Clara just stared at me vacantly. She would have fallen if Mrs. Smith hadn’t caught her by the arm.
“Don’t you recognize me, Clara? It’s Jane—Jane Carter.”
“Yes, I know you,” Clara said. “I am ashamed—” her voice died away as if she had lost the thread of thought.
“Help me bring her into the house,” Mrs. Smith said. “I will get a bed ready.”
Clara made no protest as Flo and me, supporting her between us, half carried her into the cottage. We removed her muddy shoes and stretched her out on the bed.
Flo went for a basin of warm water and washcloths.
“The girl is a friend of ours,” I whispered to Mrs. Smith. “I can’t understand how she came to be in such a sorry state.”
“I’ll find something for her to eat,” Mrs. Smith said.
“We might give her a soft-boiled egg, toast and milk,” I said. “I’ll be glad to prepare it.”
I went to the kitchen and boiled an egg. By the time the egg and toast was ready, Florence had bathed Clara’s face and hands. We propped Clara up with pillows and encouraged her to eat. At first, she scarcely had the strength to bring her hand to her mouth, but the food seemed to revive her. Once she got started, she ate ravenously.
“What in the world happened to you, Clara?” Florence asked. “You must have been wandering around for days!”
“I have been. Ever since I left the doll shop.”
“Why didn’t you come straight to me? Or to Flo?” I demanded.
“I don’t know—I—I hated to ask for help. Especially, when I didn’t take your advice.”
“You mean about selling your place to Mrs. Fitz?”
“Yes, I made such a horrible mistake.”
“You learned that she wasn’t a very pleasant person?”
A shudder wracked Clara’s thin body.
“Oh, she is an awful creature—I hated her. Finally, I ran away. I didn’t even take my clothes—only the ones I had on my back.”
“Did Mrs. Fitz pay you for the shop?”
“Pay me?” Clara laughed hysterically. “Not a penny.”
“Well, she can’t cheat you like that,” I said. “If she won’t pay you, we’ll report it to the police—or get a lawyer.”
“Or both,” said Flo.
“Oh, no! I don’t wish to have anything more to do with her. I’d rather lose the shop—everything.”
“You are that afraid of Mrs. Fitz?” I asked.
“Yes, she is cruel and evil.”
“You have absolutely no reason to be afraid of that old woman,” Florence declared. “She can be compelled to pay you what she owes, or else give up the shop.”
“What happened after you ran away?” I asked.
“I can’t seem to remember just what did happen. I slept down by the river. It was damp, and I caught a dreadful cold. I had nothing to eat. Until today, I was too ashamed to beg. I guess I didn’t know exactly what I was doing.”
“Do you feel able to travel in a car?” I asked.
“Travel?”
“Yes, you’re coming home with me, Clara. I have a room all ready for you.”
“You are so kind,” Clara protested. “I don’t deserve it.”
“Nonsense.”
“But it is true, Jane. I have hidden certain things from you.”
“You refer to the witch doll, perhaps?”
“Yes, I couldn’t allow you to involve yourself in my troubles—not unless you knew the truth.”
“Then suppose you tell me.”
“Yes, yes, I will tell you everything. Several days before I sold my shop to Mrs. Fitz—”
Her words ended in a scream of terror. A rock crashed through the bedroom window. Shattered glass covered the bare floor.
I tiptoed across the glass-strewn floor and picked up the rock. There was a note wrapped around it.
“What does it say?” demanded Clara, half arising from bed.
“Just one word. ‘Beware!’ And beneath it is a drawing of an old witch!”
CHAPTER 19
Clara held the note in her trembling hand and stared at the grotesque black figure crudely drawn on the paper, then slumped back against the pillows.
“A witch doll,” she whispered. “Oh!”
“Let’s find out who threw that rock!”
I ran to the door. Flo followed close behind. No one was in sight.
“You go around one side of the cottage, and I’ll try the other,” I said to Florence.
We met a minute later by the bedroom window. Although footprints were plainly visible only a few yards away, a search of the bushes near the cottage revealed no one lurking there.
“What do you make of it, Jane?”
“Someone must have been listening near the window. That rock with the witch doll paper attached may have been thrown as a warning to Clara.”
“Thrown by whom, Jane?”
“By some person who followed Clara to the cottage. Perhaps the same individual who has been making trouble for Miss Barnett. I’d reveal to you their name, rank, and serial number only it escapes me just at the moment.”
“This is no time for jokes,” Flo said. “Things are getting serious.”
“I agree, Flo. It’s time we learn just what this witch doll business is all about. I believe Clara can explain.”
“She was ready to tell us a moment ago. The stone coming through the window interrupted her.”
“The person who threw that rock must have meant it as a warning to Clara that she wasn’t to talk.”
It was useless to try and pursue the culprit. We went back inside. Clara was lying on the bed, her fist tightly closed upon the crumpled paper which bore the picture of the old witch.
“Did you find anyone?” she asked us.
“No, whoever threw that rock managed to get away.”
“Such a mean thing to do,” Mrs. Smith said, sweeping up broken glass.
I sat down on the bed next to Clara.
“You were starting to tell us why you are so frightened of old Mrs. Fitz.”
“Oh, there’s nothing to tell. I just didn’t like her.”
“Isn’t it true you sent the witch doll to Miss Barnett?”
“I can’t tell you! Please don’t ask me!”
Clara covered her face with her hands and burst into hysterical tears.
It felt cruel to continue prying. Maybe later, when Clara was stronger, I would try again to get her to talk. It seemed that the rock through the window had done its intended work.
“As soon as you feel able, Clara, we’ll drive home,” I said.
“You still want me?”
“Certainly.”
“But I’ve told you nothing. If you knew the truth—”
“I’ll leave that entirely to your judgment, Clara. Whenever you are ready, I’ll be glad to hear your story.”
“I wish I could explain—but it would be dangerous. I—I can’t make you understand.”
“Well, let’s forget it for the moment. Are you able to ride into Greenville?”
“Yes. I feel much stronger now.”
As we helped Clara to the car, she looked around anxiously.
“No one is around here now,” Flo tried to reassure her. “We searched carefully.”
I went back to the house to say goodbye to Mrs. Smith. I gave her my last twenty-eight cents to help pay for the broken window and promised to return with the balance of the cost of the replacement when I got my next check from Mr. Pittman.
When we got home, Mrs. Timms put Clara in the guest room downstairs.
“Whatever you do, don’t let Clara know that I have a witch doll here in the house,” I whispered to Miss Timms. “It would frighten her half out of her wits.”
“I’ll be very careful, Jane. The poor child acts as if she were in a daze.”
“Yes, she has had a bad fright. I mean to get the story out of her as soon as she’s feeling better.”
I spent most of the day in
Clara’s room, roughing out notes for my next installment of “Evangeline.” Clara slept most of the day. Even when she was awake, she barely spoke.
I worked out that I’d start my next installment of “Evangeline: The Horse Thief’s Unwilling Fiancée” with my heroine becoming deathly ill and sinking into a dread delirium.
Mr. Pittman had complained that the heroine of my previous serial had been “too much of a Bearcat”—to quote him directly. I figured that if I could keep my heroine confined to her bed of sickness, that might just be enough to prevent her from getting off to a rough start with Mr. Pittman. A semiconscious state might constrain Evangeline from clonking the villain over the head with a flat iron, or beating him about the shins with her parasol, or, worst of all, informing her dour Victorian father that he had the mental capacity of a peahen, and she was jolly-well going to marry whomever she pleased. That would have ended the story in a hurry.
According to Mr. Pittman, the readership of Pittman’s All-Story Weekly preferred a “feminine” heroine. I’d worked out that, at least by Mr. Pittman’s estimation, a feminine heroine is a defenseless female who gets tossed about by a convoluted plot until— armed with nothing but her spotless virtue—she, at last, wins the heart and hand of the worthy hero.
I was just contemplating, with considerable regret, that Evangeline would probably never know the exquisite pleasure of breaking a hat-box over the villain’s head when my father came home from the office.
I told him what had happened to Clara.
“You did right in bringing your friend here. Invite her to remain as long as she wishes.”
“Dad, it’s unfair the way that old woman, Mrs. Fitz, cheated Clara out of her doll shop. What can we do to help her?”
“It all depends upon the contract she signed. I’ll look into it.”
“I’m not certain there was a contract,” I said. “Why not see Mrs. Fitz tonight?”
“Not this evening, Jane. I have a date at Silva’s.”
“Where?”
I had a very hard time picturing Dad at a séance.
“Well, it’s this way.” Dad smiled. “The police have questioned Silva, and while they believe he is responsible for the robberies, they’ve been unable to shake his story. The man was released but will be watched. Tonight, two plainclothesmen and I will be present at a séance. We intend to learn firsthand just what methods the man uses.”
“That’s good! I thought wild horses couldn’t drag you to a place such as Silva’s!”
“I am going purely in the interests of my newspaper.”
“Take me with you, Dad.”
“I don’t believe it would be advisable.”
“I might be able to help you gather facts. For instance, I happen to have learned something which has a direct bearing on the case. Perhaps, you already know—that Miss Barnett is Silva’s sister.”
“His sister! When did you learn that?”
“Today, from Miss Barnett. It’s true.”
Then I told Dad everything I knew.
“Miss Barnett never went to the police with her story,” my father said. “As for Silva, he has refused to talk about his family from the first.”
“I suppose Miss Barnett lost her courage when it came to the test. She is so afraid her career will be ruined. Dad, I can’t believe Silva had anything to do with those robberies.”
“If Miss Barnett is related to him, that does throw matters into a different light. However, the police regard Silva as a suspect. The man is unwise not to reveal exactly what happened.”
“I told Miss Barnett the same thing. Take me along. I have a feeling something important may develop, and I’d like to be in on it.”
“Oh, very well.” Dad gave in. “I guess the police won’t mind. We’re due at the parlor at eight o’clock sharp.”
We met outside Silva’s place on Clark Street with the two detectives sent from the police station.
“Silva has promised to show us all the tricks he has used in mystifying his patrons,” Mr. Simmons explained. “We’ll reenact the scene as it was the night of the second robbery. With different actors, of course.”
Silva met us at the door. Silva’s hunchback assistant Spider stood in the background. His eyes followed the two detectives wherever they went.
Silva had not troubled to dress in his ceremonial robes. His face was pale, and his hands shook a little.
“We will begin whenever you are ready, gentlemen.”
Dad and I, and the two detectives sat at the round table. Spider tied his master hand and foot, just as he had upon my first visit.
“I am able to move my feet to a considerable extent,” the medium admitted. “Later, I shall press a button under the carpet which will cause a knocking sound on the table.”
“And your hands?” Dad asked.
“I never make use of them. They are securely bound.”
“We are now ready for the demonstration,” said Silva. “The lights, Spider.”
Spider scuttled toward the anteroom. As on the previous occasion, I distantly heard the outer panel slide into place as it closed.
“Everyone hold hands,” Silva instructed.
I sat between Detective Lutz and my father. Dad seated himself on one side of Silva, while Simmons occupied a chair at the medium’s left.
The lights went out. An oppressive silence settled upon the room. I heard Detective Lutz stir restlessly in his chair. We all waited for the medium to speak.
Minutes passed in silence. Suddenly, the silence was broken by a scream.
I felt my father’s hand jerk free from my own. Detective Lutz’s chair went over backwards as he sprang to his feet.
“Turn on those lights!” Detective Simmons shouted. “Turn ’em on!”
The room remained dark, but this time I knew the light switch was in the anteroom. I groped my way to the panel which led to the anteroom. This time I also knew where to take hold of the panel to slide it out of the way so we could exit. I pulled firmly on the panel, but it would not budge.
“We’re locked in!” I said.
Detective Simmons turned on his flashlight.
“Break down the door, Lutz!” he commanded.
“Silva has tricked us!”
The detectives threw themselves against the panel until it finally shattered.
I groped my way to the electric control board and threw a switch. The rooms were instantly flooded with light. I ran back into the séance chamber and looked at Silva’s throne chairs.
My fears were confirmed. Leo Silva had vanished.
CHAPTER 20
“We’ve been tricked!” Detective Lutz smashed his flashlight down on the table. “When I find that rascal—”
Hoping to capture Leo Silva before he could escape from the building, Lutz rushed down the stairs toward the street. Simmons stayed behind.
“How did Silva get away? He was bound hand and foot. I tested the ropes myself. Yet, I distinctly felt him jerk free,” Simmons said.
“So did I,” Dad agreed, “just an instant before he gave that unearthly scream.”
“Spider is missing, too,” I pointed out.
“Yes, where is he?” Detective Simmons appeared almost as angry as Lutz.
Detective Simmons searched the rooms and looked on the third floor above Silva’s quarters. He tapped the walls and examined the flooring for a possible trap door.
“This beats all,” he said. “Door locked from the outside—no secret exits, yet both Silva and his assistant disappeared right from under our noses. This will make me look mighty bad.”
“There must be a secret exit if only we could locate it,” Dad said. “Silva couldn’t evaporate into thin air.”
“This cabinet is suspicious,” I said, standing in from of the large inlaid piece of furniture that sat directly behind Silva’s throne chair.
“It’s a strange looking contraption,” Simmons agreed. “But it seems to be nothing but an empty cabinet.”
“Yet, i
t must have been placed here for a purpose,” I insisted.
I opened the door and looked inside. The cabinet was empty.
I bent over to study the floor of the cupboard.
“Come look at this!”
“Find something, Jane?” my father asked.
“A large footprint!”
“Let me see!” said Detective Simmons.
I pointed to the mark on the base of the cabinet.
“It’s a footprint all right! Silva must have escaped through this contraption, but how did he do it?”
“Here is another mark,” I said, pointing to dirty smudge on the back of the cabinet. “It looks as if a hand might have been pressed here.”
I placed my fingers over the mark and gave a slight push. The wall of the cabinet swung backward.
“A secret exit!” Simmons shouted.
Stooping to avoid striking his head, he stepped through the opening. Dad and I followed.
When we stepped out of the cabinet, we were in a narrow space which had been built within the thick walls between the rooms. Only a few steps more, and we came to a door which Detective Simmons opened. We emerged upon a fire escape leading down to the alley.
“Well, we’ve learned how Silva managed to get away,” the detective said. “But it still puzzles me how he could have rid himself of those ropes. He seemed to be securely tied.”
“The assistant may have helped him,” Dad suggested.
“That’s probably what happened, all right,” Simmons agreed.
I had an opinion of my own—a far different one—but I kept my thoughts to myself for the time being.
At the foot of the fire escape, we met Detective Lutz who had just rounded the building.
“Not a trace of Silva!” he reported. “Say, how did you get here so quick?”
“Down the fire escape,” Simmons explained. “We found a secret exit.”
While the detectives and Dad were talking amongst themselves, I explored a bit further down the alley. There was a ragged boy of ten or so squatting in a doorway. I went over to him and asked if he had been in the alley very long.
“What if I have?” he demanded suspiciously.
“I thought you might have seen a man who came down the fire escape a moment ago.”
“Sure, I seen him. Are those cops lookin’ for someone?”
Peril at the Pink Lotus: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book One) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 1) Page 11