“Good heavens, no. She’d have a thousand fits, even though she’d frequently enjoy a glass of after-supper sherry quite happily until prohibition kicked in and having the occasional tipple ceased to be respectable.”
We took to the road. I selected the same route which Jack and I had followed the previous night.
“Is that why we’re going to Clackston?” Florence inquired curiously after I told her the story of what had happened to the Dorner melon truck. “You intend to trace those stolen cantaloupes?”
“I haven’t much hope of doing that,” I answered. “I want to visit the telegraph office and get an original message which was sent to Dad. His life has been made miserable by a pest who keeps sending him telegrams, and I’m out to catch the rascal.”
“You jump around from one thing to another so fast I can’t keep track of your enterprises,” Florence said.
“I concentrate on the ones which offer a prospect of ready cash. If I catch Mr. Seth Burrows, it means precisely one hundred dollars to me.”
“I used to blame your mercenary nature on your poverty,” said Flo. “Now—”
“Shep asked after you the other day,” I said.
“Oh?”
“Yes, he inquired after your health.”
His exact words had been, “How’s that fatty Florence keeping?” but we lady novelists know where to prune and prevaricate. Poor Flo is hardly on the verge of qualifying for the light-heavyweight class, but as she’s in the habit of comparing herself to a platypus—to the platypus’s advantage—I didn’t think an exact quote of Shep’s words would work in his favor.
When we arrived in Clackston, we spent two hours shopping at the large department stores. I then made a tour of the telegraph offices, finally locating the one from which Mr. Burrows’ message was sent. After explaining why I wanted to see it, I was allowed to inspect and keep the original copy which bore the sender’s signature.
“I’ll turn this handwriting over to the police,” I explained to Florence. “We may be able to trace Seth Burrows by means of it.”
“Providing the man ever comes to Greenville,” Florence said skeptically. “It seems like a forlorn hope to me.”
Before I left the telegraph office, I asked the clerk who had handled the message if he could describe Seth Burrows.
“I don’t remember him well,” the young man answered. “I should say he was well dressed—probably about thirty-five years of age.”
“Not much to go on,” I said regretfully. “Thanks anyhow.”
“Where now?” Florence asked in a weary voice as we finally left the telegraph office. “Shall we buy tickets to the play?”
“Not yet. I’d like to wander around the market district a bit.”
For the next hour, we walked around a section of the city where farmers brought their produce to sell in open stalls. I went from one counter to another, inspecting cantaloupes, hoping to find one which bore the Dorner stamp.
“I’m getting tired of pawing vegetables,” Florence complained. “When do we eat?”
“I had not observed you in the act of pawing any vegetables.” I protested. “But perhaps I have been under a misapprehension, lo these many years, that melons are classified as fruits.”
Florence sighed deeply and muttered something under her breath about “blasted melons.”
Scandalous words, indeed, from the mouth of a clergyman’s daughter.
“All right, we may as well call it a day,” I reluctantly gave in.
In the downtown section of the city, we found a small cafe which advertised a deluxe dinner for one dollar. We enjoyed a leisurely meal and then bought theater tickets.
“Jane, do you realize what all this is costing us?” Florence began to worry belatedly.
“Oh, I’ll soon make it up,” I said. “Wait until I capture Seth Burrows. With my profit from him, we’ll paint the town red.”
The play was an excellent one, and when the curtain fell, neither Flo nor I begrudged the money we’d paid for our tickets.
“It’s been a grand day,” Florence said as we left the theater. “Let’s get home now as quickly as we can.”
The drive to Greenville consumed nearly an hour. As we approached the Moresby Tower, I noted that the hands on the illuminated clock face pointed to twelve o’clock.
“The witching hour of midnight,” Florence said. “Do you still think that mechanical creature has supernatural powers?”
“Quiet!” I commanded, idling the car as the big clock began to strike. “I’m going to count the strokes.”
“I’ll do it too, just so you can’t pull a fast one on me. That’s two now.”
As each slow note sounded, Florence counted it aloud. She paused when she reached twelve, but the clock did not. There was a slight break, then another stroke.
“It did strike thirteen,” said Flo. “Or perhaps I became mixed up.”
“You made no mistake,” I said, easing the car to a standstill by the curb. “It struck thirteen, and that last stroke wasn’t like the others.”
“It did seem to have a slightly different tone. I wonder why?”
“Someone must have struck the bell an extra tap. Florence, don’t you see? It must be a signal.”
Chapter Fourteen
“You have the craziest ideas, Jane,” Florence scoffed. “I’ll admit the clock struck an extra time, but it must have been because something is wrong with the mechanism. A signal, my eye!”
Lowering the car window, I peered curiously up at the tower which was shrouded in mist.
“Flo, there’s someone up there in the cupola. I suppose it must be Clarence Fitzpatrick.”
“You can’t make a mystery out of Clarence.” Florence yawned and stretched uncomfortably in the passenger seat. “Probably he’s trying to repair the clock. Come on, let’s get home.”
I reluctantly raised the window glass, but before I could drive on, another car pulled up not far from the tower. The driver, a man in an overcoat, swung open the door, but observing Bouncing Betsy parked close by, he seemed to change his mind. He kept his head lowered so that his face was in shadow and drove away.
“Who was that man, I wonder?” I said.
“I’m afraid I neglected to inquire,” Florence said pettishly. “So careless of me.”
“Whoever he was, he intended to enter the tower. When he saw us here, he became nervous and drove away.”
“Oh, Jane, you’re the limit.”
“Maybe I am, but I know what I think. The striking of the clock was a signal for some sort of meeting at the tower.”
“A board of directors’ conference, perhaps?” Flo suggested. “Or perhaps they too have a bottle of booze stashed somewhere where their Temperance Society wives won’t find it.”
“Listen,” I said, ignoring her jibes. “I want to park the car on a side street, and then come back here on foot. Something is up, and I mean to find out what it is.”
“Oh, Jane,” Florence sighed. “If I don’t get home soon, Mother will be back from her meeting. She doesn’t spare a thought to what I do in her absence, but if I’m not home to commiserate and sympathize with her about the trials of chairing the Temperance Society committee for the advancement of public morals and the betterment of society she’ll blow a gusset. I may have neglected to mention it before, but a Mrs. Arnold Pruitt—wife of one of the partners at Pruitt and Lawson, Attorneys-at-Law—has recently been voicing concern that Mother is overworking herself by taking on so much responsibility as chair of such a large number of local clubs. Mother is convinced that Mrs. Pruitt is positioning herself to stage a coup. Mother’s right, of course.”
“It’d do your mother a world of good to relinquish a few of her responsibilities,” I said. “Well, it’d do her clubs a world of good, anyway. She runs every organization she’s in charge of like a despot.”
“That may be your opinion, and doubtless many would agree with you, but you don’t have to live with her and listen to an endless recit
ation of the wrongs against her. If I’m not on hand to lend a loyal ear when she gets home—don’t you realize what time it is?”
“Thirteen o’clock,” I said. “It may never be that again, so I must strike while the clock strikes, so to speak. How about it?”
“Well, it’s your car.” Flo shrugged. “I’m powerless in your hands.”
I drove around the block and parked. Flo and I got out and approached the tower on foot, taking care to keep close to a high hedge which edged the grounds.
“I never felt sillier in all my life,” Florence complained. “What are we supposed to do now?”
“Windows were made to look through,” I said. “Let’s see what Clarence Fitzpatrick is doing inside the tower.”
We circled the building until we came to a window. I placed a rock beneath it. From that precarious perch, I was able to peer into the living quarters of the tower.
“Well, what do you see, Sherlock?” Florence demanded impatiently.
“Nothing.”
“How perfectly amazing. What do you make of it?”
“Clarence Fitzpatrick seems to be reading a newspaper.”
“Baffling! It must have some deep, dark significance,” said Flo. “Better call the police. We can’t have the citizenry of Greenville committing such rash and dangerous acts as reading newspapers in the privacy of their own homes.”
With a sigh, I stepped down from the rock.
“Want to look?” I asked Flo.
“I do not.”
“Then I guess we may as well go home,” I said reluctantly.
As I spoke, I heard an automobile pull up in front of the tower. With reviving hope, I placed a restraining hand on Florence’s arm, forcing her to wait in the shadow of the building. A minute elapsed and then the front door of the tower slammed shut. Without the slightest hesitation, I moved once more to my previous position beneath the rear window.
“Clarence has some visitors,” I reported to Flo in a whisper. “Four men I never saw before. I wish I could hear what they are saying.”
“Why not smash the window, or saw a hole through the wall?” Flo suggested. If she were a donkey, she’d have had her ears laid back.
I stepped from the rock, offering the place to Flo.
“Do look inside,” I urged her. “Maybe you’ll recognize those men. It’s really important.”
Florence unwillingly did as I requested.
“I never saw any of them, either,” she said, climbing back down off the rock. “They must be friends of Clarence Fitzpatrick.”
“It’s a special meeting,” I insisted. “I suspect other men may come along within a few minutes.”
“I know one thing,” Florence said. “I’ll not be here to see them. If you’re not ready to go home, then I shall walk.”
“Oh, all right, I’ll come with you. It seems a pity, though, just when we might have learned something important.”
I returned the stone to its original location and hurried after Flo. We drove to the Radcliff home.
“Sorry to have spoiled your fun, Jane,” Flo apologized as she said goodnight. “If you’ll only arrange to conduct your explorations by daylight, I’ll try to cooperate.”
When I arrived home, I found my father waiting up for me. He had attended a meeting of the Camp Fund board that evening, and upon returning at eleven-thirty was disturbed to find me still out.
I greeted him before he could speak. “I know you must have been worried, but I can explain everything.”
“You’re always able to explain—too well,” Dad responded dryly. “Mrs. Timms expected that you would be home not later than eleven o’clock.”
“Well, one thing just seemed to lead to another, Dad. Florence and I saw a wonderful show, I obtained a copy of Seth Burrows’ signature, and then to top it off, the Moresby clock struck thirteen again.”
“Which in your estimation explains everything?”
“I wish it did,” I said, neatly changing the subject. “Dad, Florence and I saw a number of men going into the tower tonight. They were summoned there by the striking of the clock.”
“Tommyrot.”
“Oh, Dad, you haven’t a scrap of imagination,” I said. “Has it never occurred to you that Clarence Fitzpatrick may be connected with the Hoodlums?”
“Never, and, if I were you, I shouldn’t go around making such wild suggestions. You might find yourself involved in serious trouble.”
“You’re the only one to whom I’ve confided my theory, Dad. In fact, it only this minute occurred to me.”
“So, I thought, Jane. If I were you, I would forget the Moresby clock. Why not devote yourself to something worthwhile?”
“For instance?”
“I’ll provide an interesting job. I’ve been asked to select play equipment for the new orphans’ camp. I’ll be happy to turn the task over to you. You can learn from the matron of the home what is needed, and then make your selection.”
“I’ll be glad to do it, Dad. When is the camp to open?”
“The actual date hasn’t been set, but it will be soon. That is, unless a serious disagreement arises about the campsite.”
“A disagreement?”
“Yes, Mr. Bronson is trying to influence the board to buy a tract of land which he controls.”
“At a very high price?”
“No, the price seems to be fair enough. I personally don’t care for the site, however. It’s located on the river, but too close to the swamp.”
“Then why does the board consider it?”
“Mr. Bronson gave a very generous donation, you remember. I figured at the time he would expect something in return.”
“He’ll profit by the sale?”
“I don’t know who owns the land, but Bronson will receive a commission on the sale. The board also is considering a wooded property closer to Greenville, and I favor that site.”
“Will the board listen to you, Dad?”
“I rather doubt it. My objections weren’t especially vigorous. Either property will be satisfactory, and Bronson’s price is a trifle more attractive.”
My father yawned, then got up and locked the front door.
“It’s after one,” he said. “Let’s get to bed.”
I started up the stairway, only to pause as the telephone rang. While my father answered it, I waited, curious to learn who would be calling at such a late hour. In a moment he replaced the receiver on its hook.
“That was the night editor of the Examiner,” he explained briefly.
“Has a big story broken, Dad?”
“Another storage barn was burned to the ground about ten minutes ago. The night editor called to ask how I wanted the story handled.”
“It was done by the Hoodlums!”
“It looks that way.”
I came slowly down the stairway to face my father.
“Dad, if the fire was set only a few minutes ago, doesn’t that support my theory?”
“Which theory? You have so many.”
“I mean about the Moresby Tower,” I said soberly. “The clock struck thirteen on the night the Franklin barn was destroyed. Don’t you see, Dad? The Hoodlums hold their meetings and then ride forth to accomplish their underhanded work.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Jane, let’s postpone this animated discussion until morning,” my father said wearily, reaching to switch out the light.
“Then you don’t agree with me that the caretaker of the tower may have some connection with the Hoodlums, Dad?”
“I certainly do not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to bed.”
I followed my father upstairs. For several minutes I stood by the window in my bedroom, looking toward the Moresby Tower. Then, with a shrug, I too dismissed the subject from my mind and gave myself over to slumber.
My father had gone to the office by the time I got up the next morning. I eagerly scanned the newspaper he’d left by his plate for an account of the midnight fire. To my disappoi
ntment, only a brief item appeared on the front page. The story merely said that the barn of Thomas Hancock, truck farmer, had been destroyed by a blaze of unknown origin. In the right-hand column was another news item to the effect that Sheriff Daniels had made no progress in tracing the missing Sidney Dorner.
I tossed aside the paper and helped Mrs. Timms with the breakfast dishes.
“I’m expected to outfit the playground for the Greenville Orphans’ new camp,” I told our housekeeper. “I’ll be making another trip to Clackston today to look at equipment.”
My next move was to induce Florence to accompany me on the excursion.
“I can come with you,” Flo agreed, “but only if I’m home by nine. Mrs. Pruitt has set in motion a whisper campaign that Mother is suffering from a difficult ‘time of life’ and isn’t the woman she once was. After the Ladies’ Aid Society Meeting Mother is sure to be in quite a state. I’ll need to be on hand to talk her down from throwing in the towel and resigning all her positions just to prove how indispensable she is to the life of the community.”
“Is your mother suffering from a difficult ‘time of life’?” I asked.
“Every time of life with my mother has been difficult. The main thing is that she must not be allowed to resign her positions.”
“Why not?”
“I fear the community might find they can do perfectly fine without her.”
“Would that really be so bad?”
“If Mother no longer expends all her considerable energy on keeping the community organized, she’ll have nothing to do but keep Father and me toeing the mark and up to scratch.” Flo shuddered a little at the thought. “I can cope,” she continued. “Mother’s been organizing me since birth, but Father—he’s the sort who only thrives in an atmosphere of benign neglect. I fear having Mother home all day long hovering over him would send him to an early grave.”
Before heading to Clackston, Flo and I called at the Greenville Orphans’ Home to talk with the matron. There I obtained a list of playground equipment to be purchased, with suggested prices for each item.
As we were leaving the institution, we met Miss Crismond, and I paused to inquire after Amelia.
The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 9