I’ll admit to having been scared. I had no overpowering desire to investigate the white-robed figure at close range. A large, spreading evergreen half blocked my view of the gate. I could not see the ghostly figure plainly, but I distinctly heard the rattle of a chain as the apparition tested the lock. Real or imaginary, that spook was trying to get out.
The white-gowned figure shook the gate chain a second time, then slowly retreated. I watched for a moment, before abruptly swinging open the car door. I had gathered my courage to investigate.
As I crossed the road, the white figure moved away from me. By the time I reached the gate, it had disappeared around a corner of the house.
I supposed I should at least be grateful that Mr. Spook hadn’t been carrying his own tombstone. I guessed that Jeremiah might have embellished that portion of his tale.
I waited, leaning against the gate post. Within three minutes, a light went on in the upper part of the house. For a fleeting instant, before the blind was pulled, I saw a figure standing in front of an old-fashioned dresser. Soon the bedroom light was extinguished.
I was cold and tired and eager to get home to Mrs. Timms before she sent out a search party for me.
I returned Jack’s car to the Examiner office, and then he drove me home.
Jack was as mystified by my story as I had been by the experience.
When I reached home and told Mrs. Timms of my failure at the cemetery, she tried to be comforting.
“Don’t feel bad about it,” Mrs. Timms said. “Surely the woman who telephoned will make another attempt to reach you.”
I doubted it, but I didn’t like to dash Mrs. Timms’ hopes.
“This entire affair is so bewildering,” Mrs. Timms said. “How could your father have been kidnapped? If what we’ve learned is true, he left the scene of the accident of his own free will.”
“I never was so baffled in my life,” I said, throwing myself down on the davenport. “I used to think I was good at solving puzzles. Now I know I’m just a Dumb Dora.”
“Have you thought about employing a private detective?”
“It might be a good idea,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do tomorrow.”
As I started wearily up the stairs to bed, Mrs. Timms called after me to say that Florence had telephoned earlier in the evening. I did not think of the matter again until the next morning when I was called to the phone at the circulation desk at the Examiner Office.
“I might have a clue about the bootleggers,” Flo said breathlessly on the other end of the wire. “When I was at the beauty parlor yesterday, I heard two women talking. It seems there’s a place where you can order liquor by the case if you pull the right strings.”
“But I don’t want to order liquor by the case,” I said. “I have far too much on my mind to be interested in bootleggers, Flo.”
“You don’t even care to know the name of the place?”
“What good would it do?”
“None, perhaps, but it might give you a surprise.”
“A surprise?” I glanced at the clock, impatient because the conversation was being prolonged. A great deal of important work awaited me.
“You’re sure you don’t want to know the name of the place?” Florence persisted.
“On second thought, I do. It might be well worthwhile to find out what I can about those bootleggers on the off chance they really did have something to do with Dad’s disappearance.”
The conviction had come suddenly to me that all the evidence contained in my father’s lost portfolio must be gathered anew. A fraction of it could be obtained from Jack, but he had not been privy to most of what my father had known, so I must also depend upon my own efforts.
“It’s going to give you a real shock to learn the name of the place,” Florence went on.
“I’m shock proof by this time,” I told Flo. “Let ’er fly.”
But Florence was unwilling to divulge the information over the telephone.
“I don’t dare tell you now,” she replied. “Just sit tight for ten minutes, and I’ll deliver my bombshell in person.”
Chapter Thirteen
Twenty minutes later, Florence was at the front entrance of the Examiner building with the Radcliff family car.
“Jump in, and I’ll take you to the place of mystery,” Florence greeted me. “On second thought, you’d better drive. I hate icy roads.”
I slid behind the steering wheel. “But where are we going?” I protested. “Honestly, Flo, I haven’t much time—”
“Matilda Mortimer’s garage. The one where they were unloading that truckload of supposed pears. Now are you interested?”
“You may have stumbled into something really important,” I told Flo.
“Glad you think so, Jane. But you’re not interested in bootleg whiskey. You said so yourself not ten minutes ago.”
“I’ve changed my mind. I want to talk to Matilda Mortimer right away.”
As I waited for an opening in traffic to pull away from the curb in front of the Examiner office, Shep hailed us from the sidewalk.
“Why, hello,” I greeted him through the passenger side window. “Any trouble brewing in the newsroom?”
“No trouble from Pim. He’s not made a peep,” Shep said. “I’m hot-footing it to the Ladies’ Club to mug some dames pouring tea for the society page. Where are you off to?”
I hesitated, then decided to confide in Shep. I repeated what Florence had told me about Matilda Mortimer’s garage.
“Well, can you beat that?” Shep said. “I don’t know Matilda and her partner well, but I always supposed they were honest. So they’re dealing in bootleg whiskey.”
“We don’t know for sure,” I said hastily. “Our information is mostly founded on rumor.”
Shep insisted that any lead was worth looking into.
“I aim to learn the names of those men Dad intended to expose,” I told Shep.
“We all admire your courage,” he said, “but you mustn’t take foolish risks. Your father would turn thumbs down on that idea.”
“It’s because of Dad that I must investigate every angle of the bootleg liquor gang story.”
“Quite an ambitious assignment,” Shep said dryly. “Now as soon as Jack gets back from the City Council meeting—”
“We can’t wait,” I insisted. “Something has to be done right away.”
“I know how you feel,” responded Shep, “but there’s such a thing as being too courageous.”
“I’m not courageous,” I said. “Last night at the cemetery, I was scared half to death. And then when I saw the ghost—”
“What ghost?” interrupted Florence.
I had not intended to speak of what I had seen at the Oaklands Estate. The slip of tongue made it necessary to tell of the path by the gate, the retreating figure, and the mysterious light.
“That’s funny,” said Shep. “I’ve been past the Oaklands Estate house plenty of times on the way to my Aunt and Uncle’s cabin, and I’ve never seen any activity at the estate.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts, but I saw one all the same,” I insisted. “Just watch some night and see for yourself.” I turned to Flo. ”You believe I saw something wandering about the estate last night, don’t you?”
“Well,” Florence said. “You must have been quite upset after failing to meet that woman at the cemetery. Under the circumstances—”
“I was as calm as I am now,” I insisted. “I saw a ghostly figure. I swear to you.”
“Of course you did, Jane,” Flo said, in a voice that clearly indicated that she’d never been less sure of anything.
“Okay, have it your own way.” I shrugged. “I wouldn’t believe Jeremiah Jones, so why should you believe me? It’s just one of those things.”
We left Shep to his work of capturing his Club Ladies on film and headed for the Mortimers’ Garage and Café. We rode along in silence. Few cars were on the road, and there was little business activity at Robison’s Corner.
I parked in front of the café next door to Matilda’s Garage.
“Let’s quiz Matilda first,” I suggested.
“What excuse will we have for questioning her?” Florence asked dubiously.
“I’m not going to make any excuses,” I said. “I’ll just come right out and ask her if she sells bootleg whiskey.”
Flo and I entered the warm little office of the garage, stamping snow from their galoshes.
“Just a minute,” called a voice.
Matilda Mortimer was busy with a customer. Soon, however, she came in from the main part of the building, wiping her oily hands on a rag.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“You remember us, don’t you?” I said, leading into the subject of the bootleg whiskey as gradually as possible. “We’re friends of Shep Murphy.”
“Oh, sure!” the woman’s face lighted. “You came in with him the night of the bad storm.”
“I’m having a big party,” I said.
“What’s the occasion?” Matilda asked.
“I’ve recently become engaged,” I said, displaying the diamond on my left hand. “I want to throw a big party to celebrate, but ever since Prohibition, parties just haven’t been the same. I’ve been wondering—”
A slightly guarded expression came over Matilda Mortimer’s face. She said nothing.
“I was told I might obtain some—soft drinks—to liven things up a bit,” I plunged on.
“You can,” said Matilda. “Provided you’re looking for ginger ale. By brother Bill next door would be happy to provide you with ginger ale, providing it’s truly ginger ale you’re in the market for.”
“Don’t you have a line on anything a bit—more suitable for a celebration? Something with a bit more pep?”
“Bill also supplies Coca Cola by the case,” Matilda said.
“I was thinking more along the lines of champagne for the ladies and maybe a nice stiff whiskey for the gentlemen,” I came right out and said it.
Matilda gazed back at me with undisguised scorn. “What sort of a place do you think we run here?” she demanded. “Of course we don’t sell whiskey. Or champagne, for that matter. My partner Seth used to supply local restaurants with strong spirits as sort of a side enterprise, but that was before the Volstead Act kicked in. We’re all on the straight and narrow. You’ll get nothing stronger than soda water around here. Or pears. Seth’s in the pear trade now, although I think selling fruit out of a mechanic’s garage is a fool’s errand. Half of it rots before he sells it. Just last week he came in here with a whole bushel of half-rotten—"
“But we were told—” I insisted.
“Well, you were told wrong,” snapped Matilda. “You want pears? I can give you all the pears you want. No charge.”
She opened the bottom drawer of her desk and withdrew a battered Bartlett.
“We were hoping for something a bit more festive than bruised pears,” I said.
“Sorry. I can’t help you with anything more festive than fruit,” Matilda said.
She picked up a wrench from the top of the desk and left the office.
“I guess I didn’t approach her the right way,” I told Flo as we put on our coats. “Either that or our information was incorrect. Florence, are you sure—”
“I am sure what I heard,” Florence insisted. “Those two women distinctly said Seth Bates sold alcohol by the case out of the warehouse behind Mortimer’s garage. I can’t imagine that if her partner were stashing cases of whiskey on the premises that Matilda would know nothing about it.”
I shrugged.
“Of course, those women I overheard might have been wrong about the whole thing,” Flo admitted.
Before Flo and I could leave the office, a middle-aged man with glasses came in through the street door.
“Seth Bates here?” he demanded, warming himself by the stove.
I started to say that I did not know when Matilda Mortimer’s partner came in the other door.
“Hi, Seth,” the stranger greeted him. “I’ve got the car parked around back. Are you ready to load my order?”
Seth frowned, darting a quick glance at Florence and me.
“Three crates of Bartletts? Sure, they’re ready. Drive your car in the back entrance, and I’ll take care of it.”
Both men went out into the main part of the garage. Just beyond the door, they paused for a whispered conference, then separated.
“Shall we go?” Flo gave me a little push toward the door.
“Not just yet,” I insisted. “I want to get a peek at those pears. Let’s kill a little more time here.”
We stalled another ten minutes by pretending to warm ourselves by the stove. Then, without attracting attention, we sauntered out onto the main garage floor. Matilda Mortimer was busy washing a car and did not see us.
The garage workroom was divided into sections, separated by a double door, which was closed. I strolled over and pushed it open just enough to see through the crack.
Seth Bates was loading the back of the stranger’s car.
“A crate of pears, my eye,” I whispered to Florence. “Pears don’t rattle like that when you lift the crate.”
Chapter Fourteen
I only dared remain at the door watching Seth Bates load the crates for another minute. My curiosity satisfied, I motioned to Flo and moved quietly away. Without speaking to Matilda Mortimer, we returned to the parked automobile.
“Well, wasn’t I right about the bootleg liquor?” Florence demanded triumphantly. “What do you think we should do?”
“I don’t know,” I confessed. “If only we had some proof.”
“You heard those crates rattling.”
“Yes, but claiming some pears were clinking together suspiciously like bottles of 80 proof is hardly sufficient evidence to convince the police to conduct a raid on the place.”
“Then you don’t intend to report to the police, Jane?”
“I want to talk to Jack about it first. We must move carefully, Flo. My main objective is to learn the names of the higher-ups.”
“And where does this garage fit into the picture?”
“If it fits at all, my guess is that Seth and Matilda are functioning as middlemen and selling to individuals and small-timers. I don’t think they are the big fish in the scheme.”
As I drove back toward Greenville, I ruminated on what I had seen. I was convinced the information was valuable, yet I didn’t know what to do with it.
“If Jack thinks that I should report it to the police, that’s what I’ll do,” I told Flo.
Enroute home, I stopped in at the garage where Bouncing Betsy was still undergoing repairs, but the grease monkey charged with effecting her full recovery was far from encouraging. It was his opinion that Betsy would be better off resigned to the scrap heap.
I tried to keep my temper in check and firmly reiterated that everything within his power must be done to return my beloved Betsy to a roadworthy condition.
“How about the Icicle?” Florence asked when I returned to the car and reported on poor old Betsy’s dire condition. “Isn’t your iceboat still sitting out at the Yacht Club?”
“She will have to stay where she is for the time being,” I said. “If she’s stolen, I won’t much care, after all that’s happened.”
At the parsonage home, Flo and I separated. I thanked Florence for the use of the car, and I returned afoot to the Examiner office. Jack was absent on assignment, so I did not linger long. As I rounded a street corner on my way home, a newsboy for a rival paper blocked my path.
“Read all about it!” he shouted. “Anthony Fielding Believed Kidnapped! Paper, Ma’am?”
I dropped a coin into the lad’s hand and hastily scanned the front page. The story of my father’s disappearance was a highly colored account but contained not a useful item of information. I tossed the sheet into a street paper-container and moved on.
I was passing the Gillman Department Store when my attention wa
s drawn to a woman who waited for a bus. The woman wore a small black hat and a long, old-fashioned dark coat which came nearly to her ankles. It was the shape of the garment and its unusual length which struck me as familiar. The woman strongly resembled the one who had fled from the cemetery!
I pretended to gaze into the store window as I studied the reflection in the glass. The woman looked to be in her late 40s. She was large-boned, and her face was heavily lined. Her long hands were covered by a pair of cheap black cotton gloves.
A bus bearing a county placard pulled up to the curb. The woman in black was the only passenger to board it. The bus route went out toward Chicken Run Road and the cemetery.
An instant before the folding doors slammed shut, I sprang aboard. I paid my fare and took a seat at the rear of the bus.
No sooner was the coach in motion than I regretted my hasty action. What could I hope to gain by pursuing the strange woman? I was not certain enough of her identification to make a direct accusation. County buses ran infrequently. In all likelihood, I would find myself stranded in the country.
I got up and started to ring for the next stop but changed my mind a second time and sat down. Try as I might, I could not rid myself of the conviction that the woman now sitting six rows ahead of me was the same one who had fled the cemetery.
The bus made a few stops in the city. Once beyond the city limits, it sped along at a brisk rate. The woman in black began to gather up her packages. She pressed a button, and the bus skidded to a stop at a crossroads.
I followed the woman from the bus, then slipped inside the entrance of a grocery store at the corner. I stood just inside the plate glass window and watched as the woman started off down a narrow, winding road which ran at right angles to the main highway. It was the same road which led past the Oaklands Estate.
I waited until the woman was nearly out of sight, then trudged after her. Walking was difficult, for the road had not been cleared by a snowplow. The woman did not once glance behind her. She kept steadily on until she came within view of the big estate house on the hill. Just before she reached the boundary fence, she cut across a field and approached the house from the back.
The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 53