up several flights of stairs, faced my father.
“I’ve got all the dope!” he announced.
“You learned who drove the hit-skip car?” I demanded eagerly.
“The license was issued in Clark Bronson’s name.”
“Then Amelia’s identification at the picnic was correct!”
“Write your story, Jack, but make it brief,” my father said. “We’ll make over the front page.”
Calling DeWitt, he gave the new order. In the composing room, headlines were jerked, and a story of minor importance was pulled from the form to make room for the new material.
“We’ll roll three minutes late,” my father said, glancing at his watch again. “Even so, our papers will make all the trains, and we’ll scoop every other sheet in town.”
Jack wrote his story which was sent paragraph by paragraph to the composing room. Barely had he typed “30,” signifying the end when the lights of the room dimmed for an instant.
“There go the presses,” my father said, finally ceasing his restless pacing.
Within a few minutes, the first paper, still fresh with ink, was laid upon Dad’s desk. I peered over his shoulder to read the headlines announcing the arrest of Bronson and his followers.
“There’s not much here about Seth Burrows. What do you think will happen to him, Dad?”
“That remains to be seen. He’s already wanted for forgery, so it should be fairly easy to prove that he worked with Bronson to defraud the Camp Board.”
“I’m worried about the orphans’ camp. So much money has been spent clearing the land and setting up equipment.”
“Probably everything can be settled satisfactorily in the end. It may take time and litigation, but there’s no reason why a clean title can’t be obtained to the land eventually.”
I felt very well pleased with the way everything had turned out. Only one small matter remained unexplained. I had been unable to learn the significance of the watch fob found in Sidney Dorner’ stable.
“I can tell you about that,” Jack said. “The fob belonged to Harold Browning. He admitted it at the police station. The little boy in the picture is his nephew.”
Both my father and I were exhausted. With the Examiner ready for early morning street sales, I thought longingly of home and bed. Yet, Bouncing Betsy car rattled down a dimly lighted street, I revived sufficiently to say:
“How about a steak at Fisher’s Cafe, Dad?”
“I don’t feel like eating at this late hour.”
“That’s not the idea, Dad. I’m suggesting a raw steak for that left eye of yours. By morning it will be swollen shut.”
“It is quite a shiner,” Dad agreed, gazing at his reflection in the car mirror. “But the story was well worth the cost.”
“Thanks to whom?”
“If I say thanks to you, Jane, you will be expecting compensation or something of the sort.”
“You make me sound positively mercenary. I wasn’t thinking of anything as crass as a bit of kale.”
“Oh? What did you have in mind?”
“You know that little task I keep pestering you to take care of?”
“What little task?”
“It concerns a proposal of marriage to one Doris Timms.”
“Oh, that.” I could feel Dad turning crimson in the darkness. “Jane, I really wish you wouldn’t—”
“Never mind,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll get around to making an honest woman of Mrs. Timms in your own good time, but don’t forget that you still owe me a hundred dollars for getting that crack-pot, Seth Burrows, out of your hair.”
The End
A Country Catastrophe: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Five) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 5) Page 15