“Seth Burrows’ telegram?”
“I’m afraid it was,” Dad admitted. “The message came to two dollars. I didn’t know DeWitt had hired a correspondent in the town of Altona. Naturally, I jumped to conclusions.”
“So you lost a news story because you refused a bona fide telegram,” I said, shaking my head. “Seth Burrows scores again.”
“You see what I’m up against,” Dad growled. “I’d give a hundred dollars to be rid of that pest.”
“You really mean that?”
“My peace of mind would be well worth the price.”
I didn’t really need the money, not after getting that fat advance from Litchfield Press, but old habits die hard, and as a wise man once said, “Every little bit added to what you’ve got makes just a little bit more.”
“In that case,” I told my father, “I may apply my own brain to the task. I could use a hundred dollars.”
The discussion was interrupted by Mrs. Timms, who called down the stairs that dinner was ready. As my father took his usual place at the dining room table, he saw a yellow envelope lying on his plate.
“What’s this?”
“A telegram,” explained Mrs. Timms. “It came only a moment ago. I paid the boy.”
“How much was the message?” Dad asked.
“A dollar and a half.” Mrs. Timms looked at Dad anxiously. “Did I do anything I shouldn’t have? I supposed, of course, that you would want me to accept the message.”
“This is just too, too good!” I chuckled. “Everything so perfectly timed, almost as if it were a play.”
“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Timms said. “Have I done something I shouldn’t—”
“It was not your fault,” my father assured her. “In the future, however, refuse to accept any collect message.”
My father did not open the telegram, so I seized upon it.
“This is from a man who calls himself Isaac Fullerton,” I said.
“Merely one of Seth Burrows’ many names.”
“Ah, this is a gem!” I read aloud: “‘Here is a suggestion for your rotten rag. Why not print it on yellow paper? I know you will not use it because editors think they know everything. I once knew a reader who got a little good out of your paper. He used it to clean the garbage can.’”
“How dreadful!” Mrs. Timms said.
“Jane, if you insist upon reading another line, I shall leave the table,” my father snapped. “I’ve had quite enough of Seth Burrows.”
“I’m sorry, Dad.” I slipped the message into my pocket. “I can appreciate that this doesn’t seem very funny to you.”
The telegram was not mentioned again. Nevertheless, my father’s good humor had given way to moody silence, contributing no cheer to the evening meal. Mrs. Timms kept glancing uneasily over at Dad, fearful that she had offended him. Only I, whose appetite never failed, seemed to be enjoying Mrs. Timms’ kidney bean masala stew.
“Dad,” I said, breaking the silence, “I have an idea how Seth Burrows might be trailed.”
“Never mind telling me,” Dad said. “I prefer not to hear his name mentioned.”
“As you like. I shall shroud myself in mystery and silence as I work. But when the case is ended, I’ll present my bill.”
I had scant hope that I’d be able to turn the elusive Seth Burrows over to the police. The wily fellow was far too clever ever to file two messages from the same telegraph office, and very seldom from the same city. However, the town of Clackston, from which the last message was sent, was only fifty-five miles away. It had occurred to me that by going there, I might obtain from telegraph officials the original message filed. In that way, I’d at least have Seth Burrows’ signature, and while it wouldn’t be much, it would represent a start.
As always, my greatest problem was insufficient time. Much as I desired to drive to Clackston, I knew it would be out of the question for several days. Not only must arrangements for the orphans’ melon party be completed, but other interests demanded my attention. After getting Perpetua off to a promising start, I’d gotten her marooned on a deserted island off the coast of Newfoundland, and I didn’t know quite how to extricate her. I regretted allowing her to rashly torch all the lifeboats of the sunken ship after discovering the dastardly Duke—the only other survivor of the shipwreck—was attempting to row to freedom and leave Perpetua behind to certain death. I was considering having my heroine captured by a passing band of cutthroat pirates, but that still left me with the task of removing the Duke from the deserted island. Somehow, leaving him there to starve or freeze to death—pick your poison—seemed a coward’s way out and significantly reduced the dramatic potential for the remaining eighteen chapters.
Temporarily dismissing Seth Burrows, dastardly Dukes and deserted islands from my mind, I devoted myself to plans for the melon party.
With Flo’s help, we easily obtained enough cars to transport the orphans, and the following night, sixty giddy orphans were transported to the Dorner farm. With shrieks of laughter, the boys and girls took possession of the melon patch.
“Pick all you like from the vines,” I told them, “but don’t touch any of the crated ones.”
In the yard not far from the storage barn stood a truck loaded with melons which were ready for the market.
“This must represent the cream of Mrs. Franklin’s crop,” Jack said, lifting the canvas which covered the load. “Maybe she’ll be luckier than her neighbors, the Dunsts.”
“What happened to them?” I asked. This was the first I was hearing about misfortune befalling the Dunsts.
“Don’t you ever read the Examiner?”
“I didn’t today. Too busy. Tell me about the Dunsts, Jack.”
“Mr. Dunst was taking a load of melons to market. Another truck brushed him on the River Road. The melon truck upset, and the entire shipment was lost.”
“Can’t he get damages?”
“Dunst didn’t learn who was responsible.”
“Was it an accident or done deliberately?”
“Sheriff Daniels thinks it was an accident, but I’m inclined to believe otherwise.”
“Why should anyone wish to make trouble for Mr. Dunst, Jack? All his life he has stayed on his little truck farm, and strictly attended to his own affairs.”
“There’s only one possible reason so far as I know,” Jack answered. “Not long ago, Dunst refused to join the Browning County Cooperative, an organization that markets crops for the truck farmers.”
“And you believe the Hoodlums may be connected with the Cooperative?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Jack said. “Fact is, the Browning Cooperative always has had a good reputation.”
“There’s no question the Franklin barn was destroyed by the Hoodlums. Although the evidence pointed to Sidney Dorner, I’ve never felt satisfied he was guilty.”
“I agree,” said Jack. “Another thing I keep mulling over is what that melon sorter said yesterday.”
“You mean his hint that something might happen to Mrs. Dorner’s crop?”
“Yes. I think he knew more than he let on.”
“The Hoodlums will have to work fast if they mean to destroy the Dorners’ melons. Besides, didn’t the sheriff uncover proof that Sidney Dorner is a member of the organization?”
“That’s what he says, but I wonder about that, too.”
Not far from the truck was a small pile of discarded melons, culls which were misshapen or overripe. Selecting one, Jack tossed it into the air and caught it.
“Just the right size for a hand grenade,” he remarked. “Watch!”
He threw the melon hard against the barn. It burst against the siding, breaking into a dozen fragments and leaving an unsightly blotch of oozing seeds.
“Jack, you shouldn’t do that,” I said. “Mrs. Dorner won’t like it, and she’s been so kind to let us have the party here.”
“Okay, I’ll be good,” Jack promised. “The temptation was just too stron
g to resist.”
By this time, the hubbub in the melon patch had slightly subsided as the youngsters gained their fill of cantaloupes. Soon institution officials began to herd the children back to the waiting cars. Several lads protested at the early termination of the party.
“Do let the boys stay a while longer,” I said. “Jack and I will bring them back in a few minutes.”
“Very well,” the matron consented. “But don’t allow them to eat so many melons that they will be sick.”
The responsibility of looking after six orphans weighed heavily upon me. After the cars had driven away, Jack and I patrolled the patch, trying vainly to maintain order. With institution authorities no longer present, the boys proceeded to enjoy themselves. They ran races down the furrows, lassoed one another with vines, and pelted ripe melons against the fence posts.
“Hey, you little rascals” Jack shouted. “Cut it out, or you’ll be going back to the home in short order.”
“Says who?” mocked one saucy little fellow in a piping voice.
“Quiet, everyone,” I commanded. “Listen!”
It was the clatter of horses’ hoofs. Two horsemen, black hoods covering their faces, rode at a hard gallop toward the storage barn.
Chapter Eleven
“The nightshirt riders,” Jack said. “Duck down, everyone!”
The six lads from the Greenville Home and I crouched low, watching the approach of the two riders.
“One of those men may be Sidney Dorner, but I doubt it,” muttered Jack. “They’re here to destroy the crated cantaloupes.”
“Jack, we can’t let them get away with it,” I said. “Why not pelt them with melons when they get closer?”
“Okay,” Jack said grimly, “we’ll give ’em a spoiled cantaloupe blitz. Gather your ammunition, gang, and get ready!”
Screened from the approaching horsemen by trees and bushes, we hastily collected a few overripe cantaloupes which were small enough to throw with accuracy.
Unaware of the barrage awaiting them, the two hooded men rode into the yard.
“Now!” Jack gave the signal. “Let ’em have it!”
Taking careful aim, he hurled his own melon with all his strength. It found its mark, striking one of the men with stunning force, nearly causing him to fall from the saddle.
The boys from the orphans’ home and I concentrated our efforts on the other horseman. While many of our shots were wild, a few went true. One struck the horse which reared suddenly on her hind legs, unseating the rider.
“Give it to him!” Jack shouted, observing that the fallen man was unhurt.
Handicapped by lack of ammunition, there followed a brief lull in the battle as we replenished our stock of cantaloupes. Seizing the opportunity, one of the night riders galloped away. The other man, who had lost his horse, scrambled into the cab of the loaded melon truck.
“He’s going to drive off,” I cried. “Let’s stop him!”
Jack and I ran toward the truck, but we were too late. The giant motor started with a roar, and the heavy vehicle rolled out of the yard.
Just then, Mrs. Dorner came running from the cabin.
“My melons!” she screamed. “They’ve taken my melons! Oh, I was afraid something like this would happen.”
“Maybe I can overtake that fellow,” Jack called to Mrs. Dorner. “Ride herd on these kids until I get back.”
As he ran toward his own car, I was close at his heels. I slid into the seat beside him, and we raced down the lane.
“Which way did the truck go?” Jack asked. “I was so excited I forgot to notice.”
“It turned right. No sign of it now, though.”
“The fellow is running without lights to make it harder for us to follow him.”
Jack and I were hopeful that we could overtake the truck, which carried a heavy load. However, we were delayed several minutes in getting started, and as the miles fell away behind us, we saw no more of the melon truck.
“He must have turned off on that little side road we passed a quarter of a mile back,” I said. “Switch off the engine a minute.”
Jack brought the car to a standstill. We listened intently. From far over the hills we thought we could hear the muffled roar of a powerful motor.
“You’re right, Jane. He turned off at that side road,” Jack said, backing the coupe around. “We’ll get him yet.”
We retraced our route down the narrow rutty road. Five minutes later, rounding a sharp bend, we caught our first glimpse of the truck, a dark object silhouetted in the moonlight. It remained visible only for a moment, and then, descending a hill, was lost to view.
“We’re gaining fast,” Jack said. “It won’t be long now.”
The coupe rattled over a bridge. For no reason at all, it began to bump, a loud pounding noise coming from the rear of the car.
“A flat,” Jack said. “Just our luck.”
Jacked pulled up at the side of the road, and we jumped out to look at the tires. Just as he had feared, the left rear one was down.
“We’ll probably lose that fellow now,” he said.
I held the flashlight while Jack worked as fast as he could to change the tire. However, nearly fifteen minutes elapsed before we were ready to take to the road again.
“We may as well turn back,” Jack said, tossing the tools into the back of the car. “How about it?”
“Oh, let’s keep on a little farther,” I pleaded. “If we drive fast we might still overtake him.”
Without much hope, we resumed pursuit. Tires whined a protest as we swung around sharp corners, and the motor began to overheat.
“This old bus can’t take it anymore,” Jack said, slowing down again. “No sense in ruining the car.”
I was watching the road carefully. We had passed no bisecting highways, so I felt certain that the truck could not have turned off. On either side of the unpaved thoroughfare were lonely stretches of swamp and woods.
“Let’s not turn back yet,” I pleaded. “We still have a chance.”
“Okay, but don’t forget we have six orphans waiting for us at the Dorner place.”
We drove on for another eight miles until we reached a welcome stretch of pavement.
“We must be getting near the state line,” Jack said.
Directly ahead was a tiny brick building with an official waiting inside to inspect cars which passed through. A series of markers warned us to halt.
As Jack drew up, a man came from the little building.
“Carrying any shrubs, plants or fruit?” he began, but Jack cut him short.
“We’re following a stolen truck. Has a red truck loaded with cantaloupes gone through here tonight?”
“I checked one through about fifteen minutes ago.”
“Fifteen minutes!” Jack groaned. “That finishes us.”
“The trucker could have reached Clackston by this time,” the inspector said. “Once in the city, you wouldn’t have much chance to pick him up. I have the truck license number, though. If you’ll give me all the facts, I’ll make a report to Clackston police.”
There was no point in pursuing the thief any farther. Jack and I provided the requested information and then drove to the Dorner farm. We told Mrs. Dorner of our failure to overtake the melon thief.
“I’ve lost my crop, the truck—everything,” she said. “What’s the use trying, anyhow? A body would be smarter to go along with ’em than to try to fight.”
“I take it you have a pretty fair idea who it was that came here tonight? Who are these hoodlums?” Jack asked.
“I don’t dare tell you,” the woman said. “You saw what they did tonight. They threw the blame of the Franklin fire on Sidney. They’ll do even worse things if I don’t keep mum.”
“You want to help your husband, don’t you?” I asked.
“Of course I do, but I know better than to talk.”
“You’ve been warned to keep quiet?” Jack asked.
“Yes, I have. Now don’t
ask me any more questions. I’ve told you too much already.”
“I just want to know one thing,” Jack said. “Did your trouble start because you and your husband refused to join the Browning Cooperative?”
“Maybe it did,” the woman answered, her voice barely above a whisper. “I ain’t saying.”
“Well, we thank you for hosting the party for the orphans,” I said. “I’m sorry the evening turned out so badly for you.”
We rounded up the six reluctant orphans from the hayloft where a boisterous game of hide and seek was in progress.
“I can jam four into my coupe if you can handle the other two in your car,” Jack told me. “If they give you any trouble, just toot the horn twice, and I’ll come back and settle with ’em!”
“Oh, we’ll get along fine,” I said. “Come along, boys.”
“Here’s a souvenir to remember the night by,” Jack said. From the ground, he picked up two melons which he handed to the orphans. “Just don’t sock the matron with them when you get back to the home.”
“Jack, let me see one of those melons,” I said. “They fell from the truck, didn’t they?”
“I guess so. What about ’em?”
“I’ll show you.”
I turned on the dash light of the car and held the melon in its warm glow. I turned it over in my hands.
“There,” I said, pointing to a tiny triangle shaped marking on the cantaloupes. “This may prove a clue which will lead to the capture of the thief.”
“I don’t get it. What clue?”
“There’s stamping on the melon. The hoodlums must intend to sell that load of cantaloupes. If they do, we should be able to trace the shipment.”
Chapter Twelve
Jack took the melon from my hand to examine it.
“This stamp may be helpful,” he said, “but I doubt it. The hoodlums never would be so stupid as to sell melons which could be traced. No, I think our investigation will have to center close at home.”
“You’re referring to the Browning Cooperative, Jack?”
“That outfit certainly merits an investigation. In the morning I’ll jog out to their packing plant and talk to the manager, Harold Browning.”
The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 7