“Even so, I fail to see—”
I was pacing now, from one end of the hallway to the other and back again.
“According to the report, Dad’s car was practically forced off the road. I think that auto crash was deliberately engineered. Don’t you understand, Mrs. Timms? He’s fallen into the clutches of cut-throat criminals.”
“Now, Jane, I’m sure we’re making far too much of the accident. We’ll soon hear from your father.”
“You’re saying that to comfort me, Mrs. Timms,” I wailed, “but I won’t be comforted. Something dreadful has happened. I can feel it.”
I ceased pacing the floor and went to the hall closet for my hat and coat.
“Where are you going?” Mrs. Timms asked.
“To the newspaper office. If word comes, I want to be there to get it the very first minute.”
Mrs. Timms started to protest, then changed her mind. She merely said: “Telephone me the moment you have any news.”
A brisk walk to the Examiner office did much to restore my sagging morale. As I entered the newsroom, brushing snow from my coat, I saw a group of reporters gathered about Mr. DeWitt’s desk.
Glimpsing me, the men at the desk began to scatter. They looked at me in such a kind, sympathetic manner that I became frightened again. Jack detached himself from the crowd and wrapped his arms around me.
“What is it, Jack? Has Dad been found?”
He shook his head.
“But you must have had some news,” I insisted. “Please don’t hide anything from me.”
“You’d best hear it from me,” Mr. DeWitt said quietly at my elbow.
He held up a piece of paper. “We found this letter in your father’s wastebasket.”
I took the note. Silently I read the message which had been typed in capital letters.
“MR. FIELDING,” it warned, “THIS IS TO ADVISE YOU TO LAY OFF ON BOOTLEG LIQUOR STORIES IN YOUR PAPER. UNLESS YOU CHANGE YOUR POLICY, YOU MAY WAKE UP DEAD IN A DITCH.”
Chapter Seven
“I’d rather not have shown that note to you,” Mr. DeWitt said quietly. “We found it only a moment ago.”
“How did it get in Dad’s wastebasket?” I asked. “Do you suppose he threw it there himself?”
“That’s my guess. Your father makes it a practice to disregard all anonymous correspondence.”
I reread the threatening note, trying not to show how much it disturbed me. “I wonder if this came by mail.”
“We don’t know,” DeWitt replied. “There was no envelope in the basket.”
“Dad never mentioned any such note to me. Probably thought I’d worry about it. This makes the situation look bad, doesn’t it, Mr. DeWitt?”
The editor weighed his words carefully before he spoke. “It doesn’t prove that your father was waylaid by enemies, Jane. Not at all. According to reports, Mr. Fielding was involved in an ordinary automobile accident, and left the scene of his own free will.”
“With a woman who drove a black car?”
“Yes, according to eyewitnesses, she offered to take him to a hospital for treatment.”
“But what became of that woman?” I asked. “Can’t the police find her?”
“Not so far,” Jack said.
Before DeWitt could say anything more, Jonathon Pim came to the desk and spread out a dummy sheet for the editor to inspect.
“Here’s the front-page layout,” Pim announced. “For the banner, we’ll give ’em, ‘Anthony Fielding Mysteriously Disappears,’ and beneath it, a double column story. I dug a good picture out of the morgue—the one with Fielding dedicating the Greenville Orphans’ Home.”
DeWitt frowned as he studied the layout. “Fielding wouldn’t like this, Pim. It’s too sensational. Bust that banner and cut the story down to the bare facts.”
“But this is a big story—”
“I’m expecting Mr. Fielding to walk in here any minute,” retorted DeWitt. “A ‘disappearance’ spread will only make the Examiner look ridiculous.”
“Fielding’s not going to show up,” Pim shot back, his eyes blazing. “I say we should play the story for all it’s worth.”
“You should know by now, Mr. Pim, how my father hates sensationalism,” I said, siding with Mr. DeWitt.
“DeWitt’s right,” said Jack. “The Chief will blow a gasket when he comes back and—”
“If he comes back,” Pim interrupted and swore under his breath.
“Watch what you say,” said Jack. “The man in question’s daughter is present.”
Pim glared at me but shut his trap.
“Cut the story down,” DeWitt ordered. “And try to find a more suitable picture of Mr. Fielding.”
Pim swept the dummy sheet from the desk, crumpling it in his hand. As he started for the morgue where pictures were filed, he again muttered to himself.
“Don’t know what’s got into that fellow lately,” DeWitt sighed.
The editor sat down rather heavily. He looked tired and pale. For fifteen years, DeWitt had been my father’s faithful righthand man.
“Do you feel well, Mr. DeWitt?” I asked.
“Not so hot,” he admitted, reaching for a pencil. “Lately I’ve been having a little pain in my side—it’s nothing, though. Just getting old, that’s all.”
“Why not take the day off, Mr. DeWitt? You’ve been working too hard.”
“Now wouldn’t this be a fine time to go home?” the editor barked. “Hard work agrees with me.”
Reminded that I was keeping both Jack and Mr. DeWitt from their duties, I left the Examiner office and walked to the nearby police station.
At the station, I was courteously received by Chief Johanson, a personal friend of Dad’s.
“We’ll find your father,” Chief Johanson assured me confidently. “His description has been broadcast over the radio. We’ve instructed all our men to be on the watch for him.”
I broached the possibility that my father had been waylaid by enemies.
“Facts fail to support such a theory,” replied Chief Johanson. “It’s my opinion your father will show up any hour, wondering what the fuss is all about.”
I left the police station slightly more optimistic. Almost without thinking, I chose a route which led toward the scene of the accident. When I reached the street, I noted that my father’s battered car had been towed away. All broken glass had been swept from the pavement.
I wished that I had remained longer at the scene and questioned more of the bystanders. It had not occurred to me at the time that Dad might simply disappear from the wreckage.
There was a candy store which fronted the street close to the bent lamppost. I went inside.
“I’m not a customer,” I explained to the grandmotherly woman behind the counter. I told her that my father had been injured in the car accident and that I was seeking information.
“I’ve already been questioned by police detectives,” the woman replied. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you very much.”
“Did you witness the accident?”
“Oh, yes, I saw it, but it happened so fast I wasn’t sure whose fault it was.”
“You didn’t take down the license number of the blue hit-and-run car?”
“Was it blue?” the woman asked. “I thought it was maroon and told the police so.”
“My information came from a small boy, so he may have been mistaken. Did you notice the woman who offered my father a ride?”
“She was around forty.”
“Well dressed?”
“Rather plainly, I would say. But she drove a fine, late-model car.”
“Would you consider her a woman of means?”
“Judging from the car—yes, although her clothing seemed a bit on the shabby side.”
I asked many more questions, trying to gain an accurate picture of the woman who had driven off with my father. I was somewhat reassured when the candy shop owner insisted that Dad had entered the car of his own free will.
&nbs
p; “Did he seem at all dazed by the accident?” I asked.
“Well, yes, he did. I saw your father get into the car sort of holding his head. Then he asked the woman to stop at the curb.”
“Why was that?”
“He’d forgotten something—a leather carrying case. At any rate, he returned to his own auto for it. Then he drove away with the woman.”
As puzzled as ever, I went out on the street once more. The weather had turned even colder, but I scarcely felt the icy blast that whipped my face.
It was silly to worry, I told myself. All the facts supported Police Chief Johanson’s belief that my father would soon return home. Mrs. Timms was confident he would be found safe—so was Mr. DeWitt. After all, only five hours had elapsed since the accident. It could hardly even be considered a disappearance after such a short period of time.
But try as I might, I could not free my mind of grave misgivings. I could not forget the mysterious telephone call, the threatening letter, or Jonathon Pim’s cocksure opinion that my father would not be found.
I stood disconsolate, gazing into the whirling snowstorm until Jack materialized at the curb—he must have returned to the scene of the accident out of the same impulse that had drawn me there—but he did not linger. Instead, he bundled me into his car and took me home to Mrs. Timms.
Chapter Eight
I slept fitfully and left for the Examiner office as soon as it was light. Throughout the long night, there had been no word from my father.
At every street corner, newsboys shouted the latest headlines—that Anthony Fielding, owner of the Greenville Examiner, had been missing nearly twenty-four hours. Even the Examiner itself carried a black, ugly banner across its front page.
I bought a copy on the street corner and read the story with distaste while drinking a cup of black coffee at the counter of the Bean Pot. I couldn’t understand why Mr. DeWitt had such a sensational story into print. He’d shown no inclination to allow Pim to have his way the previous afternoon.
After finishing my coffee, I entered the lobby of the Examiner building and pressed the elevator button. A long time elapsed before the cage descended. To my surprise, I saw that it was operated, not by Jeremiah Jones, the usual attendant, but by Alfred Hodges, a janitor.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Ma’am,” Hodges apologized. “I’m not much good at operating this contraption.”
“Where is Jeremiah this morning?”
“Fired.”
I could not hide my amazement. Mr. Jones had been employed for ten years at the Examiner building. I’d never before heard a single complaint.
“It’s a shame if you ask me,” Alfred said.
“What happened? Who discharged Mr. Jones?”
“That guy Pim.”
“Jonathon Pim? But he has no authority.”
“An acting editor can fire and hire. I think he was just tryin’ out his stuff on poor old Jeremiah.”
“But Pim isn’t acting editor. During my father’s absence, Mr. DeWitt is in full charge here,” I said emphatically.
“DeWitt was in charge, but they hauled him off to the hospital last night with a bad pain in his tummy. Seems he had an appendicitis attack. The doctor rushed him off and didn’t even wait until morning to operate.”
The news stunned me. I murmured that I hoped Mr. DeWitt was doing well.
“Reckon he is,” Alfred said. “We all chipped in and sent him some flowers. Jeremiah gave fifty cents, too.”
“What reason did Mr. Pim give for discharging Mr. Jones?” I asked.
The janitor pressed a button, and the cage moved slowly upward.
“Jeremiah was due on at midnight,” he explained. “But he didn’t get here until after two o’clock.”
“He must have given a reason for being so late.”
The cage stopped with a jerk. “Sure, Jeremiah had a pip this time. Something about being detained by a ghost. Pim didn’t go for it at all. Swelled up like a poisoned pup and fired Jeremiah on the spot.”
“I’m sorry, ” I said. “Dad liked Jeremiah a lot.”
“Any news from your father?”
I shook my head. As far as possible, I was determined to keep my worries to myself. Turning to leave the cage, I asked: “Where is Jeremiah now? At home?”
“He’s down in the boiler room, sittin’ by the furnace. Says he’s afraid to go home for fear his old lady will give him the works.”
“Will you please ask Jeremiah to wait there for me?” I said. “I want to talk to him before he leaves the building.”
“I’ll be glad to tell him,” the janitor said. Hesitating, he added: “If you’ve got any influence with Pim, you might speak a good word for me.”
“Why for you? Surely your job is safe.”
“I don’t know about that,” the janitor responded gloomily. “This morning when Pim was comin’ up in the elevator he said to me: ‘Freddy, there’s going to be a few changes made around here. I’m going to cut out all the old, useless timber.’ He looked at me kinda funny-like too. You know, I passed my sixty-eighth birthday last August.”
“Now don’t start worrying too, Mr. Hodges,” I said. “They couldn’t run this building without you.”
Deeply troubled, I tramped down the hall to the newsroom. Reporters were in a fever of activity, pounding out their stories. Copy boys scurried to and fro like a nervous colony of rabbits. Jack looked up from his desk just long enough to flash me a subdued smile and then went back to furiously typing.
Jonathon Pim, however, was nowhere in evidence.
“The Big Shot has sealed himself in your father’s office,” informed one of the copy desk men in a muted voice. “Guess you heard about DeWitt?”
I nodded.
“The Great Genius has taken over. This place is operating on an efficiency-plus basis now. He’s got me so cockeyed I’m composing poetry.”
I crossed the newsroom to my father’s office and tapped on the frosted glass door.
“Who is it?” demanded Pim, his voice loud and unpleasant.
I informed him that it was Mrs. Carter. In a moment, the door opened, and the editor bowed and smiled. As if I were a guest of honor, he motioned me to a seat.
“We’re doing everything we can to trace your father, Miss Fielding,” he said. “So far, we’ve had no luck, and the police admit they are baffled. I can’t express to you how sorry I am.”
I brushed off his insincere solicitude and got straight to the point of Mr. DeWitt’s absence.
“Oh yes, he’ll be off duty for at least a month,” replied Mr. Pim. “Naturally, in his absence I have assumed charge. We put out a real paper this morning.”
“I saw the front page.”
I longed to say how very much the story about my father had displeased me. However, I knew it would do no good. The account, once printed, could not be recalled. Far better, I reasoned, to let the matter pass.
“I hear Jeremiah Jones has been discharged,” I said.
“Yes, we had to let him go.” Mr. Pim opened a desk drawer, helping himself to one of Dad’s cigars. “Jeremiah is indolent, irresponsible—a drag on the payroll.”
“My father always liked him.”
“Yes, he did seem to favor the old geezer,” agreed Pim with a shrug. “Well, thank you for dropping in, Miss Fielding. If we have any encouraging news, I’ll see that you are notified at once.”
Well aware that I had been dismissed, I left the office. Pim’s attitude angered me, and my hostility extended far beyond his insistence at using my maiden name as if I were my father’s little girl of ten.
This time, Pim had done something far worse than call me by the wrong name; he had made me feel unwelcome in my own father’s newspaper plant.
As I closed the door behind me, I realized that nearly every eye in the newsroom had focused upon me. Deliberately, I composed myself. I swept past the rows of desks to a rear stairway leading to the basement.
The janitor had delivered my message to Jere
miah Jones. I found the old man curled up fast asleep on a crate by the warm stove.
I touched Jeremiah on the arm. He straightened up as suddenly as if someone had set off a firecracker.
“I’m sure am surprised to see you down here in the dumpy furnace room, but I sure am obliged to you for waking me up out of that ghost dream.”
“Were you having a ghost dream?”
“Yes, Ma’am. I was dreamin’ about the ghost I saw last night on the way to work.”
“I heard about that, Mr. Jones,” I said. “It must have been quite a lively ghost to make you two hours late.”
“It sure was a lively ghost. It walked around just like a real live person.”
“Aren’t you being a bit superstitious, Jeremiah?”
“Deedy not, Ma’am. I’d be superstitious if I’d seen a ghost that wasn’t there. But when you sees one that is there you ain’t superstitious. You is jest plain scart.”
“Suppose you tell me about it,” I said.
“Well, it was like this,” Mr. Jones began. “At half-past eleven, I starts off for work same as always. I picks up my lunch box the ole lady packed for me, and I scoots off toward the bus stop to get the 11:45. But I never gets there. When I was goin’ down that road runnin’ past the old Oaklands Estate, I seen the ghost.”
“The Oaklands Estate?” I interrupted. “Where is that?”
“You know the road that winds up Craig Hill? It’s out by the boat club.”
“You don’t mean that big house with the iron fence surrounding it?”
“That’s the place. Well, I sees this ghost cavortin’ around behind the big iron gate that goes into the Oaklands Estate. That ghost never sees me, but I gets a good close-up of him. He was dressed in white, and he was carryin’ his own tombstone around in his arms just like it don’t weigh nothin’.”
“And then what happened? Did the ghost disappear?”
“No, Ma’am, but I did! I turns tail an’ runs as fast as a man half my age could go, an’ I never stops for nuthin’ till I gits back to my own place. When I tells my ole lady what was goin’ on, she says, ‘Jeremiah, you sees ghosts ’cause you been drinkin’. It’s twelve o’clock this minute, and you’ve missed the last bus. Now you start walkin’! And if you is fired, don’t never darken this door no more.’”
The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 50