“Evenin’, Ma’am,” he said. “I sure am astonished to see you all out this away. Has you been lookin’ for that ghost?”
“I’m afraid I have,” I admitted. “Although I’ve had no luck.”
Jeremiah shifted the market basket to his other hand. “That ole ghost ain’t been around so much lately,” he explained. “I comes by this spot half an hour ago on my way to the store to get some victuals. There wasn’t no ghost around then, either. If there had a been, I’d have seen him. You can be sure o’ that. I was mighty skittish and ready to make myself absent in about two shakes.”
“And you didn’t see a thing?”
“Well now, I can’t rightly say that,” Old Jeremiah corrected. “I didn’t see no ghost, but I did see a taxicab.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t Jack’s car you saw?”
“I’m sure of it. The cab I saw was a yellow one.”
This information fascinated me.
“Which way was it going, Jeremiah?” I asked quickly.
“It wasn’t goin’, Ma’am. It was standin’ right at the gate. Then I sees two men git out and go into the big house.”
“You did?” I demanded eagerly. “Then what happened? Did the cab drive away?”
“It waited ’till the two men came back, ’cept when they comes back, there is three of ’em.”
“Three men?” Jack said.
“What did the third man look like, Mr. Jones?”
“Well,” said Jeremiah, “he was tall, and he had something in his hand. A funny lookin’ little satchel. I guess you calls it a quickcase.”
I had never heard of a quickcase.
“You don’t mean a briefcase?
“Yes, that’s it.” Jeremiah grinned. “Anyways, they all gits in the taxicab and off they snorts. And that’s all I sees. There wasn’t no ghost.”
Jeremiah’s rambling served to confirm my own suspicions. Mrs. Rigley had lied. A roomer known as Lester Jones had been held at the house and later hustled away. Perhaps the man calling himself Mr. Jones was Dad.
“Jeremiah,” I said, “the person you saw may have been my father. Did you get a good look at him?”
“Now you speaks of it, there was somethin’ about that man that looked like the Chief,” Mr. Jones said. “Kinda the way he walked. I couldn’t see his face ‘cause he kept it sort o’ tucked down in his collar.”
“It must have been Dad,” I said. “And the briefcase practically proves it. Which way did the cab go?”
“Straight down the road,” said Jeremiah, pointing. “But the car’s been gone a long time now. If you figures on catchin’ those men, you all bettah be travelin’.”
(Chapter Twenty continues after image…)
Chapter Twenty
Alarmed and excited by Jeremiah Jones’s revelation, I looked around for the policeman who had been assigned to watch the Oaklands Estate house. If the officer had already arrived, he had taken cover somewhere and was not to be seen.
“Jack, drive as fast as you can to Albert and Mable Murphy’s cabin,” I told Jack. “I can use their telephone to call the police station.”
As Jack drove, and the car bounced along over the frozen road, I kept close watch for the yellow cab. It was not reasonable to expect to overtake it. If Mr. Jones’s story was accurate, the taxi carrying my father had left the Oaklands Estate house at least a half hour earlier.
“Dad must have been spirited away immediately after I talked to him,” I said. “He must have been drugged or something. Otherwise, he would have known me.”
“But according to Jeremiah, your father appeared to have gone willingly with those men,” Jack pointed out.
“That’s the strange part,” I said.
“You’re certain the man is your father?” said Jack.
“Yes, I am,” I insisted. “I was almost sure of it earlier this evening. Now I am certain. I just know something terrible has happened to Dad.”
Jack reached over and patted me on the arm, but I would not be soothed.
Enroute to the Murphys’ cabin we neither met nor passed any other vehicles.
When we reached the cabin, I clattered up the porch steps and burst into the overheated room where Shep’s aunt and uncle were sitting before a roaring fire and listening to a radio play. My words fairly tumbled over one another as I told them what had happened.
“Can I use your telephone to notify the police?” I pleaded.
I completed my call to the Greenville Police Station and was told that every radio-equipped cruiser in the city would be ordered to watch for the yellow cab. As I hung up the receiver, I heard a low humming sound overhead.
“Listen!” Jack said. “A plane.”
The roar of a motor was to east.
“I don’t recognize the engine,” Uncle Albert said. “And I know all the planes that use that grass strip regularly. It’s become a bit of a hobby of mine.”
I moved to the doorway. I could see the wing lights of a plane overhead. As I watched, the lights descended in a steep glide.
“Jack,” I called out. “The plane is landing.”
“It’s coming down at the Deming estate.”
“Mr. Deming is due home tonight from Florida,” I said. “That must be his plane.”
I was in a quandary about what to do next. I was in favor of searching for the yellow taxi, but Jack pointed out that the chance of finding it was slim. He proposed that we return to the Oaklands Estate and try to force information from Mrs. Rigley.
“Detective Dalton had no luck,” I protested. “She has one story, and she’s sticking to it. The thing she seems most afraid of is losing her job.”
“Then if her employer will be there to witness the interrogation this is the time to make things merry for her,” Jack urged. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my years as a newspaperman, it’s that if you turn the screws enough, the canary will always sing.”
I resisted the urge to point out that turning screws to make a canary sing was a mixed metaphor that even a writer of such serials of dubious literary merit as Evangeline: The Horsethief’s Unwilling Fiancée wouldn’t deign to deploy in print.
“If Mr. Deming just arrived home,” Jack insisted, “we’ll toss a few firebrands around and find out what he has to say.”
The suggestion appealed to me. From the first, I had distrusted Mrs. Rigley, and I felt that the police had been entirely too lenient with her.
“All right, let’s go,” I agreed. “If Mrs. Rigley loses her job, I’m sure it’s no more than she deserves.”
Jack drove us once more to the Oaklands Estate house. I still saw no sign of a policeman lurking but supposed that was as it should be. I would later learn he had gone to the crossroads store to report to his superiors the arrival of Mr. Deming’s airplane.
“If this case ever is solved, we must do it ourselves,” I muttered under my breath as Jack thumped on the front door. “I’m in no mood to take any slippery answers from Mrs. Rigley.”
I reached up to obscure the peephole with my mittened hand.
After a long delay, the door opened. When Mrs. Rigley recognized us, she tried to shut the door in our faces.
“Oh, no you don’t,” said Jack, pushing her firmly aside. “We want to see Mr. Deming.”
“He’s not here,” Mrs. Rigley insisted. “Please leave me alone. Go away!”
Ignoring the plea, Jack and I walked boldly into the living room. A fire burned in the grate, and there were fresh flowers on the table.
“Where is Mr. Deming?” Jack demanded.
Footsteps sounded on the circular stairway. A portly, baldheaded man with a pleasant face came heavily down the steps.
“Did someone ask for me?” he inquired.
“You’re Mr. Deming?” Jack asked.
“I am. Flew in from Florida about ten minutes ago and was just changing my clothes. What may I do for you?”
“I’ve been trying to tell these folks you can’t see them tonight, Mr. Deming,”
broke in Mrs. Rigley. “You’re too tired.”
“Nonsense,” replied the mansion owner impatiently. “Sit down by the fire, everyone. Tell me what brought you here.”
Mrs. Rigley began to edge toward the kitchen door. Observing that she was preparing to fly the coop, Jack called sharply:
“Don’t go, Mrs. Rigley. We want to talk to you in particular.”
“I’ve nothing to say.”
“Sit down, Mrs. Rigley,” ordered her employer. “For some reason, you have seemed very nervous since I arrived home tonight.”
“It was upsetting to get your telegram so late,” Mrs. Rigley mumbled, sinking down on the sofa. “I didn’t have time to do the carpets and the dusting.”
“Mr. Deming,” I began, “a great deal has happened here tonight.”
“I intended to tell you about it myself,” interrupted Mrs. Rigley, addressing her employer. “I’ve not had a chance.”
“Be quiet, please,” commanded Mr. Deming. “Do continue, Miss—”
“Mrs. Carter,” I said. “Mrs. Jane Carter.”
As the tale unfolded, Mr. Deming listened with increasing amazement. Now and then he focused his gaze upon the crestfallen Mrs. Rigley, but he did not speak until I had finished.
“This is a very serious charge you have made against my housekeeper,” he said then. “Mrs. Rigley, what have you to say?”
“There’s not a word of truth in it!” the woman cried. “I’ve worked for you ten years, Mr. Deming. I’ve been a loyal, faithful servant. Why should I deceive you by taking a stranger into the house?”
“It does seem a fantastic tale,” Mr. Deming said. “Mrs. Carter, what proof have you that your accusations are true?”
“The proof of my own eyesight,” I said. “For that matter, several different people saw the ghost wandering about the grounds and on numerous occasions.”
Mrs. Rigley tossed her head. “I’ve already explained that part. Frequently when I go outdoors, I put on your old white bathrobe, Mr. Deming. It’s warmer than my coat.”
“The ghost was definitely a man,” I said. “And here is something you don’t know, Mrs. Rigley. I was in this house earlier this evening while you were away. I talked with your mysterious roomer, and I’m satisfied it was my father.”
“So you were here!” Mrs. Rigley cried angrily as she pointed an accusatory finger at me. “You had to have broken in. I know I locked up when I left. Mr. Deming, this woman is guilty of breaking and entering, not to mention opening the telegram you addressed to me.”
“Guilty as charged,” I admitted, completely unabashed. “Any reasonable person would have done the same if they’d believed their loved one had been kidnapped and was being held against his will.”
Mr. Deming arose and, walking over to the fire, stood with his back to it. “I confess I don’t know what to say,” he said. “I’ve never had reason to distrust Mrs. Rigley.”
“Thank you, sir.” The housekeeper smiled triumphantly.
Mr. Deming was on the verge of swinging to Mrs. Rigley’s side. So far, the interview had gained nothing. I had told the entire story, omitting nothing. There was nothing further I could do.
“I suppose we may as well go,” I said, looking miserably over at Jack.
As I got up from the sofa, I saw a small object lying half hidden between the cushions. Before Mrs. Rigley could stop me, I had pounced upon it.
“Dad’s spectacle case,” I said triumphantly as I opened the lid and held up a pair of dark horn-rimmed glasses.
“I’m sure I don’t know where the case came from,” Mrs. Rigley stammered.
“When Dad reads on the sofa at home, he often loses his case between the cushions,” I said. “Mrs. Rigley, you thought you were very clever getting him away from here and removing all the evidence.”
“A door-to-door salesman who wore glasses was here last week—” the housekeeper began weakly.
“You can’t talk yourself out of this,” I cut her short, “Mr. Deming, let me show you something.”
I reopened the lid of the case and pointed to the initials “A. F.” engraved in gold letters.
“Anthony Fielding,” I said. “Dad had them stamped there because he lost the case so often. Does this support my story?”
“It certainly does,” said Mr. Deming. Sternly he faced the housekeeper. “Mrs. Rigley, you have deeply humiliated me. I shall turn you over to the police.”
Mrs. Rigley began to weep. Stumbling across the room, she clutched her employer’s arm.
“Please don’t turn me away from here,” she pleaded. “Just give me a chance, and I’ll explain everything. Please, Mr. Deming. This time I promise to tell the truth.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Very well, tell your story,” Mr. Deming told the housekeeper. “What do you know about Mr. Fielding’s disappearance?”
“It was just like I said,” Mrs. Rigley began in an aggrieved voice. “I was driving not far from the railroad station when I saw the auto accident.”
“You say you were driving?” Mr. Deming interposed. “In whose car, may I ask?”
“I used yours, Mr. Deming. I didn’t think you would care.”
“We’ll skip that. Go on with your story.”
“Well, I saw the accident. A coupe driven by a young man crowded Mr. Fielding’s car off the road.”
“Purposely?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Rigley. “Two men were in the car, and they were speeding. I read part of the license number too. It was F-2 something. I think there was also a 3 and a 6 in the plate number.”
“Why didn’t you give this information to the police immediately?” demanded Mr. Deming.
“I’m trying to explain. I stopped my car—your car, I mean, Mr. Deming. Mr. Fielding seemed stunned, so I offered to take him to the hospital. Of course, at that time I didn’t know who he was.”
“Was Dad very injured?” I asked.
“He had a few scratches, but nothing serious. We started for the hospital. Before we got there, Mr. Fielding changed his mind and decided he didn’t want to go. He asked me to take him to a hotel or a rooming house.”
“Why didn’t he ask to go home?” said Jack. “I’m sorry, but that’s not very believable.”
“Because the poor man didn’t remember he had a home,” Mrs. Rigley replied. “I guess the accident must have stunned him. At first, he said he didn’t know who he was, but then he pulled a card bearing the name of a Lester Jones, car salesman, from his coat pocket and settled on that being his identity. Since he wanted a room and was willing to pay, I figured I could bring him here.”
“Dad had been talking of buying a new car,” I said. “That must have been why he had that card in his pocket.”
“So you turned my home into a hotel?” Mr. Deming said rather grimly.
“I—I didn’t think you would be back this winter. You had intended to spend Christmas in Florida this year. I wouldn’t have done it, Mr. Deming, only I needed extra money. My sister has been sick, and I’ve had to send her funds.”
“Mrs. Rigley, I’ve always paid you more than generously,” her employer responded. “Besides, had you told me you needed money I would have assisted you. But go on.”
“Well, I brought Mr. Fielding here and gave him a room. Right off, I noticed how odd he acted. He didn’t seem to be sure who he was, and he kept going through some papers he carried in a portfolio, trying to puzzle things out.”
“All this while you made no attempt to contact the police?” Mr. Deming demanded.
“I was wondering what to do when I saw a picture of Mr. Fielding in the paper.”
“And then you dropped an unsigned letter in my mailbox?” I prompted.
Mrs. Rigley knew that the net was closing tightly about her. Although she tried to slant her story in such a way that she would not appear too much at fault, the facts remained bald and ugly.
“Yes, I left a note at your house,” she acknowledged reluctantly. “
Later I telephoned and made an appointment to meet you at the cemetery.”
“Why didn’t you go through with it?” I asked. “Were you afraid?”
“I began to realize I might be held for something I never intended to do. Folks started to watch this house. I tried to keep my roomer out of sight, but he’d do such strange things.”
“Such as stroll in the snowy garden at night,” Jack said.
“Yes, I felt sorry for the poor man. He had such dreadful headaches and was so bewildered. His agitation became worse in the evenings.”
“Evidently you weren’t sorry enough to tell him who he was,” Mr. Deming pointed out. “Really, Mrs. Rigley, I can’t understand why you acted as you did.”
“I just kept getting in deeper and deeper,” the housekeeper whined. “Mr. Fielding paid me two dollars a day for his room and board. It didn’t seem wrong to take the money as long as he was satisfied.”
“Where is my father now?” I broke in. “That’s the important thing.”
Mrs. Rigley regarded me with a trace of her former arrogance. “I don’t know what became of Mr. Fielding after he left here,” I said.
“You sent him away when you knew Mr. Deming was coming home,” said Jack. “You thought you could keep the truth from your employer.”
“And I would have, too, if it hadn’t been for you lot,” Mrs. Rigley flared. “I’ve not done anyone any harm, but you’ve made a lot out of it, and now I’ll be discharged.”
“You are quite right about being discharged,” agreed Mr. Deming in a quiet voice. “However, there’s far more at stake than a job, Mrs. Rigley. Even now, you don’t seem to realize the seriousness of your offense. You may have done poor Mr. Fielding a great deal of harm, by the sounds of it.”
“You won’t turn me over to the police, will you, Mr. Deming?”
“It will not be in my hands to decide your fate. I strongly advise you to tell everything you know. Where did Mr. Fielding go when he left here?”
“I’ve no idea.” Mrs. Rigley covered her face. “Oh, leave me alone—don’t ask me any more questions. My head buzzes.”
“A taxicab with two men in it was seen at the door earlier this evening,” I went on relentlessly. “What have you to say about that?”
The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 57