“Shouldn’t be surprised if he intends to fire you,” I said.
Jack just smiled one of his dazzling smiles, and I had to look up at the ceiling to keep from smiling back.
“We still haven’t agreed on what picture we’re going to see?” Jack said, abruptly changing the subject.
“I have to iron my shoelaces,” I said, turned on my heel and hurried downstairs.
When I arrived home, Mrs. Timms was rather worried over my lengthy absence. I generally abhor displays of sentimentality, but Mrs. Timms is a sweet old thing who practically raised me from a pup, so I make allowances.
“Have you had your breakfast?” Mrs. Timms asked when she was done mauling me.
“Yes, hours ago in White Falls. Still, if you’d urge me, I could eat a dish of those fresh strawberries you’re picking over.”
“I declare, you’re always hungry. But I wish you would put on a little flesh.”
“I don’t. Fleshy girls simply get nowhere these days. But I do wish my brains would expand a little. I have a job on my hands which requires deep thinking.”
“What are you up to now? I hope it’s nothing like that witch doll affair.”
“No, I am cogitating upon how to find a stolen houseboat —not to mention a man who disappeared mysteriously from Old Mansion.”
“Quite a large order, I should say.”
Between strawberries, I told Mrs. Timms about my experiences in White Falls. Mrs. Timms promised to send a box of food to Mud Cat Joe and his family the next time she made the trip to the river town.
“Oh, by the way, Jane,” said Mrs. Timms, “while you were gone, Albert Layman telephoned. He said he would like to have you play tennis with him this afternoon.”
“He’ll have to find some other girl,” I said. “I’m staying close to home today. Anyway, Al’s too tall and gangly.”
“Can he help that?”
“Yes, and he’s always talking about his latest get-rich-quick scheme. No constancy. I prefer my men with steady purpose.”
“Such as that reporter, Jack Bancroft, I suppose,” Mrs. Timms observed.
“Certainly not,” I said. “I’m fond of old Jack, but if I’m going to play mixed-doubles for life with someone, it won’t be with any newspaperman.”
I put my empty berry dish in the sink, and went upstairs to my room to do a few hours hard labor on the next installment of my latest serial, “Evangeline: The Horse Thief’s Unwilling Fiancée.”
When last I’d left Evangeline, her father had declared that the only man Evangeline had ever truly loved was a beggarly dog and had vowed to marry her off to the dastardly villain who was pretending to be an upstanding rancher and not the ringleader of a murderous gang of horse thieves. I was pleased with the dramatic start, but now I was faced with fabricating part two of the tale and deeply uncertain what subsequent misfortune should befall Evangeline.
Later in the morning, when Albert Layman telephoned again, I gave him the icy mitt and firmly declined his invitation to play tennis.
All afternoon I remained at home polishing the mud from Bouncing Betsy, doing odd jobs which had accumulated, and contemplating the fate of Evangeline.
Recently, Mr. Pittman, Editor of Pittman’s All-Story Weekly Magazine and the man who writes the checks compensating me for my little literary efforts, had complained. The readers of Pittman’s, he insisted, preferred a rather more feminine heroine than I’d featured in my previous serials. It was all fine and good, Mr. Pittman pointed out, to have characters going about conking the villain on the head with heavy objects or prodding the antagonist in the ribs with sharp implements, but wasn’t that rather more the job of the hero?
I begged to differ with Mr. Pittman, but he’s the man who writes the checks. I resolved to prevent my latest heroine from getting off on the wrong foot with my editor by plunging her into a dread delirium in the opening paragraph of my current installment. I then intended to leave her on her bed of sickness for the next twenty pages while the villain went off and plotted dastardly deeds with his band of desperados. I decided that a secret cave would be involved. Readers of Pittman’s would surely put their stamp of approval on a secret cave.
At four o’clock Dad came home from the office.
“Did he telephone?” I asked.
“Did who telephone?”
“Mr. Harwood, of course.”
“No, not while I was at the office.”
“I thought surely he would.”
“Mr. Harwood told us he might not telephone before tomorrow.”
“Yes, that is true. You heard nothing more about the disappearance?”
“No, Jack will get to work on the story tomorrow after he talks with Harwood. But don’t count upon it developing into anything tremendous, Jane.”
I slept fitfully that night. I couldn’t stop thinking of might develop at Old Mansion. In the morning, I surprised Dad by climbing into the car beside him when he was ready to start for the newspaper office.
“Why am I thus honored?” he inquired.
“Oh, I’d like to be on hand when that telephone call comes through from Mr. Harwood.”
“I can let you know from the office.”
“You might forget,” I said. “No, if you don’t mind me being underfoot, I’ll just tag along.”
I busied myself in Dad’s office with typing up another installment of, “Evangeline: The Horse Thief’s Unwilling Fiancée.” During the first hour, I wrote the unfortunate Evangeline into a delirium of sufficient dreadfulness to ensure she’d be confined to bed for at least the next twenty pages. During the second hour, I worked on getting the dastardly villain from his ranch to the secret cave. I’d turned out four pages of the villain wandering the trackless wasteland in search of the secret cave before my poor beleaguered brain rebelled at the task of describing another cactus.
I wandered out to the pressroom to watch Burt Kissinger draw a cartoon. I looked over at Jack’s desk, but it was vacant. I wandered into the photographer’s quarters to see what my friend Shep was doing, but he was also absent. Finally, I went back into my father’s private office and wrote my dastardly villain all the way to the sturdy wooden gate which barred entrance to the secret cave.
“I want your opinion,” I said to Dad. “What do you think of this password: ‘Death to Traitors’?”
“Really, Jane,” my father said peevishly, “this is a newsroom, not some sort of spy organization.”
“Imagine you are a vicious desperado masquerading as an upstanding rancher who has been wandering for three days in a trackless wasteland, you’ve run out of water, your horse has gone lame from a tangle with a barrel cactus, but you’ve finally come upon the secret cave you’ve been searching for? Would you consider ‘Death to Traitors’ to be a sufficiently dramatic password to make you stick around the entrance for another page and a half until someone opens the gate for you and lets you in?”
My father did not dignify my query with a reply.
The telephone rang many times, and always I straightened alertly, but the call was never from Mr. Harwood.
“What do you suppose is the matter with that man?” I said to Dad. “Here it is eleven o’clock, and not a word from him.”
“He probably forgot,” my father said. “After you’ve been in the newspaper business for as long as I have, you’ll learn promises don’t mean a great deal.”
“But he was so emphatic, Dad. I can’t help thinking he would have telephoned if something hadn’t happened.”
“No doubt your clue about Merriweather was a dud. Possibly, Mr. Harwood decided to return to Chicago yesterday.”
“That needn’t have prevented him from letting us know.“ I walked over to my father’s desk. “Dad, I have a notion to telephone Emma. She could tell me whether or not Mr. Harwood went to Old Mansion yesterday.”
“Not a bad idea. Go right ahead.”
I placed the call. Mrs. Earnestine Conrad answered.
“May I speak with Emma?”
“Miss Brown is very busy.” Mrs. Conrad sounded agitated. “Can’t I take the message?”
“No, thank you, I must speak with Emma,” I insisted. “I assure you it is important.”
“You’re not a reporter?” Mrs. Conrad demanded.
“No.”
It was a very strange question. Why should she suspect that I was reporter?
“Just a minute then,” Mrs. Conrad said.
There was a long wait while I held the receiver. Several times I glanced at my wrist watch, wondering why Mrs. Conrad delayed in bringing Emma to the telephone. I should have insisted on making a person to person call, for the newspaper was now being charged for the elapsed time. I was on the verge of hanging up the receiver when I voice on the other end said hello.
“Hello, is that you, Emma? This is Jane. I called to ask—”
“I can’t talk now,” Emma interrupted. “Oh, Jane, dreadful things go on here! Mr. Harwood—”
Then there was a sharp click as if a receiver had been replaced in its cradle. The connection was broken.
CHAPTER 11
“Hello, operator!” I said urgently. “I’ve been disconnected from my party.”
“There is no one on the line now,” the operator said. “Shall I ring again?”
“Please.”
After a long wait, the operator reported that she was unable to reestablish the connection. I hung up the receiver, turned to my father, and repeated Emma’s strange message.
“Dad, something is wrong out there!”
“It does seem odd she would refuse to talk.”
“Mr. Harwood must have arrived yesterday, for she mentioned his name just as she was cut off. I suppose Mrs. Conrad may have been listening to the conversation, but even that doesn’t account for what she said: ‘Dreadful things go on here!’”
“Is the girl inclined to be hysterical?”
“Well, she is easily excited,” I admitted. “Still, I’m worried.”
“Why not drive over to White Falls if it will ease your mind? But don’t go alone, wait a couple of hours and Jack can ride along with you.”
“I’d prefer to start right away,” I said. “Probably Florence will be willing to go with me.”
I lost no time in telephoning Flo, and she agreed to the trip. Florence had told her mother about the Gains family, and Mrs. Radcliff insisted upon sending a box of clothing and groceries with us. I was quite willing to stop at the shed where Mud Cat and his brood had taken refuge, but I regretted the delay.
“Let’s make it as brief as possible,” I told Florence, as the car drew near the Grassy River. “I’m terribly anxious to see Emma.”
When we halted in of the shed, there was no activity about the place.
“Maybe the Gains family has left,” said Florence.
“I’m sure they are around somewhere,” I said.
A line of shirts flapped in the wind between two trees. They had very little in the way of clothes. They wouldn’t have taken off without their laundry.
I tried the horn.
At the sound of Bouncing Betsy’s staccato summons, the Gains family came to life. Jennie and Jed peered around the corner of the shed, while Mud Cat Joe ambled into sight from the direction of the river.
“Well, if it ain’t our young lady friends,” he said. “Jennie! Come on out here! I allows this is a-goin’ to be good news.”
“We have a basket of things for you,” I said. “It’s in the rear compartment. Just a few little knick-knacks we thought you might like.”
Flo stepped from the car and started to get the basket.
“Now then, young lady don’t you go an’ break your back a liftin’ that,” said Mud Cat. “Let me heft it out of there for you.”
Punctuating his words with action, he moved to the rear of the car.
“She’s purty heavy, Jennie,” he said, weighing the basket up and down in his hand. “There’s a lot of store grub here.”
“Thank you kindly,” said Jennie. “We sure get tired o’ catfish day in and out.”
“We brought a box of clothing too,” Florence said.
Mud Cat lifted out the box and gazed at it with delight.
“Look at that there sweater, Jed!” he said. “Now you kin keep warm this winter. You and the young ’uns. It ain’t a goin’ to be so shivery like it was last year.”
“Thank you,” Jed said bashfully. Then, to further manifest his appreciation, the boy offered to show us his most prized possession, his dog.
“Tige’s tied up by the river,” Jed explained. “He’s kind of mean with strangers, but he’s sure a great dog.”
I wanted to get back on the road, but I hated to disappoint the boy, so Flo and I followed him around the shed. Mud Cat Joe and his wife carried the groceries and clothing into the shelter and then followed us down to the river’s edge.
“This here is Tige,” Jed said proudly, unfastening the dog from the willow tree to which he had been tied. “He’s half shepherd and half English bull.”
“What a mixture,” Flo said.
“And that’s our raft of chickens,” Jed announced, pointing to a flat craft likewise tied to the willow tree. “It used to ride along behind The Empress.”
I asked Mud Cat if he had any new clues as to what had become of his missing houseboat.
“No, Mrs. Carter, nary a trace,” Joe replied. “I asked as fer down the river as Newport, but folks sez they ain’t never seen ’er. I got a sneakin’ idea them skunks that stole ’er has done gone and sent ’er to the bottom of the river.”
“What good would that do them?” I asked.
“Maybe they stripped her first and then allowed as how they was in a risky business and might get caught. So, they just let the river into her.”
“Let’s hope not,” said Florence. “I feel somehow that you will recover your houseboat.”
Before Mud Cat Joe could reply, another car drove into the yard. A man got out and ran toward us. It was Glen Conrad. Mr. Conrad seemed oblivious to Flo and me. He addressed himself exclusively to the Gains family as a unit.
“What are you doing on my property?” he shouted.
“I don’t know who you are, stranger,” said Mud Cat Joe, “but I might tell you I ain’t used to havin’ nobody talk to me in them tones.”
“Answer my questions,” Mr. Conrad snapped. “Who gave you the right to occupy these premises?”
“The right any river man has to live in any vacant buildin’ that suits his fancy. And listen, stranger, I’m givin’ you just five minutes to get out.”
“What! You order me off my own property!”
“I sure do, if it is your property.”
Mud Cat tossed his tattered hat on the ground and deliberately rolled up his sleeves. I wondered if Mr. Conrad even owned this property. I guessed that he didn’t. But how he might think to profit by bullying the Gains family, I couldn’t imagine.
“Mr. Conrad,” I said. “I know this family personally. They have had a great deal of misfortune since their houseboat was lost. If you force them from this shed, they’ll have no other place to go.”
“You keep out of this,” Mr. Conrad appeared for the first time to recognize me. “These dirty squatters are moving, and that’s all there is to it!”
“We’re not a-gettin’ out,” Mud Cat announced.
“I’ll show you!” shouted Glen Conrad. “Those squawking chickens are moving downstream right now!”
Drawing a knife from his pocket, he ran to the raft and started hacking at the rope. Before it could be severed, Jed unhooked the leash of his dog and urged: “Get ’im, Tige!”
The dog made a savage dart at Glen Conrad, who, in sudden terror, dropped the knife.
“Look out, stranger,” chuckled Mud Cat Joe. “That there dog is pure pizen!”
Glen Conrad tried to retreat toward his automobile, but the dog stopped him. The badgered man had only one direction to go—toward the river. He took a step backward, shouting
to Jed and Joe to call off their dog, or he would have the law on them.
As the man hesitated at the edge of the bank, Tige made another savage rush. He struck hard against Glen Conrad’s legs, toppling him into the raft of chickens. There was a wild fury of feathered panic as the fowl flew in all directions. Glen tried desperately to save himself, but the raft gave a sudden lurch under his weight, and with a great splash he pitched into the muddy waters of the Grassy.
CHAPTER 12
“Hey, you!” Mud Cat shouted. “Guess that will teach you to leave my chicken raft be!”
“Oh, Pop!” Jed shrieked. “Ain’t he funny? He almost set down on the White Rock rooster!”
“The river ain’t wet, is it?” mocked Jennie.
Glen Conrad stood up in the shallow water, spluttering angrily. He shook his fist at the group on shore.
“You’ll pay for this!”
While Jed rounded up the few chickens which had escaped from the wire enclosure on the raft, Mud Cat Joe tied up Tige, so that Glen Conrad could wade ashore.
More outraged than hurt, the man retreated to his car, breathing threats at every step. Even the exhaust of his automobile sounded angry as he drove off down the highway.
“That sure was funny.” Flo chuckled. “It served Mr. Conrad right, too. He had no business trying to cut loose the raft.”
“Maybe we oughtn’t to have sicked the dog on him,” Mud Cat said. “If that feller does own this shed, I reckon we’ll pay a-plenty fer the fun of gettin’ rid of him.”
“Well, landlords do have a way of ousting tenants sometimes,” I said. “He probably will be back.”
“Oh, he’ll be back all right,” said Joe. “And I got a feelin’ he will be a-bringin’ the sheriff along with him.”
“What will you do then?” asked Florence.
“I don’t know. If I could find The Empress, we’d just climb aboard and wash our hands of this here upstart. But a river man without no houseboat is about as lost as a duck in the desert.”
“Well, if Mr. Conrad makes trouble for you, I may be able to do something about it,” I said. “If he puts you out of the shed, we’ll try to find you another place.”
“That’s mighty kind of you. But I reckon Jennie an’ me and the kids won’t never be satisfied living on the land. We kin only feel at home on the river.”
Sinister Goings-on in Room Seven: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Two) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 2) Page 6