Munn and his companion marched Peter Fenestra from the cave. Taking a cord from his pocket, Anchor Joe bound Penny’s hands and feet.
“I’m tying ’em loose,” he said. “And I’ll leave the cave door open. After we’re gone you can yell for help.”
“Joe, where are you taking Fenestra? What has he done?”
The sailor did not answer. Seizing a bag of gold, he slung it over his shoulder and went quickly up the stairs. Penny was left in the darkness.
CHAPTER 25
SAILORS’ REVENGE
Minutes later, Jerry, returning from the barn, heard Penny’s muffled scream for help. Descending into the cave he immediately freed her and learned what had happened.
“Fenestra used this furnace for melting down gold all right!” he exclaimed, peering into the dark cavern. “Wonder where he got it?”
“It must be stolen gold—government gold, perhaps,” gasped Penny. “Jerry, those men have been gone only a minute or two!”
“Then maybe we can get ’em yet!”
Jerry had heard an automobile turn into the yard. Hopeful that it might be the awaited authorities, he and Penny ran up the stone steps. To their joy they saw that it was the police cruiser.
In terse sentences they told their story to the officers. Penny had no idea which direction the men had gone, but the reporter recalled having seen a group of four walking toward the river just as he had left the barn.
With Jerry and Penny standing on the running board, the police car headed in the direction of the Big Bear. Suddenly a series of explosive sounds were heard, staccato noises similar to the back-firing of an automobile exhaust.
“Shots!” exclaimed Jerry. “From the river, too!”
The car drew to a halt. The policemen leaped out and started across the fields. Disregarding orders to remain behind, Penny and Jerry followed.
Breathlessly, they reached the rim of the river. A beam of light directed their gaze to the opposite shore. A high-powered motor boat had pulled away and was fast gathering speed. Flashes of gunfire from its decks were answered by the revolvers of men on the river bank.
Shielding Penny with his body, Jerry drew her behind a tree. In a moment as the motor boat passed beyond range, firing ceased. Then they slid down the bank to learn what had occurred.
Penny saw that Peter Fenestra had been captured. He was handcuffed to Mr. Moyer, and she instantly guessed that the other four men were government operatives.
“Find a boat and start after those three sailors who got away!” Moyer ordered his men tersely. “I’ll take this fellow to town.”
Penny edged forward, obtaining an excellent view of Peter Fenestra’s downcast face. Quietly she made her accusations, telling of the cave where she had been imprisoned.
“So that was how the gold was melted down,” commented Moyer.
He then explained that for days his operatives had watched the river where they knew Anchor Joe had hidden a motorboat. Surprised in the act of taking off, the sailors had exchanged shots with the government men, but by abandoning Fenestra and the gold, they had escaped.
“This man’s real name is Otto Franey,” Moyer revealed, indicating Fenestra. “He and the three sailors were shipmates aboard the Dorasky.”
“They’re wanted for stealing gold?” questioned Penny.
“Yes, they got away with four gold bars taken from the Dorasky. You see, about a year ago a consignment of gold was shipped by a Swiss bank to the New York Federal Reserve. Because of heavy fog the bars were unloaded at the pier instead of being taken off at Quarantine. They were removed in a sling and dumped on the wharf to await the mail truck.”
“And the four sailors saw a chance to steal some of the bars?” questioned Jerry.
“Yes, how they accomplished it we don’t know. But hours later a mail driver refused to sign for one of the bags because it had been slit open. Four bars valued at approximately fourteen thousand dollars each were missing. Investigation disclosed that a sailor, Otto Franey, had jumped ship. A few days later Joe Landa, John Munn and Jack Guenther also disappeared.”
“Each man was marked with an octopus tattoo, wasn’t he?” Penny inquired eagerly.
“Yes, although I did not learn that until a day or so ago. Otto has been trying to get his tattoo removed so that it would be harder to trace him. The four sailors had their backs marked with an octopus design and words which read, All for one, one for all, when put together. They were feeling very friendly toward each other at that time.”
“Then I was right!” exclaimed Penny. “And the four conspired to steal the gold bars?”
“Otto was entrusted by his pals to dispose of the stolen gold. Instead, he gave them the slip and tried to keep it for himself. Evidently he rigged up a furnace and melted the metal into useable form. But the three sailors trailed him here, determined to avenge themselves.”
As Fenestra was hustled to a waiting car, Penny told Mr. Moyer everything she knew about the prisoner, save his connection with Matthew Judson. Deliberately she withheld information about the blackmail plot.
While the prisoner was being loaded into the government car, another automobile drew up nearby. Recognizing Mr. Parker at the wheel, Penny and Jerry ran to tell him the latest news.
“Full speed ahead, Chief!” exclaimed the reporter, sliding into the front seat. “We’ve got a big story by the tail!”
“A lot of good it does us,” responded the publisher gloomily.
“You mean the firemen failed to save the Star building?”Penny asked anxiously.
“The building’s saved, but considerable damage was done by fire and water. We can’t use the plant for several days. It’s enough to make a man ill! Scooped by the opposition when the story is ours!”
“You forget the little Weekly Times,” reminded Penny. “Old Homey has everything ready to roll. I’m turning the plant over to you.”
“To me?” Mr. Parker did not understand her meaning.
“Yes, gather your mechanical force. The plant’s yours for the night.”
“Penny, you’re the tops!” the publisher exclaimed, starting the car with a lurch. “Together we’ll get out an extra that will be an extra!”
After that Penny lost all sense of time as events transpired with rapidity and precision. As if by magic the staff of the Star appeared to take over the Times plant. The building shook off its lethargy and machinery began to turn.
Allowing Jerry to write the big story, Penny tried to be everywhere at once. She fluttered at DeWitt’s elbow as he drew a dummy of the front page.
“Let’s make it 96-point type,” she urged. “Splashy! A double column story with a break-over to page three.”
“Anything you say,” was DeWitt’s surprising answer.
In the composing room, printers were locking the forms, using pages previously made ready for the next issue of the Weekly Times. Stereotypers were testing the pneumatic steam tables. Pressmen under Old Horney’s direction oiled the double-deck rotaries and tightened bolts.
At last came the moment when the starter plate was fitted into place on the cylinder. With a half turn of a T wrench Old Horney made it secure.
“She’s ready,” he announced, flashing the signal light. “You push the button, Penny.”
Trembling with excitement, she started the press rolling. Faster and faster it went. In a moment papers dropped so swiftly from the folder that her eye could not follow. A conveyer carried them upward over the presses to the distributing room.
Mr. Parker offered Penny a paper, smiling as he saw her stare at the nameplate. Instead of the Star it read: The Weekly Times.
“Why, Dad!” she exclaimed. “They’ve made a mistake.”
“It’s no mistake,” he corrected. “This is your extra. Your name appears as Managing Editor.”
“So that was why DeWitt was so agreeable to all my suggestions?” she laughed. “I might have guessed.”
Later, while newsboys cried their wares, Penny and her fathe
r sat in the private office, talking with Matthew Judson. From his own lips they learned how he had submitted to blackmail rather than disgrace Pauletta by returning to prison.
“Your case is a deserving one,” Mr. Parker told him kindly. “I assure you we’ll never publish the story, and I’ll do everything in my power to help you obtain a pardon.”
Before leaving the office, Mr. Judson promised Penny he would tell his daughter the truth, allowing her to break her engagement to Major Atchley if she chose.
“We’ll go away somewhere,” he said. “California, perhaps. Although I’ll never try to publish a paper again, at least my life will cease to be a torment.”
Alone with her father once more, Penny had two requests to make.
“Name them,” he urged.
“Can you get Tillie Fellows a job?”
“Easily.”
“And will you take Horney into your own plant?”
“I’ll be glad to do it as soon as the Star operates again. Until remodeling work is completed I have no plant.”
“Yes, you have, Dad. This building is yours if you can make arrangements with Mr. Veeley.”
“Penny! You’re willing to give up the Weekly?”
“Willing?” she laughed. “I’m hilariously crazy to get rid of it. Matters have reached a state where either I must abandon the paper or my education. I’ve only awaited a chance to end my career in a blaze of glory.”
“A blaze expresses it very mildly,” smiled Mr. Parker. “In all modesty, let us say a conflagration!”
“Oh, why be modest?” grinned Penny. “Let’s come right out and call it a holocaust! That’s the strongest word I know.”
THE CLOCK STRIKES THIRTEEN
CHAPTER 1
SANDWICHES FOR TWO
Jauntily, Penny Parker walked through the dimly lighted newsroom of the Riverview Star, her rubber heels making no sound on the bare, freshly scrubbed floor. Desks were deserted, for the final night edition of the paper had gone to press half an hour earlier, and only the cleaning women were at work. One of the women arrested a long sweep of her mop just in time to avoid splashing the girl with water.
“I sorry,” she apologized in her best broken English. “I no look for someone to come so very late.”
“Oh, curfew never rings for me,” Penny laughed, side stepping a puddle of water. “I’m likely to be abroad at any hour.”
At the far end of the long room a light glowed behind a frosted glass door marked: “Anthony Parker—Editor.”There the girl paused, and seeing her father’s grotesque shadow, opened the door a tiny crack, to rumble in a deep voice:
“Hands up! I have you covered!”
Taken by surprise, Mr. Parker swung quickly around, his swivel chair squeaking a loud protest.
“Penny, I wish you wouldn’t do that!” he exclaimed. “You know it always makes me jump.”
“Sorry, Dad,” Penny grinned, slumping into a leather chair beside her father’s desk. “A girl has to have some amusement, you know.”
“Didn’t three hours at the moving picture theatre satisfy you?”
“Oh, the show was worse than awful. By the way, here’s something for you.”
Removing a sealed yellow envelope from her purse, Penny flipped it carelessly across the desk.
“I met a Western Union boy downstairs,” she explained. “He was looking for you. I paid for the message and saved him a trip upstairs. Two dollars and ten cents, if you don’t mind.”
Absently Mr. Parker took two crisp dollar bills from his pocket and reached for the telegram.
“Don’t forget the dime,” Penny reminded him. “It may seem a trifle to you, but not to a girl who has to live on a weekly allowance.”
For lack of change, the editor tossed over a quarter, which his daughter pocketed with deep satisfaction. Ripping open the envelope, he scanned the telegram, but as he read, his face darkened.
“Why, Dad, what’s wrong?” Penny asked in surprise.
Mr. Parker crumpled the sheet into a round ball and hurled it toward the waste paper basket.
“Your aim gets worse every day,” Penny chuckled, stooping to retrieve the paper. Smoothing the corrugations, she read aloud:
“YOUR EDITORIAL ‘FREEDOM OF THE PRESS’ IN THURSDAY’S STAR THOROUGHLY DISGUSTED THIS READER. WHAT YOUR CHEAP PAPER NEEDS IS A LITTLE LESS FREEDOM AND MORE DECENCY. IF OUR FOREFATHERS COULD HAVE FORESEEN THE YELLOW PRESS OF TODAY THEY WOULD HAVE REGULATED IT, NOT MADE IT FREE. WHY DON’T YOU TAKE THAT AMERICAN FLAG OFF YOUR MASTHEAD AND SUBSTITUTE A CASH REGISTER? FLY YOUR TRUE COLORS AND SOFT-PEDAL THE PARKER BRAND OF HYPOCRISY!”
“Stop it—don’t read another line!” the editor commanded before Penny had half finished.
“Why, Dad, you poor old wounded lion!” she chided, blue eyes dancing with mischief. “I thought you prided yourself that uncomplimentary opinions never disturbed you. Can’t you take it any more?”
“I don’t mind a few insults,” Mr. Parker snapped,“but paying for them is another matter.”
“That’s so, this little gem of literature did set you back two dollars and ten cents. Lucky I collected before you opened the telegram.”
Mr. Parker slammed his desk shut with a force which rattled the office windows.
“This same crack-pot who signs himself ‘Disgusted Reader’ or ‘Ben Bowman,’ or whatever name suits his fancy, has sent me six telegrams in the past month! I’m getting fed up!”
“All of the messages collect?”
“Every one. The nit-wit has criticised everything from the Star’s comic strips to the advertising columns. I’ve had enough of it!”
“Then why not do something about it?” Penny asked soothingly. “Refuse the telegrams.”
“It’s not that easy,” the editor growled. “Each day the Star receives a large number of ‘collect’ messages, hot news tips from out-of-town correspondents and from reporters who try to sell free lance stories. We’re glad to pay for these telegrams. This fellow who keeps bombarding us is just smart enough to use different names and send his wires from various places. Sometimes he addresses the telegrams to me, and then perhaps to City Editor DeWitt or one of the other staff members.”
“In that case, I’m afraid you’re out of luck,” Penny said teasingly. “How about drowning your troubles in a little sleep?”
“It is late,” Mr. Parker admitted, glancing at his watch. “Almost midnight. Time we’re starting home.”
Reaching for his hat, Mr. Parker switched off the light, locked the door, and followed Penny down the stairway to the street. At the parking lot opposite the Star building, he tramped about restlessly while waiting for an attendant to bring the car.
“I’ll drive,” Penny said, sliding behind the steering wheel. “In your present mood you might inadvertently pick off a few pedestrians!”
“It makes my blood boil,” Mr. Parker muttered, his thoughts reverting to the telegram. “Call my paper yellow, eh? And that crack about the cash register!”
“Oh, everyone knows the Star is the best paper in the state,” Penny said, trying to coax him into a better mood. “You’re a good editor too, and a pretty fair father.”
“Thanks,” Mr. Parker responded with a mock bow. “Since we’re passing out compliments, you’re not so bad yourself.”
Suddenly relaxing, he reached out to touch Penny’s hand in a rare expression of affection. Tall and lean, a newspaper man with a reputation for courage and fight, he had only two interests in life—his paper and his daughter. Penny’s mother had been dead many years, but at times he saw his wife again in the girl’s sparkling blue eyes, golden hair, and especially in the way she smiled.
“Hungry, Dad?” Penny asked unexpectedly, intruding upon his thoughts. “I know a dandy new hamburger place not far from here. Wonderful coffee too.”
“Well, all right,” Mr. Parker consented. “It’s pretty late though. The big clock’s striking midnight.”
As the car halted for a traffic light, they b
oth listened to the musical chimes which preceded the regularly spaced strokes of the giant clock. Penny turned her head to gaze at the Hubell Memorial Tower, a grim stone building which rose to the height of seventy-five feet. Erected ten years before as a monument to one of Riverview’s wealthy citizens, its chimes could be heard for nearly a mile on a still night. On one side, its high, narrow windows overlooked the city, while on the other, the cultivated lands of truck farmers.
“How strange!” Penny murmured as the last stroke of the clock died away.
“What is strange?” Mr. Parker asked gruffly.
“Why, that clock struck thirteen times instead of twelve!”
“Bunk and bosh!”
“Oh, but it did!” Penny earnestly insisted. “I counted each stroke distinctly.”
“And one of them twice,” scoffed her father. “Or are you spoofing your old Dad?”
“Oh, I’m not,” Penny maintained. As the car moved ahead, she craned her neck to stare up at the stone tower. “I know I counted thirteen. Why, Dad, there’s a green light burning in one of the windows! I never saw that before. What can it mean?”
“It means we’ll have a wreck unless you watch the road!” Mr. Parker cried, giving the steering wheel a quick turn. “Where are you taking me anyhow?”
“Out to Toni’s.” Reluctantly Penny centered her full attention upon the highway. “It’s only a mile into the country.”
“We won’t be home before one o’clock,” Mr. Parker complained. “But since we’re this far, I suppose we may as well keep on.”
“Dad, about that light,” Penny said thoughtfully. “Did you ever notice it before?”
Mr. Parker turned to gaze back toward the stone tower.
“There’s no green light,” he answered grimly. “Every window is dark.”
“But I saw it only an instant ago! And I did hear the clock strike thirteen. Cross my heart and hope to die—”
“Never mind the dramatics,” Mr. Parker cut in. “If the clock struck an extra time—which it didn’t—something could have gone wrong with the mechanism. Don’t try to build up a mystery out of your imagination.”
The car rattled over a bridge and passed a deserted farm house that formerly had belonged to a queer old man named Peter Fenestra. Penny’s gaze fastened momentarily upon an old fashioned storm cellar which marred the appearance of the front yard.
The Penny Parker Megapack: 15 Complete Novels Page 54