“I’m not worried about my job,” the other broke in. “So far as I know there’s no underground organization in this county. All this mask proves is that Clem Davis may be the man who set the Preston fire.”
The officer turned to leave the stable. Before he could reach the exit, the double doors slowly opened. A woman, who carried a lighted lantern, peered inside.
“Who’s there?” she called in a loud voice.
“Sheriff Daniels, ma’am,” the officer answered. “You needn’t be afraid.”
“Who said anything about bein’ afraid?” the woman belligerently retorted.
Coming into the stable, she gazed with undisguised suspicion from one person to another. She was noticeably thin, slightly stooped and there was a hard set to her jaw.
“You’re Mrs. Davis?” the sheriff inquired, and as she nodded, he asked: “Clem around here?”
“No, he ain’t,” she answered defiantly. “What you wanting him for anyhow?”
“Oh, just to ask a few questions. Where is your husband, Mrs. Davis?”
“He went to town early and ain’t been back. What you aimin’ to lay onto him, Sheriff?”
“If your husband hasn’t been here since early evening, who has ridden this horse?” the sheriff demanded, ignoring the question.
Mrs. Davis’ gaze roved to the stall where the black mare noisily crunched an ear of corn.
“Why Sal has been rid!” she exclaimed as if genuinely surprised. “But not by Clem. He went to town in the flivver, and he ain’t been back.”
“Sorry, but I’ll have to take a look in the house.”
“Search it from cellar to attic!” the woman said angrily. “You won’t find Clem! What’s he wanted for anyway?”
“The Preston barn was set afire tonight, and your husband is a suspect.”
“Clem never did it! Why, the Prestons are good friends of ours! Somebody’s just tryin’ to make a peck o’ trouble for us.”
“That may be,” the sheriff admitted. “You say Clem hasn’t been here tonight. In that case, who rode the mare?”
“I don’t know anything about it,” the woman maintained sullenly.
“Didn’t you hear a horse come into the yard?”
“I never heard a sound until your car stopped at the entrance to the lane.”
“I suppose you never saw this before either.” The sheriff held up the black hood which had been found in the barn.
Mrs. Davis stared blankly at the cloth. “I tell you, I don’t know nothin’ about it, Sheriff. You ain’t being fair if you try to hang that fire onto Clem. And you won’t find him hidin’ in the house.”
“If your husband isn’t here, I’ll wait until he comes.”
“You may have a long wait, Sheriff,” the woman retorted, her lips parting in a twisted smile. “You can come in though and look around.”
Not caring to follow the sheriff into the house, Penny and her father bade him goodbye a moment later. Tramping down the lane to their parked car, they both expressed the belief that Clem Davis would not be arrested during the night.
“Obviously, the woman knows a lot more than she’s willing to tell,” Mr. Parker remarked, sliding into the car seat beside Penny.
“Dad, do you think it was Clem who set fire to the Preston barn?”
“We have no reason to suspect anyone else,” returned the editor. “All the evidence points to his guilt.”
Penny backed the car in the narrow road, heading toward Riverview.
“That was the point I wanted to make,” she said thoughtfully. “Doesn’t it seem to you that the evidence was almost too plain?”
“What do you mean, Penny?”
“Well, I was just thinking, if I had been in Clem Davis’ place, I never would have left a black hood lying where the first person to enter the barn would be sure to see it.”
“That’s so, it was a bit obvious,” Mr. Parker admitted.
“The horse was left in the stable, and the hoof tracks leading to the Davis place were easy to follow.”
“All true,” Mr. Parker nodded.
“Isn’t it possible that someone could have tried to throw the blame on Clem?” suggested Penny, anxiously awaiting her father’s reply.
“There may be something to the theory,” Mr. Parker responded. “Still, Mrs. Davis didn’t deny that the mare belonged to her husband. She claimed that she hadn’t heard the horse come into the stable, which obviously was a lie. Furthermore, I gathered the impression that Clem knew the sheriff was after him, and intends to hide out.”
“It will be interesting to learn if Mr. Daniels makes an arrest. Do you expect to print anything about it in the paper?”
“Only routine news of the fire,” Mr. Parker replied. “There may be much more to this little incident than appears on the surface, but until something develops, we must wait.”
“If you could gain proof that night riders are operating in this community, what then?” Penny suggested eagerly.
“In that case, I should certainly launch a vigorous campaign. But why go into all the details now? I’m sure I’ll not assign you to the story.”
“Why not?” Penny asked in an injured tone. “I think night riders would be especially suited to my journalistic talents. I could gather information about Clem Davis and the Prestons—”
“This is Sheriff Daniel’s baby, and we’ll let him take care of it for the time being,” Mr. Parker interrupted. “Why not devote yourself to the great mystery of the Hubell clock? That should provide a safe outlook for your energies.”
The car was drawing close to Riverview. As it approached the tall stone tower, Penny raised her eyes to the dark windows. Just then the big clock struck twice.
“Two o’clock,” Mr. Parker observed, taking a quick glance at his watch. “Or would you say three?”
“There’s no argument about it this time, Dad. All the same, I intend to prove to you that I was right!”
“How?” her father asked, covering a wide yawn.
“I don’t know,” Penny admitted, favoring the grim tower with a dark scowl. “But just you wait—I’ll find a way!”
CHAPTER 4
A NEW CARETAKER
“I declare, getting folks up becomes a harder task each morning,” declared Mrs. Maud Weems, who had served as the Parker housekeeper for eleven years, as she brought a platter of bacon and eggs to the breakfast table. “I call and call until I’m fairly hoarse, and all I get in response is a few sleepy mutters and mumbles. The food is stone cold.”
“It’s good all the same,” praised Penny, pouring herself a large-size glass of orange juice. “There’s not a woman in Riverview who can equal your cooking.”
“I’m in no mood for blarney this morning,” the housekeeper warned. “I must say quite frankly that I don’t approve of the irregular hours in this house.”
“Penny and I did get in a little late last night,” Mr. Parker admitted, winking at his daughter.
“A little late! It must have been at least four o’clock when you came in. Oh, I heard you tiptoe up the stairs even if you did take off your shoes!”
“It was only a few minutes after two,” Penny corrected. “I’m sorry though, that we awakened you.”
“I hadn’t been asleep,” Mrs. Weems replied, somewhat mollified by the apology. “I’m sure I heard every stroke of the clock last night.”
“You did!” Penny exclaimed with sudden interest. “How many times would you say it struck at midnight? I mean the Hubell Tower clock.”
“Such a question!” Mrs. Weems protested, thoroughly exasperated.
“It’s a very important one,” Penny insisted. “My reputation and five gallons of gas are at stake, so weigh well your words before you speak.”
“The clock struck twelve, of course!”
“There, you see, Penny,” Mr. Parker grinned triumphantly. “Does that satisfy you?”
“Mrs. Weems,” Penny persisted, “did you actually count the strokes?”
“Certainly not. Why should I? The clock always strikes twelve, therefore it must have struck that number last night.”
“I regret to say, you’ve just disqualified yourself as a witness in this case,” Penny said, helping herself to the last strip of bacon on the platter. “I must search farther afield for proof.”
“What are you talking about anyhow?” the housekeeper protested. “It doesn’t make sense to me.”
As she finished breakfast, Penny explained to Mrs. Weems how the disagreement with her father had arisen. The housekeeper displayed slight interest in the tale of the clock, but asked many questions about the fire at the Preston farm.
“That reminds me!” Mr. Parker suddenly exclaimed before Penny had finished the story. “I want to’phone Sheriff Daniels before I start for the office. Excuse me, please.”
Pushing aside his chair, he went hurriedly to the living room. Not wishing to miss any news which might have a bearing on the affair of the previous night, Penny trailed him, hovering close to the telephone. However, her father’s brief comments told her almost nothing.
“What did you learn?” she inquired eagerly as he hung up the receiver. “Was Clem Davis arrested last night?”
“No, it turned out about as we expected. Apparently, Davis knew the sheriff was looking for him. Anyway, he never returned home.”
Jamming on his hat, Mr. Parker started for the front door. Penny pursued him to the garage, carrying on a running conversation.
“This rather explodes my theory about Clem not being guilty,” she remarked ruefully. “If he were innocent, one would expect him to face the sheriff and prove an alibi.”
“Davis can’t be far away,” Mr. Parker responded, getting into the maroon sedan. “The sheriff will nab him soon.”
Penny held open the garage doors, watching as her father backed down the driveway, scraping the bark of a tree whose gnarled trunk already bore many scars. Before she could reenter the house, Louise Sidell, a dark-haired, slightly plump girl, who was Penny’s most loyal friend, sauntered into the yard.
“Hi!” she greeted cheerily. “About ready?”
“Ready for what?” Penny asked, her face blank.
Louise regarded her indignantly. “If that isn’t just like you, Penny Parker! You make promises and then forget them. Don’t you remember telling Mrs. Van Cleve of the Woman’s Club that we would help sell tags today, for the Orphans’ Home summer camp?”
“Now that you remind me, I have a vague recollection. How many are we to sell?”
“Twenty-five at not less than a quarter each. I have the tags, but we’ll have to work fast or the other girls will sell all the easy customers.”
“I’ll be with you in two shakes,” Penny promised, heading for the house. “Wait until I tell Mrs. Weems where I am going.”
Returning a moment later with the car ignition keys, she found Louise staring disconsolately at the empty space in the garage.
“What became of your new car?” asked her chum.
“Dad’s auto is in the garage for repairs,” Penny explained briefly. “I didn’t have the heart to make him walk.”
“I should think not!” laughed Louise. “Imagine having three cars in one family—if you can call this mess of junk by such a flattering name.” Depreciatingly, she kicked the patched tire of a battered but brightly painted flivver which had seen its heyday in the early thirties.
“Don’t speak so disrespectfully of my property,”Penny chided, sliding into the high, uncomfortable seat. “Leaping Lena is a good car even if she is a bit creaky in the joints. She still takes us places.”
“And leaves us stranded,” Louise added with a sniff. “Oh, well, let’s go—if we can.”
Penny stepped on the starter and waited expectantly. The motor sputtered and coughed, but true to form, would not start. Just as the girls were convinced that they must walk, there was an explosive backfire, and then the car began to quiver with its familiar motion.
“You should sell Lena to the government for a cannon,”Louise teased as they rattled down the street. “What do you burn in this smoke machine? Kerosene?”
“Never mind the slurs. Where do we start our business operations?”
“We’ve been assigned to the corner of Madison and Clark streets,” Louise answered as she separated the yellow benefit tags into two evenly divided piles. “It shouldn’t take us long to get rid of these.”
Neither of the girls regretted their promise to help with the tag-day sale, for the cause was a worthy one. The campaign to raise sufficient funds with which to purchase and equip an orphans’ summer camp site, had been underway many weeks, and was headed by Mrs. Van Cleve, a prominent club woman.
Parking Leaping Lena at the designated street corner, the girls went to work with a will. All their lives they had lived in Riverview, and Penny in particular, had a wide acquaintance. Accosting nearly everyone who passed, she soon disposed of all her tags, and then sold many for her chum.
“They’ve gone fast,” Louise declared as the morning wore on. “We have only one left.”
“Don’t sell that tag!” Penny said impulsively. “I have it earmarked for a certain person—Old Seth McGuire.”
“The caretaker at the Hubell Clock Tower?” Louise asked in astonishment.
“Yes, he always liked children and I think he would be glad to help.”
“But why drive so far?” protested Louise. “I’m sure we could dispose of it right here, and much quicker.”
“Oh, I have a special reason for going to see Seth,”Penny answered carelessly. “I’ll tell you about it on the way there.”
From her chum’s manner, Louise deducted that something interesting lay ahead. She had learned, frequently to her sorrow, that Penny enjoyed interviewing unusual characters and engaging in amazing activities. Only a few months earlier, the girls had operated their own newspaper in an abandoned downtown building with results which were still the talk of Riverview. Another time they had attended a society wedding on an island guarded by a drawbridge, and had ended by using the drawbridge as a means of capturing a boatload of crooks. In fact, Louise took delight in remarking that if ever her chum chose to write an autobiography, a suitable title would be: “Life with Penelope Parker: Never a Dull Moment.”
“What’s up now, Penny?” she inquired, as they rattled toward the Hubell Tower in Leaping Lena.
“Just a little argument I had with Dad last night. I maintain that the big clock struck thirteen last night at midnight. He thinks I’m a wee bit touched in the head.”
“Which you must be,” retorted Louise. “Who ever heard of such a thing?”
“What’s so crazy about it?” Penny asked with a grimace. “Didn’t you ever hear a clock strike the wrong number?”
“Of course, but not the Hubell clock. Why, the works were purchased in Europe, and it’s supposed to be one of the best in the country.”
“Even a good clock can make a mistake, I guess. Anyway, we’ll see what Seth McGuire has to say about it.”
Penny brought Leaping Lena to a quivering halt opposite the tall Hubell Tower. Glancing upward at the octagonical-shaped clock face, she saw that the hands indicated twenty minutes to twelve.
“Rather an awkward time to call,” she remarked, swinging open the car door, “but Seth probably won’t mind.”
As the girls walked toward the tower entrance, they noticed that the grounds surrounding the building were not as neat as when last they had viewed them. The shrubs were untrimmed, the lawn choked with weeds, and old newspapers had matted against the hedge.
“I wonder if Mr. McGuire has been well?” Penny commented, knocking on the tower door. “He always took pride in looking after the yard.”
“At least he seems to be up and around,” Louise returned in a low tone. “I can hear someone moving about inside.”
The girls waited expectantly for the door to open. When there was no response to their knock, Penny tried again.
“Who’s the
re?” called a loud and not very friendly voice.
Penny knew that it was not Old Seth who spoke, for the caretaker’s high-pitched tones were unmistakable.
“We came to see Mr. McGuire,” she called through the panel.
The door swung back and the girls found themselves facing a stout, red-faced man of perhaps forty, who wore a soiled suede jacket and unpressed corduroy trousers.
“McGuire’s not here any more,” he informed curtly. “You’ll probably find him at his farm.”
Before the man could close the door, Penny quickly asked if Mr. McGuire had given up his position as caretaker because of sickness.
“Oh, he was getting too old to do his work,” the man answered with a shrug. “I’m Charley Phelps, the new attendant. Visiting hours are from two to four each afternoon.”
“We didn’t come to see the clock,” persisted Penny.
“What did bring you here then?” the man demanded gruffly. “You a personal friend of Seth’s?”
“Not exactly.” Penny peered beyond the caretaker into an untidy living room clouded with tobacco smoke. “We thought we might sell him one of these tags. Perhaps you would like to contribute to the orphans’ camp fund?”
She extended the bit of yellow cardboard, bestowing upon the attendant one of her most dazzling smiles.
“No, thanks, Sister,” he declined, refusing to take the tag. “You’ll have to peddle your wares somewhere else.”
“Only twenty-five cents.”
“I’m not interested. Now run along and give me a chance to eat my lunch in peace.”
“Sorry to have bothered you,” Penny apologized woodenly. Without moving from the door, she inquired:“Oh, by the way, what happened to the clock last night?”
“Nothing happened to it,” the caretaker retorted. “What d’you mean?”
“At midnight it struck thirteen times instead of twelve.”
“You must have dreamed it!” the man declared. “Say, what are you trying to do anyhow—start stories so I’ll lose my job?”
“Why, I never thought of such a thing!” Penny gasped. “I truly believed that the clock did strike thirteen—”
“Well, you were wrong, and I’ll thank you not to go around telling folks such bunk!” the man said angrily. “The clock hasn’t struck a wrong hour since the day it was installed. I take better care of the mechanism than Seth McGuire ever did!”
The Penny Parker Megapack: 15 Complete Novels Page 56