Anne paused.
“Then what happened?” I prompted her.
“They went on strike, and Mr. Maxwell fired him and one other union man.”
“What is Mr. Maxwell like?” I asked Anne.
She shrugged.
“What I mean is, do you think he’s the sort to have a lot of enemies?”
“I know he has one, at least,” said Anne. “And I’m not referring to Fred,” she hastily added.
“Who are you referring to?”
“Someone by the name of Morris Stedman,” said Anne. “Fred witnessed a vicious argument between them.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“Not more than a week or so before Fred was fired.”
“What was the substance of the altercation between Maxwell and Stedman?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” said Anne. “Fred seemed to think it had something to do with Maxwell’s wife. But after they argued about Mrs. Maxwell for a while, Stedman changed the subject and accused Maxwell of stealing a big contract from him.”
“Someone told me that Maxwell’s first wife was Morris Stedman’s sister. Do you have any idea what big contract Stedman might have been referring to?”
Anne shrugged. She seemed to have lost interest in the subject of Mr. Maxwell and his feud with Stedman, so I returned to the matter of Fred and the police.
“Why should the police believe Fred had anything to do with the explosion?”
“Fred has a temper,” Anne said. “He and Mr. Maxwell had words.”
“What kind of words?”
“I don’t know,” said Anne. “Fred won’t tell me, but I’m sure Fred wouldn’t blow anything up, no matter how angry he got. My husband is not a violent man.”
“I think it was a grave mistake on his part to refuse to answer questions.”
“Yes, it was. But Fred has a great deal of pride, and the police never should have arrested him in the first place.”
“I certainly agree with you, but now that he’s had time to cool his heels, can’t your husband prove where he was last night at the time of the explosion?”
“That’s just it.” Anne looked troubled as she reached to take the newspaper back from me. “He refuses to offer any alibi.”
“You must know yourself where your husband spent yesterday evening.”
“I wish I did. He left here about seven o’clock and didn’t return home until early this morning—just a half hour before the police came to arrest him.”
“Oh.”
“All the same, Fred had no connection with the dynamiting,” Anne insisted. “He frequently stays out late at night.”
“Doesn’t he tell you where he goes?” I was growing uneasy. Fred Halvorson carrying on an affair behind his wife’s back was the best explanation I could come up with, and that might be only slightly less distressing to Anne than if her husband were going around dynamiting things.
Anne gave a tight little nod in answer to my question. I could see it was no use interrogating her further about her husband’s nocturnal movements.
“I can readily understand now why you’re provoked at me,” I told Anne. “But I assure you I had no intention of involving your husband with the police. I certainly never gave them his description.”
“I’m sorry I talked as I did to you,” Anne apologized. “Forget it, will you?”
“Of course, and if there’s anything I can do to help—”
The float creaked, and Anne and I turned to see Eddie Franks coming toward us.
“Miss Halvorson, wonder if I can get you to help me?”
“I suppose you’re having trouble with that motor of yours again,” sighed Anne. “Or should I say still?”
“I’ve lost it in the river,” Eddie confessed sheepishly. “Blasted thing cost me thirty dollars secondhand too.”
“In the river? What did you do, get peeved and toss it overboard?” I asked.
“Guess I didn’t have it fastened on very well. Just as I was leaving the dock, off she fell into about ten feet of water.”
“I hope you buoyed the spot,” said Anne.
“Yes, I marked it with a floating can. Some of the boys have been trying to get ’er up for me, but no luck. If you can do it, I’ll pay five dollars.”
“Well, I’m pretty busy,” Mrs. Halvorson said in a harassed voice. “Fred’s not here and it keeps me jumping to run the launch and rent the canoes. But I’ll see what I can do this afternoon.”
When Eddie was beyond hearing distance, I brought up the subject again of Fred Halvorson’s unfortunate arrest.
“I’m sorry about everything, Mrs. Halvorson. If you wish, I’ll talk to the police and assure them that so far as I know, the saboteur did not resemble your husband. It was too dark for me to really see him.”
“I’ll feel very grateful if you will speak a good word for Fred,” Anne said. She sank down on an overturned bucket and pressed a hand to her temple. “Oh, my head’s splitting! Everything’s been coming at me so fast. The police were here questioning me, and they twisted my words all around. I’ll have to raise bail for Fred, but where the money is coming from I don’t know.”
The last of my resentment toward Anne had faded away. From the jerky way Anne spoke, I knew that her thoughts were darting from one perplexing problem to another.
“I don’t know what I’m doing or saying today,” Anne said miserably. “If you can forgive me—”
“I don’t blame you a bit for speaking to me the way you did. Let’s not think any more about it, and I’ll never mention it to a soul. May I borrow a sponge for a minute?”
Eager to make amends, Anne ran into the shed and returned with a large sea sponge.
“There’s still a little water in my boat,” I explained. “Thought I’d sop it up.”
“Let me do it,” Anne offered. Without waiting for permission she went to the Maybelline, and with a friendly nod at the astonished Florence, began to sponge out the cockpit.
“I see you’ve collected one of Noah’s souvenirs,” Anne remarked a moment later, noticing the blue bottle which I had tossed into the bottom of the boat.
“We found it floating in the water,” Florence told Anne. “The message was such an odd one—an invitation to take refuge in the ark during the Great Deluge. Someone’s idea of a joke, I suppose.”
“It’s no joke,” Anne said. “Noah is a very real person. He actually lives in an ark too—a weird looking boat he built himself.”
“You mean the old fellow actually believes there’s going to be another great flood?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. Noah is so sure of it that he’s collected a regular menagerie of animals to live with him on the ark. He keeps dropping bottles into the water warning folks that the Great Deluge is coming. I fish out dozens of them here at the dock.”
“Where is the ark?” I asked.
Anne squeezed the last drop of water from the sponge and pointed diagonally upstream toward a gap in the trees.
“That’s where Bug Run empties into the river,” she explained. “Noah has his ark grounded not far from its mouth. The currents are such that whenever he dumps his bottles in the water most of them come this way.”
“Rather a nuisance, I should think.”
“Noah’s a pest!” Anne straightened from her task. “I suppose he means well, and he’s otherwise a harmless old geezer, but those bottles of his create a hazard for our boats. Fred has asked him several times not to throw them in the water, but Noah just keeps right on doing it.”
The sun now was directly overhead. I thanked Anne for her services, and Flo and I sailed on to our own dock. As we walked up the riverside path to the bus stop, I told Florence that I thought it would be a lark to visit Noah and his ark sometimes.
“Well, perhaps,” Florence said without a shred of enthusiasm.
The buses were off schedule and for a long while we waited impatiently at the street corner. I was gazing absently toward a café nearby when a short, untidy ma
n with shaggy gray hair came out of the building. I elbowed Flo in the ribs.
“Why, isn’t that Mr. Sinclair, the bridge watchman?”
“It looks like him.”
The bus was coming, but I’d lost all interest in getting on it.
“Florence, let’s talk to Mr. Sinclair.”
“But we’ll miss our bus.”
“Who cares about that?” I took Florence firmly by an elbow, pulling her along. “We may not have another chance to see Mr. Sinclair. I want to ask him why he identified the saboteur as Anne Halvorson’s husband.”
Chapter Six
Clarence Sinclair recognized Flo and me with a curt nod of his head. He responded to my greeting, but with no warmth.
“I was hoping to see you, Mr. Sinclair,” I said. “Last night Florence and I had no opportunity to express our appreciation for the way you helped us.”
“Well, I didn’t help myself any,” the old watchman broke in. “It was sure bad luck for me when your sailboat came floatin’ down the river. Now I’ve lost my job.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ve never been strong, and I can’t do hard work, not since I broke my back hunched over that dad-gummed assembly line.”
“Assembly line? Did you used to do factory work?”
Sinclair spat on the ground but declined to elaborate.
“Perhaps you can find another job as a watchman,” I suggested.
“No one will take me on after what happened last night.”
“But it wasn’t your fault the bridge was dynamited.”
“Folks always are ready to push a man down if they get the chance,” Mr. Sinclair said bitterly. “No, I’m finished in this seedy town. I’d pull out if I had the price of a ticket.”
“Maybe I can help you,” I told Mr. Sinclair.
“How can you help me?”
“My father owns the Greenville Examiner. Perhaps he can use an extra watchman at the newspaper building. If not, he may know someone who will employ you.”
“I’ve always worked around the waterfront,” Mr. Sinclair said, brightening a bit. “You know I ain’t able to do much walkin’ or any heavy lifting. Maybe your father can get me another job on a bridge.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” I said. “I’ll talk to him. Just give me your address so I can notify you later.”
Mr. Sinclair scribbled a few lines on the back of an old envelope and handed it to me. He did not express appreciation for the offer I’d made to help. He seemed to accept it as his just due.
“I suppose the police questioned you about the bridge dynamiting,” I said as I pocketed the address.
“Sure, they gave me the works. Kept me at the station half the night. Then this morning they had me identify one of the suspects.”
“Fred Halvorson?”
“Yeah.”
“Surely you didn’t identify Fred Halvorson as the saboteur?”
“I told the police he looked like the fellow. And he did.”
“But you certainly couldn’t have seen his face?” I protested. “The motorboat traveled so fast. Even when the man crawled out of the water and ran, I could only tell that he was tall and muscular. I don’t see how you could offer a positive identification. I certainly wouldn’t attempt it, and I was closer to the action than you were.”
“He looked like Halvorson to me,” the watchman insisted stubbornly. “Halvorson’s always been a troublemaker. No telling what that young fellow is capable of.”
“What do you mean, no good? What kind of trouble has he made?”
Clarence Sinclair cleared his throat loudly but declined to elaborate.
“What are you trying to insinuate?” I persisted in questioning the old watchman.
Mr. Sinclair took out a dirty handkerchief and blew his nose with all the subtlety of a bellowing bull elephant and said, “Well, guess I’ll shove on. You talk to your father and let me know about that job. I can use ’er.”
Without giving me a chance to ask any more questions, Mr. Sinclair shuffled off down the street.
“Now if things aren’t in a nice mess,” I said to Florence as we retraced our way to the bus stop. “No wonder the police held Fred Halvorson. I don’t see how Mr. Sinclair could have thought he resembled the saboteur.”
“I’m sure I didn’t get a good look at the fellow who drove the motorboat last night,” Flo said. “Mr. Sinclair must have wonderful eyes, to say the least. At his age, it’s a wonder he could distinguish anything at all in the dark, much less positively identify a man’s face from such a distance.”
Another bus came, and Flo and I got on it.
I ate luncheon, helped Mrs. Timms with the dishes and then slipped away to my father’s newspaper office.
An early afternoon edition of the Greenville Examiner had just rolled from the press. The editorial room appeared to have been visited by a whirlwind. Discarded copy lay on the floor, and there were more wads of paper around the scrap baskets than in them.
Jack Bancroft’s battered typewriter served as a comfortable footrest for his unpolished shoes. When he saw me, he removed his feet to the floor, grinned at me, then stood up and attempted to kiss me, but I sidestepped him. I’ve never been much of a one for getting hotsy-totsy in public, and besides, I was peeved with Jack.
“What’s this I hear about Fred Halvorson being arrested by the police?”
“That’s how it is.” The grin faded from Jack’s face. “Tough on DeWitt too.”
“DeWitt? It certainly is a tough break for young Fred, but what’s Editor DeWitt got to do with it?”
Jack glanced about the newsroom to make certain that DeWitt was not within hearing. Then said: “Didn’t you know? Fred Halvorson is DeWitt’s nephew. It rather puts him in a spot, being kin to a saboteur.”
“Nothing has been proved against Halvorson yet.”
“All the same, it looks bad for Fred. When the story came in it gave DeWitt a nasty jolt.”
“I should think it would. I never dreamed that DeWitt was related to the Halvorsons.”
“Neither did anyone else in the office. But you must hand it to DeWitt. He took it squarely between the eyes. Didn’t even play the story down nor ask your father to soft-pedal it.”
“Mr. DeWitt is a real newspaperman.”
“Bet your life he is. He didn’t try to bury the story, but he’s posted young Halvorson’s bail to the tune of ten thousand dollars.”
“Why, that must represent a good portion of his lifetime savings.”
“It must be, but DeWitt says the kid has been framed, and he’s going to stand by him.”
“Whoever dynamited the bridge was too far away to be positively identified. I don’t know how that old watchman, Clarence Sinclair, got it into his head that the saboteur must be Fred Halvorson. He can’t possibly have seen him properly, and I mean to tell the police so.”
“Well, we all hope for DeWitt’s sake that it is a mistake,” Jack said soberly. “But the evidence is stacking up fast. The motorboat came from Halvorson’s. Clarence Sinclair said he recognized the saboteur as young Halvorson. Then this morning police found a handkerchief with an initial ‘H’ lying along the shore not far from where the fellow crawled out of the water.”
“That’s a bit too obvious, and it’s circumstantial evidence, at best.”
“Maybe so.” Jack shrugged. “But unless young Halvorson gets a good lawyer, he’s likely to find himself doing a long stretch.”
I was so deeply troubled by this information that I failed to fend off Jack’s second attempt to kiss me, which prompted the boys in the pressroom to wolf whistle at us. I hurried off toward my father’s private office. As I passed the main copy desk where Editor DeWitt worked, I saw that his face was white and tense. Although he usually had a smile for me, he barely glanced up and did not speak.
I knocked twice and entered my father’s office. Dad had just finished dictating a letter to his secretary
, who quietly gathered up her notebook and departed.
“To what do I owe this honor?” My father asked. “I thought you were supposed to be home at home extracting Miss Airedale from the clutches of some disreputable member of the British Aristocracy.”
“It’s not Miss Airedale; it’s Miss Amhurst. And it’s a member of the German aristocracy this time.”
“Oh,” said my father, but I could tell he was not really listening. His eyes tend to glaze over when I talk about my literary characters’ dramatic entanglements.
“I’m incapable of focusing on the fictional troubles of the unfortunate Miss Amhurst,” I told my father. “I’m far too concerned at the moment with the problems of real people.”
“Oh?”
“It’s this dynamiting case that has me all tied up in knots. Dad, I want you to do me a favor. How about finding a job for Clarence Sinclair—”
“Job?”
“Yes, he was relieved of duty at the Seventh Street bridge, you know. It was partly my fault. So I want you to square matters by finding other work for him.”
“Jane, how often must I remind you I am not an employment agency. Anyway, what do I know about the man? I’ll not risk recommending a shiftless person as a potential employee to any of my friends.”
“I wouldn’t call him shiftless,” I protested, although that was how Mr. Sinclair struck me, too. “I owe him a job, Dad. He says he likes to work around the waterfront. Can’t you get him something to do? It has to be an easy job because he can’t walk, and he can’t lift anything. He’s old, you know.”
“How about I arrange a nice pension for Mr. Sinclair while I’m at it?” My father sighed. “Well, I’ll see what I can do. Now you’d better be going. I have work to do.”
My father invariably laid back his ears and balked at my little schemes, but he usually came through after indulging in what he considers an appropriate amount of backchat, so I decided to scratch a job for Mr. Sinclair off my list of pressing tasks.
After I left the newspaper office, I stopped off at the Radcliffs’ to invite Flo to accompany me on another excursion to the river.
“But we were just there a few hours ago,” Florence protested. “I’ve had enough sailing for one day.”
The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 34