“Jack! Jack! Are you all right?”
As I pounded frantically on the door, a wave of terror swept over me. Something horrible had happened to Jack! I raced downstairs to find Father. He was talking to the society editor, but when he saw the expression on my face, he instantly excused himself and joined me in the deserted hallway.
“What is it, Jane?”
“Come quickly, Dad.”
“Has anything happened to Jack?”
“I don’t know. I’m afraid so. When I rapped on the door, he didn’t answer.”
“He probably fell asleep,” said Dad. “Don’t get so excited, Jane.”
“The door was locked, Dad.”
“Locked?”
Dad ran up the stairway. I followed. He tried the door of room seven, calling out for Jack. Then he pounded on the door, but there was no response.
“Something is wrong! This door shouldn’t be locked.”
“The Conrad’s have a key,” I said.
I darted down the hall and rapped on the door of Mr. and Mrs. Conrad’s room.
“Now what do you want?” Mr. Conrad demanded. “Ain’t it enough that you bring a noisy, carousing bunch of folks here, without bothering us when we’re in bed?”
Glen Conrad had not been in bed, for he was fully dressed, but I didn’t pause to argue with him.
“Do you have a key to room seven?”
“Yes.”
“Then open the door for us, and be quick about it! We’re afraid something has happened in there!”
“Again?” shrieked Mrs. Conrad from the bed. “Oh! Oh! This will ruin us!”
“Don’t stand there staring, man!” Dad was beside me now. “Give me that key, or I’ll have to break down the door.”
Mr. Conrad retreated into the depths of the bedroom and reappeared with a master key. His wife, drawing a ragged dressing gown over her night dress, followed us down the hall. Mr. Conrad unlocked the door of room seven and switched on the lights. I looked at the great mahogany bed that occupied most of the room. It was empty.
“Jack’s gone!” My voice was high and squeaky.
Mrs. Conrad uttered a shriek of terror, then collapsed into her husband’s arms.
“Drop the hysterics,” Dad ordered grimly. “That is unless you want everyone in the house to learn what has happened!”
“We’ll be ruined—ruined,” Mrs. Conrad moaned, but she kept her voice down.
There was no evidence of any struggle. The bedspread was in disarray as if Jack had lain on top of it. Evidently, he had removed his shoes before lying down, for they had been set neatly by the post.
There was an odd floral scent lingering in the room, just as Emma had described smelling on the night Mr. Harwood disappeared. It was floral, but also slightly smoky. I was certain that it wasn’t spilled aftershave, as Emma had surmised. Was it incense? If it was, it was incense of a variety I’d never smelled before.
Dad looked under the pillows and held up Jack’s revolver.
“This is the weirdest thing I have ever encountered,” Dad said. “No shots fired—not a sound from this room—yet Jack disappeared from under our very noses.”
“Maybe he jumped out of the window like those other fellows did,” Glen Conrad suggested, and was rewarded with a scornful glance from my father.
Dad told me to stay in room seven and make sure nothing was touched, while he ran downstairs for help.
He returned with Shep and Bill Evans and started to inspect the room. Shep examined the camera apparatus which he’d set up earlier in the evening.
“The Xenon flash lamp went off,” said Shep. “Jack evidently pulled the trigger which was rigged up to the bed! I’ll rush the plates back to Greenville and get them into the darkroom, so we can have a look!”
“I make no pretensions of being a detective,” Dad said, turning to the Conrads. “This is now clearly a case for the police.”
“No! No!” pleaded Mrs. Conrad. “My husband and I would be blamed for everything which has happened here. And I swear we are innocent! Oh, please, don’t notify the police, Mr. Carter.”
“The only reason I wouldn’t is because I fear they would bungle the case,” Dad said. “If I’m not to inform the police, then I’ll need a very clever detective. I’ll send for Clarence Emerson!”
Dad shooed everyone from the room, locked the door, and pocketed the key. He then telephoned his detective friend, Clarence Emerson.
“The police haven’t been called in, as yet,” he told Mr. Emerson. “Bring your fingerprint equipment, and get over here as quickly as you can, Clarence.”
I made it clear to the guests that the party was over. A few of the reporters were quietly asked to remain, while the others motored back to the city. Dad entrusted the plates taken from room seven to Shep.
“Develop these right away, and see what we have. The solution of the case may depend on your work,” Dad said to Shep. “You leave immediately, and I’ll get to Greenville as soon as I can. Wait at the office for me.”
The reporters who had been sent to search the area around Old Mansion returned. They had found no trace of Jack Bancroft.
“Keep searching,” my father ordered. “Until Jack is found, you’ll be on duty twenty-four hours a day. Pick up any clues you can. Hawkes, round up a man who knows the river, and start dragging.”
“Oh, Dad,” I said. “You don’t think—”
“No,” he answered. “I believe that Jack is still alive. But we can’t afford to overlook anything. By delaying in notifying the police, I am assuming a responsibility which might result in a jail sentence. We must find Jack, and solve the case quickly! If I didn’t believe that Clarence Emerson is a better detective than any on the police force, I’d never take matters into my own hands so ruthlessly.”
“I know a local man who is familiar with every ripple and shoal in the Grassy,” I said. “Mud Cat Joe. He could be trusted not to talk. However, he has no equipment.”
“We can take care of that.”
Bill and I went in search of Joe. When we found Mud Cat, I didn’t tell him the whole story, but I told him enough to impress upon him the importance of dragging the river.
“It’s sho’ hard work rowin’ back and forth all day,” Mud Cat sighed, “and it will keep me from a-huntin’ for my own boat, but you been mighty good to Jennie and me and the young ’uns, Ma’am. I’ll get at it soon’s daylight comes.”
“You’ve not found The Empress, yet?” I asked as we climbed back into the car.
“No, I was much obliged to you fer that note you left. But when I got over to Mulberry River, they wasn’t no sign of any houseboat.”
“My father will pay you well for your work,” I told him. “Maybe even enough to buy lumber for a new boat.”
Mud Cat Joe’s problem had slipped to the back of my mind. I tried to wonder what had become of the houseboat which Flo and I had viewed from the bridge, but I didn’t really care. Every time I tried to focus my thoughts on anything, I soon reverted to worrying about Jack.
The events of the night seemed unreal, like a nightmare. What had become of the missing reporter? I refused to believe that his body would be found in the river, yet as my father had said, we could afford to overlook no possibility. I felt ill with dread and worry.
Arriving at Old Mansion once more, I learned that Clarence Emerson had arrived during my absence.
“He hasn’t run into a single worthwhile clue so far,” Dad told me. “He thinks our best bet may be that photograph Jack snapped. We’ll run over to the Examiner office now and see how it turned out.”
“What will be done with Mr. and Mrs. Conrad?”
“Clarence is questioning them now.”
“And Emma?”
“She’ll stay here, too. At least until Clarence has talked with her.”
We made a record-breaking trip to Greenville. I refused to be left off at home, so Dad and I went on to the Examiner office. Many of the rooms were dark, for the final edition
had been run off the presses hours before, but lights burned on the second floor where the photographers had their quarters.
As we came in, Shep Murphy emerged from the dark room, his hands dripping wet.
“How did it turn out?” Dad asked him.
“Well, there’s something on the plate. Come on in and look at it.”
We stepped into the dark room. Shep lifted the plate from the developer tray and held it in front of the red light.
“I can’t make much out of it myself,” he confessed. “Looks like a picture gallery.”
“It’s the east wall of the room!” I said. “It’s a photograph of those four hideous paintings!”
“You’re right,” Dad said. “Our best clue amounts to exactly nothing.”
CHAPTER 17
Even after the plate was sufficiently fixed so that it could be safely exposed to bright light, we were unable to find anything in the picture which offered a clue to the mystery of Jack’s disappearance.
“Well, print it up, Shep,” Dad said. “But unless Clarence Emerson knows something we don’t, I can’t see that the photograph will be of any use to him.”
“I blame myself for what happened,” my father said as we drove toward home. “It was a crazy idea of mine, putting Jack in that room alone. If we don’t find him—”
“We will find him, Dad,” I said. “We must.”
“I don’t give a hang about the story—now. I’d sacrifice a hundred scoops to prevent a thing like this from occurring.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Dad. You mustn’t blame yourself.”
“I’ll solve the case if it’s the last thing I ever do! It makes no sense that three people could disappear under the same set of circumstances, and each leave no clue!”
We’d reached home. I parked in the garage, but instead of following me into the house Dad announced that he was returning to White Falls.
“There’s probably nothing I can do,” he said, “but I prefer to remain at the scene.”
“Let me know if Jack is found, or if anything new develops.”
“The very instant,” Dad promised.
I slept fitfully during the few hours which remained of the night. I was on constant alert for the phone to ring, but daybreak came, and my father hadn’t called.
I was just sitting down to a lonely breakfast when Dad’s car came up the drive. He came into the house looking tired and worn. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep.
“Any news, Dad?” I asked.
“No, nothing of consequence.”
He sat down at the breakfast table, saying to Mrs. Timms who had come in from the kitchen: “Just a cup of strong, black coffee, please.”
“Dad, you should eat your breakfast,” I protested.
Dad shook his head.
“I don’t feel like it.”
“Hasn’t anything developed at all?”
“Not concerning Jack. Clarence Emerson is of the opinion we may never see him again, or if we do, his body will be taken from the river.”
I was halfway through my curried eggs and apple chutney, but there was no chance of me finishing them now. What I’d already eaten threatened to come back up.
“Mud Cat was starting to drag the river when I left. That means it won’t be long until everyone in the village will know what has happened. Not that it matters much, I guess. However, when the police get wind of the affair, I may have some tall explaining to do.”
“Dad, does Clarence Emerson think the Conrads had any part in Jack’s disappearance?”
“Not that I can get out of him. He did force Glen Conrad to reveal where Harwood’s car was hidden. It was found in the woods some distance off a side road. Conrad claims he disposed of the automobile merely to avoid questioning by the police.”
“His story has been consistent, but I don’t trust the fellow.”
“Clarence learned one fact which may interest you.”
“What is that, Dad?”
“The Conrads are not the owners of Old Mansion.”
“They aren’t? Well, that is a surprise.”
“The Conrads are merely caretakers, but they’ve lived there so long, they’ve come to regard the house as their own.”
“Who is the owner?”
“A woman named Irma Fairchild, living in Chicago.”
“I wonder if she has any idea what has been going on at her place?”
“No, the Conrads have kept her in ignorance fearing that it might cost them their jobs. It seems that they turned the place into a hotel without Mrs. Fairchild’s consent.”
“That was a high-handed thing to do, although quite in keeping with Glen Conrad’s character.”
“Yes, he figured Mrs. Fairchild never would find out. She hasn’t visited the place even once since she left it in their care nearly ten years ago.”
“Why has she kept the place occupied, I wonder?”
“Sentimental reasons, I suppose. Mrs. Fairchild was married in that house, two of her children died there, and likewise her husband.”
“Not in room seven, surely,” I said.
“No, not to my knowledge. At one time, the house was considered quite a showplace. But some ten years ago or more, the city fathers made the whole street into a commercial district and shop buildings went up beside the dwelling. The river has been cutting in closer, too.”
“And that was what motivated Mrs. Fairchild to move to Chicago?”
“Perhaps, all I know for certain is that she hired the Conrads as caretakers and left everything in their charge. She moved East and has never returned.”
“The house was furnished when she left it?”
“Yes, the Conrads have admitted to Clarence Emerson that everything—furniture, paintings, even the glassware —belongs to Mrs. Fairchild.”
“I rather thought the Conrads had never furnished that house. However, I can’t say much for Mrs. Fairchild’s taste in paintings. Some of those portraits are mere daubs in expensive frames.”
“You’re wrong, Jane. Mr. Vhorst, the café owner, told me those paintings are generally known in the community to be quite valuable.”
“Maybe the community got it wrong,” I said. “Dad, can’t you see how atrocious they are?”
“They don’t appeal to me,” Dad admitted. “However, I don’t pretend to know anything about art.”
“Even a blind man could tell those paintings aren’t art,” I insisted. “If they’re supposed to be valuable, then someone must have cheated Mrs. Fairchild.”
“Well, at any rate, she considered them worth enough to merit keeping a caretaker for ten years. The Conrads receive only a small salary and the use of the property. That was one reason why they began taking in guests. They needed extra money.”
“I wish I knew if Glen Conrad owns that shed where Mud Cat Joe and his family live.”
“I doubt if the man has any property of his own.”
“So, do I. Chances are, he’s trying to drive Joe off the property belonging to Mrs. Fairchild. Maybe as caretaker, he had a right to, but it seems to me, he’s suddenly taking his duties very seriously.”
“Yes, considering that he has been unfaithful Mrs. Fairchild’s trust in many other ways.”
“Someone should let Mrs. Fairchild know about how Old Mansion is being operated.”
“I suggested to Clarence Emerson that we try to get in touch with her,” Dad said. “He didn’t believe it would do any good.”
“She should be informed on principle, it seems to me, Dad. I would like to send her a telegram.”
“Go ahead if you like. Here is her address, or at least it is the one Mrs. Conrad gave Clarence.”
Dad handed me a slip of paper, and, drinking the last of his coffee, stood up from the table.
“I’ll be at the office for an hour,” he said. “After that, I’ll probably return to White Falls.”
When the breakfast dishes had been cleared away, I backed Bouncing Betsy from the garage and drove over to see
Florence. Together we composed the telegram to Mrs. Fairchild and dispatched it.
“She’ll think the worst when she receives our message,” Florence said. “What if she decides to come here?”
“I hope she does decide to come,” I said. “It’s high time Mrs. Fairchild checked up on the Conrads.”
After the telegram had been sent, there was nothing more to occupy our minds. I could not stand to be idle. When I was idle, visions of Jack’s water-logged body being dredged up from the river-bottom haunted me.
“It’s so hard just to sit and wait and hope,” I said.
“We could drive over to White Falls,” Flo said. “I’ll go with you.”
“I’d rather be there than here.”
“So, would I.”
I knew every inch of the road between Greenville and White Falls by this time, and we made the drive in excellent time. We were approaching the Grassy River, near where Mud Cat Joe and his family had their temporary home when I slammed on the brakes.
“You’re stopping here again today?” Flo asked.
I most certainly was stopping. There, on the roadside directly ahead of us, was Jennie Gains, her three children gathered close beside her, sitting dejectedly on an old log. Not far away were all their worldly possessions: a rusty stove, two cots, bedding and a box of cooking pans.
“It looks to me as if Mud Cat and his family have been put out of their home,” I said.
CHAPTER 18
We got out of the car and walked over to Jennie Gains and her children. I looked up at the shed. It had a new, stout door which had been boarded and nailed shut.
“Jennie, you’ve not been driven out, have you?” Flo said.
“The sheriff done it,” Mrs. Gains said. “He snuck up here right after Joe went out on the river this mornin’. He says we can’t live here no more.”
“This must be Glen Conrad’s work,” I said. “One would think he’d be so occupied with his own troubles, he’d have no energy left to create trouble for you.”
“Probably he notified the sheriff before Jack’s disappearance,” Florence suggested. “Maybe that day when he tumbled into the water.”
“Yes, that would be my guess,” I said, “but it doesn’t help matters. Once an order goes into effect, it’s hard to get it rescinded.”
Sinister Goings-on in Room Seven: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Two) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 2) Page 9