“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Dad said philosophically. “He’ll never set foot in this office again, nor in any other Greenville newspaper. What bothers me most is that I’m certain I had a second set of all those papers and the ones I was carrying when I intended to meet with the prosecutor, but I can’t remember for the life of me what I did with them.”
“Do you think you hid them somewhere?”
“I must have,” said my father, ”but I can’t remember where.”
While Dad and I were turning his office inside out on the off chance he’d hidden the copies there—something I thought unlikely—a thought occurred to me.
“Dad,” I said, “I’ve wondered if Pim may not be tangled up with the gang of bootleggers. What do you think?”
“My brain isn’t much good these days. However, I very much doubt it, Jane. Pim always was a snoop and not above taking money for writing biased stories. My judgment would be that he has no connection with the Mollinberg outfit.”
“If only you could remember what was in your stolen portfolio,” I lamented.
“If only I could. Sometimes I doubt I’ll ever fully recover my memory.”
“Oh, you will, Dad. You’re doing better every day.”
That evening, at home, Dad, Mrs. Timms, and I scoured the house for the copy of the papers stolen from Dad’s portfolio. We found nothing.
I hated to admit it, and I refused to voice my misgivings out loud, but I believed it possible that there might be no second set of papers. My father’s memory—in its current state—was far from reliable.
I seldom spoke of the automobile accident which had caused my father’s injuries, for the subject was a painful one to us both. Although Dad had been absolved of all blame for the accident, police had not succeeded in tracing the hit-and-run driver.
Each day my father remained at the office for longer and longer periods. Gradually, his memory was returning, yet he had been unable to recall any information which might bring about the capture of the bootleggers. Strangely, he could recall nothing about his intention to call at the State Prosecutor’s office, nor could he disclose even a scrap of evidence which had been carried in the stolen portfolio.
“Dad, can’t you remember the men who took you away in the taxi?” I asked him one evening.
“Only vaguely. I’ve described them to police as best I can. So far, no action.”
Since Dad was found, Ropes Mollinberg, the only identifiable suspect in the case, seemed to have vanished into thin air. Efforts by the police to locate the man and bring him in for questioning had proved fruitless.
In my mind, I had been turning over a way to bring the crooks to justice. It seemed to me that the men might be identified through the outlets with whom they must have dealings.
“Are you keeping anything from me?” Dad asked after I’d lapsed into moody silence.
“I was thinking about Matilda Mortimer’s garage,” I said. “I’ve good reason to suspect it’s a front for dealing in bootleg liquor.”
I went on to tell Dad about my recent adventure in the storage room of the garage. The information did not distress Dad, as I had feared it might. Instead, it fired him with a determination to get at the truth of the matter.
“Jane, we’ll break our story yet,” he said, reaching for his hat. “Let’s go to Matilda’s place now.”
“Unless we actually see the inside of the storage room, we’ll learn nothing. You may be sure Matilda and her partner won’t cooperate.”
“We’ll get into that room somehow. I’ll take along a few pet skeleton keys just for luck.”
As we passed through the newsroom, we recruited Jack to accompany us.
Half an hour later, we were at the Mortimer garage, where we found Matilda and Seth busy with repair work.
“Be with you in a minute,” Matilda called out to us from underneath the hood of a rusty old coupe, not bothering to remove her head to see who’d entered the garage.
“No hurry,” Dad said. “No hurry whatsoever.”
Dad, Jack, and I wandered aimlessly about. Choosing a moment when both Seth and Matilda were inside the office, we slipped unnoticed into the room where the empty boxes had been stored.
“Now show me the tunnel,” Dad urged. “We’ll have to work fast.”
I swung back the hinged boards of the big box. I led the way between a high aisle of crates to the locked door of the inner room.
“Now if only I have a key that will unlock it,” Dad muttered as I pulled a hairpin from my disheveled coiffure in case his attempts at opening the lock should fail.
I don’t like to show off my lock-picking skills, particularly not in front of my father. No father likes to think he’s raised his only daughter to be perfectly poised to embark on a life of crime.
Dad tried several skeleton keys. The sixth one he tried fit the keyhole. I let my breath out in a whoosh when I realized I’d been holding it. This was not the day I would be forced to reveal my identity as a lady-lockpicker.
There was a click in the mechanism, and Dad pushed open the door.
In the little storage room close to the outside building wall were boxes and crates of all sizes and description. I walked over to a crate with the top askew and looked inside. It was half filled with bottles of whiskey nestled in straw.
I was just holding up the bottle for Jack to see when Dad held up his hand as a signal for silence.
Footsteps sounded in the tunnel between the boxes. The next instant, the door was flung open, and we stood face to face with Seth Bates.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“What d’you think you’re doing in here?” demanded Seth Bates harshly. “Snoopers, eh?”
“Call us that if you like,” my father retorted. “How long have you been dealing in bootleg liquor?”
The shot hit its target. Seth started to speak, but no words came. He looked badly frightened.
“Naturally, I’ll report this to the police. You and your partner will have to face charges.”
“Keep Matilda out of this,” growled Seth. “She had nothing to do with the liquor side of the business.”
“So you carried on crooked operations all by your lonesome?”
“I’ve bought and sold a few cases of whiskey here and there,” Seth said sullenly. “Before I went in halves on the garage with Matilda, I was mostly in the liquor line. I had a lot of stock left on hand when the Volstead Act kicked in. Broke my heart to see perfectly good bottles of booze smashed to bits like that, so I didn’t turn in my stock.”
“So you admit you’ve been doing an illegal business?” Jack said.
“Maybe,” said Seth, watching us craftily. “But what’s it to you? I take it you’re not a government agent?”
“I’m interested in breaking up a gang of leeches—the men who’ve been flooding Greenville with poison for the last three months.”
“Those guys are crooks all right,” Seth said. “You can get the real thing from them, but if they think they can get away with it, they’ll pass off bathtub booze. I wish someone would put those rascals away before somebody dies from drinking their poison. I stopped dealing with them weeks ago when they tried to pass off some the rotten stuff to me. I only buy and sell the genuine article. Nobody ever got sick on my whiskey, not unless they drank it all in one sitting.”
“Did you deal with Ropes Mollinberg?” Jack asked.
“Ropes is just one of the little fry, though,” Seth said. “What will you give me to spill?”
“Nothing,” said my father.
“Will you keep Matilda out of this?”
“If she’s innocent.”
“She is,” insisted Seth. “Suppose I tell you how to get the whole gang, will you forget what you’ve seen here?”
“I make no bargains with bootleggers,” Dad said. “Either you tell what you know, or I’ll have you and Matilda hauled into court.”
“I’m not a bootlegger,” Seth insisted. “I believe I made myself perfectly clear.”
“My apologies,” Dad said. “I should have said dealer in strong drink or something of that description.”
Seth Bates was silent a moment.
“Okay,” he said abruptly. “I’ve had enough of this business anyhow. I’ll tell you what I know, and it won’t take me long. I’ve never seen nor dealt direct with the big shots.”
“Then how do you get your liquor?”
“Back when I was still dealing with the Mollinberg outfit? A trucker by the name of Horace Franklin delivered it to me.”
“Flo and I met that man,” I told Dad and Jack. Then I asked Seth who Horace worked for.
“I’ve never asked for the names of the top brass. Horace still stops by Bill’s café on his regular route, though, and from something Horace dropped I kinda suspect the boys are having a meeting tonight.”
“Where?” my father asked.
“I’ll tell you on one condition. You’ve got to keep Matilda out of this. So far as she knows this garage has been run pretty much on the square, though I’m having a devil of a time explaining where all the money’s coming from.”
Dad was unwilling to make any sort of agreement with the man, and Jack was equally reluctant, but I think we all realized that Seth had it within his power to withhold vital information.
“Very well,” Dad finally relented, “I’ll take your word for it that Matilda is innocent. Now, where is the meeting to be held?”
“At Jones’s warehouse.”
“Isn’t that along the river?”
“Yeah, about eight miles from here. The boys will be loading some liquor there. If you’re willing to take the risk, you may learn something. Meeting’s at seven.”
I glanced at my wristwatch.
“It’s after six now,” I said. “Dad, if we are to get there in time, we’ve got to step on it.”
Before leaving the garage, Jack telephoned Central Police Station. Without mentioning Seth’s name, he revealed a little of what he had learned and requested an immediate investigation of the Jones Warehouse. Then, intending to meet officers there, I drove the three of us along the winding river road in the direction of the warehouse.
The headlights illuminated a long stretch of icy pavement.
“Can’t you go faster?” Dad urged impatiently.
“Funny,” I said. “Before your accident, you were always telling me to slow down.”
I was about to point out the slipperiness of the road when a crossroads traffic light flashed red. Although I applied the foot brake with quick stabs, the car went into a disastrous skid. I lost control, and the car slid crosswise in the narrow road. The front wheels rolled into a deep, slippery ditch.
“Just our luck,” Dad grumbled.
I attempted several times to back the car from the ditch. Failing, Jack and I pushed while Dad handled the steering wheel, but the tires kept spinning and would not grip the ice.
“No use,” my father acknowledged at last. “We’re only wasting time. We need a tow car.”
“The nearest house or filling station is at least a mile up the road,” Jack said. “I’m afraid we’re stalled here until the police car comes along.”
We waited inside the car for ten minutes, but no vehicle of any description came by.
“It’s nearly seven o’clock now,” Dad pointed out. “Either the police are waiting farther down the road, or they’ve taken a different route.”
“What are we going to do?” I asked. “If we sit here much longer, we’ll miss catching those men at their meeting.”
“I don’t see what we can do. Maybe our best bet is to walk to the nearest filling station.”
I was suddenly struck with an idea. “The Greenville Yacht Club is closer.”
“True, but it’s closed for the winter,” Jack pointed out.
“My iceboat is still there,” I said. “If you’re not afraid to ride with me, I could get you to Jones’s Warehouse in nothing flat.”
“What are we waiting for?” Dad said.
Leaving the car behind, Dad, Jack, and I ran most of the way to the club. The Icicle, covered with snow, runners frozen to the ice, remained where she had been abandoned.
“The sail’s here, too,” I said as I burrowed in a box hidden deep in the cockpit. “In this wind, we’ll go places at the speed of light.”
“Are you sure you can handle the boat in this wind?” Dad asked anxiously. Jack looked none too enthusiastic, either. Neither Dad nor Jack had ever ridden in the Icicle, and it appeared that neither had any great desire to do so. Perhaps I’d not given Flo enough credit for being such a willing passenger.
“I know I can start it going,” I said. “I’ll worry about stopping it when the time comes.”
Jack helped me clear the little boat of snow, and together we pushed it out on the smooth ice of the river. I made certain that all the ropes were free running.
“Now you get in, Dad, and hold on tight,” I said as I hoisted the flapping sail. “I want to be sure you are holding on tight when the fireworks begin.”
The wind filled the big sail like a balloon. Nothing happened. The iceboat did not budge an inch.
“Why aren’t we moving?” Dad groused. “Runners dull?”
I prompted Jack to help me give the boat a hard shove.
“Want me to help?” my father offered.
“No, thanks,” I puffed. “When this baby makes up its mind, it will go so fast you’d be left behind.”
Once more, Jack and I pushed. The sail filled again, and the runners stirred.
“She’s moving,” I shouted.
The Icicle was pulling away from me. Jack clambered inside, and I clung fast to the side, trying to scramble aboard. Jack grasped my wrist in a tight grip, but my feet went out from under me as I was dragged, completely out of control, over the uneven surface of the ice.
“Hang on!” Dad shouted. “I can’t sail this thing alone.”
I was helpless. One mitten flew away. My scarf flapped in my face. Finally, with a supreme effort, Jack managed to drag me aboard, and I took command of the tiller.
“Are you hurt?” Dad shouted anxiously in my ear.
I shook my head and laughed. “Getting started always is quite a trick,” I said. “Hold on tight. We have a stiff breeze tonight. We’ll be at that warehouse in no time.”
We wore no protective goggles. I’d forgotten to remove them from the hatch, and I had only two pairs anyway. The sharp wind stung our eyes even though we kept our heads low.
“How’ll we know when we get to the warehouse?” Dad shouted. “I can’t see anything.”
“Just trust me,” I said. “My greatest worry is coming to a standstill when we get there.”
The Icicle flew over the ice. I was forced twice to abruptly change course to avoid open stretches of water where I knew that the ice was too thin to support our combined weight. I was terrified but had no intention of letting Jack and Dad know the extent of the danger we were in.
The dark outline of a large building loomed far ahead.
“That’s the warehouse,” Dad shouted into the wind. “Don’t go past it.”
I gradually slowed the Icicle. As we approached the shore, I slacked the main sheet and shot up into the wind. By throwing my legs over the edge of the boat and digging in my overshoes for brakes, I finally brought the boat to a standstill not far from the warehouse.
We scrambled from the boat. A dim light shone from inside the warehouse. Not far from its side entrance stood a truck. There were no other vehicles and no sign of the expected police car.
“Is this the place?” I asked doubtfully.
“Has to be. It’s the only warehouse for miles,” Jack said. “Strange that the police aren’t here to meet us.”
We waded through a shrunken snowdrift to a side door of the building. It was not locked, and Dad pushed it open a crack. The dim light of a lantern shone far down a deserted corridor.
“Oughtn’t we wait for the police?” I whispered.
> Without answering, my father started down the corridor. Jack and I quickly overtook him.
The corridor opened into a large storage room used in years past to house river merchandise. Now the walls were stacked high with crates claiming to contain various varieties of fruit, but I suspected otherwise.
Several men were loading a truck on the ground floor. Two others watched the work from a balcony overhead.
“Either of you recognize any of those men?” I whispered.
“No, but we’ve evidently come to the right place,” Jack said.
The men loaded the crates onto the truck in silence as we watched them work.
“That truck is almost full. It will be pulling out soon,” I said. “I wonder why the police haven’t come?”
“I’m going to talk to those men,” Dad abruptly announced. “You two stay here.”
Before I could protest, my father stepped boldly into the lighted room. Immediately work ceased. Every eye focused upon him.
“Good evening,” my father said.
The greeting was met with a suspicious silence. Then one of the men, a red-faced fellow with a twisted lower lip, asked: “You lookin’ fer somebody?”
“Just passing by and noticed the light,” Dad said. “Wondered what was going on.”
“You can see what’s going on, can’t you?” growled one of the workmen. “We’re trying to load fruit onto this truck. Now get out of here, or I’ll heave one of these crates at your head. We got work to do.”
“Sorry to have bothered you,” my father said, and retreated.
“Now what are we to do?” I whispered as my father rejoined us in the darkened hallway.
“We’ll telephone again for the police. Let’s get out of here.”
We stole noiselessly from the warehouse. As we huddled in the lee of a brick wall, preparing to make a return dash to the river and my waiting iceboat, a patrol car came down the road.
The car turned in at the warehouse. A lone policeman got out.
“That’s Carl Burns,” I whispered to Jack as my father stepped forward out of the shadows to meet the officer. “He’s the one who failed to relay my message to the detectives handling Dad’s case.”
The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 59