I presented Emma to Mrs. Fairchild, and then asked, “Emma, what has become of Mr. and Mrs. Conrad?”
“They should be in their room. I’ll run up and see.”
“And please call Mr. Emerson, the detective,” Mrs. Fairchild requested.
Within a minute or two, Emma came back down the stairway, followed by Glen Conrad and his wife. The couple had no inkling of what was in store for them. They entered the parlor and stopped short.
“Mrs. Fairchild!” said Earnestine Conrad. “You ought to have written us you were coming!”
“Such information would have been a convenience to you, I’m sure.”
“We been doing the best we could here,” Glen Conrad insisted. “Whatever they tell you,” he paused to look from me to Emma, and back to me again, “it ain’t true!”
“It is unnecessary for anyone to tell me anything, Mr. Conrad. I have a very good pair of eyes. What have you done with my beautiful paintings?”
“Your paintings—” stammered Mrs. Conrad. “Of course, they’re here. I dust ’em every day like you tell me to do.”
“Don’t try to pretend,” Mrs. Fairchild said. “You have sold my original portraits and substituted these cheap, gaudy imitations!”
“That ain’t so,” Glen said sullenly.
“Then what has become of my paintings?”
“We don’t know anything, about it,” Mr. Conrad insisted. “These are the same ones you left here when you went away.”
Mrs. Fairchild was losing all patience.
“Very well,” she said, “we will see how far that attitude gets you with the police.”
“The police!” Mrs. Conrad protested. “Surely, you won’t have us arrested?”
Before Mrs. Fairchild could answer, Clarence Emerson, summoned by Emma, came into the room. I explained the situation to him. Mr. Emerson took a paper from his pocket.
“This will add another charge to your growing list, Conrad,” he said. “You were slated for arrest anyway. I turned the case over to the police this morning, and they sent out this warrant. I’ll have to take you both to the jug.”
“Don’t arrest us,” pleaded Mrs. Conrad. “We’ve been cooperating every way we can.”
“It’s out of my hands now.” The detective shrugged. “You’ll have to come along with me unless you prefer to have the police haul you away in the patrol wagon.”
“No! No!” Mrs. Conrad protested. “We’ll go now, but it ain’t fair! We didn’t mean to get into trouble. We only wanted to make a little money.”
“So, you did sell the paintings,” the detective said.
“No, we didn’t!” Mr. Conrad snapped. “Come on, let’s get started if we have to go.”
Emma, Mrs. Fairchild, and I stepped out on the porch as Clarence Emerson led Mr. and Mrs. Conrad to the car. We were not the only spectators. Next door, Ralph leaned indolently against the laundry building and watched as the Conrads were escorted to the detective’s car.
As Glen was getting into Mr. Emerson’s automobile, he turned and saw Ralph. An expression of rage came over his face. For a second I thought he might say something to the man, but he closed his mouth again and got into the car. Ralph smiled and disappeared into his laundry. The car drove away.
“Perhaps, I was too harsh upon the Conrads,” Mrs. Fairchild said. She was looking a bit shocked by it all.
“No, you weren’t,” I said. “As a matter of record, Mr. and Mrs. Conrad are involved in far more serious a matter than the theft of paintings. Since the police have been notified, I may as well take you to room seven and tell you the entire story.”
“The door is locked,” Emma said, “but I know where Mr. Conrad keeps his second master key. I’ll get it now.”
Returning with it a moment later, Emma led us upstairs to room seven. Mrs. Fairchild was horrified when she learned that three persons had disappeared while sleeping in the chamber.
“Oh, this is shocking! I hope the police will not blame me because I am the owner of the house.”
“It’s fairly evident you could have had no part in the affair,” I said. “However, I did hope you might be able to throw a bit of light on the mystery.”
“This is the first I have heard about it!”
“I thought perhaps you might know of a secret exit from the room or something of that sort.”
“Indeed, I don’t. I lived in this house for almost forty years and room seven—of course, it hadn’t any number on the door then—was never anything but an ordinary bed chamber.”
I took the key from Emma and unlocked the door. We stepped inside. Immediately, Mrs. Fairchild’s gaze focused upon the four massive paintings.
“These are imitations, too, I suppose,” I said.
“No,” said Mrs. Fairchild. They are not even copies. I never owned anything so hideous in my life! And to think of placing four of them on one wall!”
“It’s strange, to say the least,” I said. “I wonder—”
I decided to keep my suppositions to myself.
Mrs. Fairchild could contribute nothing by way of any explanation for the mysterious disappearances from the room, so I locked the door and returned the key to Emma.
I was anxious to see the patient, so I left Mrs. Fairchild with Emma and drove on to Mud Cat Joe’s cottage.
I found Jack considerably improved, although his mind was still far from rational. He had recovered consciousness, and had taken a little food, but wasn’t yet sitting up. Doctor Hamsted had called again. It was the doctor’s opinion that by late afternoon Jack could be moved to a hospital.
“Has Jack—talked?” I asked the nurse when we were left alone for a minute.
“He jabbers constantly, but nothing he says makes sense.”
“Poor Jack,” I said.
“Would you mind sitting with him for a few minutes while I fix myself a bite of breakfast?” the nurse asked.
I sat down by the bedside. Jack lay motionless, but his color had improved, and his breathing was even now.
I knew that I shouldn’t try to arouse the patient, but I couldn’t stop myself from leaning closer and whispering: “Jack, Jack, don’t you know me? It’s Jane.”
Jack’s eyelids fluttered open. He looked up at me and for the first time seemed like himself.
“Jane,” he said, and closed his eyes.
“Jack, what happened? Can’t you remember? Was it something about a houseboat?”
“Houseboat,” he repeated thickly, without opening his eyes again. “Moving wall.”
He began to roll restlessly, and I was afraid to ask any more questions. The nurse came back, and I took my leave.
During my absence from Old Mansion, Emma and Mrs. Fairchild had become well acquainted. I offered them a ride to Greenville, but they both declined.
“I have decided to remain here in White Falls for at least a few days,” said Mrs. Fairchild. “So many things must be done to the house, and then, of course, the Conrad case will be coming up. I couldn’t bear to stay in the house alone, but Miss Brown has agreed to share the adventure with me.”
“Staying in this house is an adventure,” I agreed. “However, I think you’ll be safe enough if you keep away from room seven.”
I drove back alone to Greenville, my mind working furiously. By the time I’d reached Greenville I had formulated a theory about room seven, and I was eager to consult with my father.
I went straight to the Examiner’s office, only to be told that Dad had departed a few minutes earlier for White Falls. I thought it strange that I hadn’t seen him on the road, but perhaps we had passed each other, and I’d just been too preoccupied to notice.
I returned home just long enough for luncheon. Mrs. Timms had made butter chicken and masala-flavored biscuits.
I washed my plate and then told Mrs. Timms that I would be driving back to White Falls.
“Again? You’ll wear out the tires of your car, Jane. I declare, it seems as if you’re always going or coming.”
“I must see Dad, Mrs. Timms.”
I telephoned Flo to see if she was free to go with me. By four o’clock we were back in White Falls. We stopped first at the Gains cottage where Jennie told us Dad and Doctor Hamsted had left less than half an hour earlier. They’d gone with the ambulance taking Jack to the hospital.
“Right after they went, some o’ them reporter fellers came here,” Mud Cat Joe revealed. “They sure kin ask a lot o’ useless questions.”
“Reporters?” I asked. “From what paper?”
“Reckon they said they was from The Times.”
“You didn’t answer their questions?”
“Sure, I answered ’em.” Mud Cat grinned. “But when they got through, they didn’t know no more’n they did when they started.”
“It’s only a matter of time now until The Times has the story. The case isn’t solved, and Dad will miss his scoop and count himself lucky if he doesn’t end up in stir.”
“I guess there’s nothing we can do,” said Florence. “Shall we start back home again?”
“No,” I said. “I have a few ideas of my own.”
CHAPTER 23
I didn’t want Mud Cat to overhear, so I waited until we were on the road again to reveal my plan to Flo.
“Isn’t it odd,” I began, “that a Chinese laundry should be so apparently devoid of Chinese persons?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Flo.
“I hadn’t, either,” I said. “But this morning, as I was dressing, I came across something I’d forgotten.”
“What?”
“You remember that shirt of Mr. Conrad’s that got stained with bluing?”
“Yes.”
“You remember how beautifully starched and pressed it was?”
Flo nodded.
“Do you remember that it had a bit of pasteboard inside the collar?”
“No.”
“Well, it did. Look in my handbag, Flo.”
Flo withdrew the pasteboard ring which had come from the collar of the laundered shirt.
“It looks very ordinary to me,” she said.
“Look at what’s written on it.”
“It has some tiny writing on it, but I can’t read it. Is it Chinese?”
“I think so,” I said, “most of it is, anyway. But if you look closely, at the beginning of every string of Chinese lettering, there’s one letter in English.”
Flo scrutinized the pasteboard ring.
“Nerts!”
“’Nerts!’ is right,” I said.
“We should take this to the police,” said Flo.
“I don’t think they’ll take a pasteboard collar ring very seriously,” I said.
“But—”
“I have a better idea,” I said. “Let’s watch the laundry until Ralph and that Sheba of his go out, and then we’ll slip in and take a gander at the place.”
“They arrest folks for breaking and entering buildings,” Florence said firmly. “Your lovely idea does not appeal to me.”
“Oh, we’ll take care not to be caught, Flo. You must do it! I’m certain we’ll discover something sensational if we can just get inside that place! Think of whoever wrote that desperate message. Think of poor Mr. Harwood, and that fellow, Merriweather, not to mention Jack. We ought to trace down every possible clue.”
“Well,” Florence wavered. “I’ll do it, but I don’t like it. That place gives me the heebie-jeebies. Remember that sword?”
“Oh, it had a blunt edge,” I said. “We’ll be in no danger if we wait until Ralph and Violet go out. I pretty sure neither he nor that girl can so much as boil a pot of water without burning it, so I expect they’ll have to leave to eat sooner or later.”
“I’m weak minded to agree,” Florence sighed. “But I suppose I’ll have to say yes.”
Bouncing Betsy was a familiar sight now in White Falls, and no one paid us any attention when I parked her directly opposite the laundry. We called at Old Mansion where we chatted with Emma and Mrs. Fairchild until dusk. Then we returned to the automobile to take up our vigil.
An hour elapsed. Florence squirmed uncomfortably in the front seat, complaining that our wait was to be a hopeless one.
“Maybe they won’t even leave the laundry for supper,” she said. “Maybe they’ll just cook up a pot of oatmeal on the boiler in the back room.”
“Flo, you never were cut out for a detective,” I said. “We may have to wait here half the night, but we’ll finally get in.”
Florence sighed and slumped down in the seat again. She scarcely glanced toward the shop as the minutes dragged by.
“There, they’ve turned off the light. They’ll be coming out now.”
Flo perked up.
Ralph and Violet emerged from the front door, locking it behind them. Ralph looked up and down the street and then placed the key into a chink in the plasterwork above the door.
“Very obliging of him,” I said. “Now we won’t need to smash any windows.”
The pair did not even give Bouncing Betsy a passing glance. They walked rapidly away and soon vanished into the darkness.
“Now is our chance,” I said. “Come along, Flo.”
“They may return any minute.”
“Possibly, but not likely.”
We walked up to the front of the laundry, and Flo screened my movements while I balanced on a discarded flowerpot and retrieved the key from its hiding place. I unlocked the door and opened it. It locked from the inside, so I replaced the key in its hiding place, slipped through the door after Flo, and turned the bolt from the inside.
Ralph and Violet might return while we were still on the premises, but they shouldn’t immediately detect anything was amiss.
We entered soundlessly. I thought the place was empty, but I couldn’t be completely certain. It was gloomy in the interior of the shop.
“We don’t dare switch on the lights,” I whispered, “but I brought the flash.”
“Someone might see the light through the windows,” Florence whispered back.
“I’ll be careful how I use it. Come on, we have no time to lose.”
In the rear room of the laundry, I turned on the flashlight. There was a table, four chairs, a small stove, ironing equipment, and half a dozen baskets of laundry.
“Nothing here,” said Florence.
“We’ll try the basement if there is one.”
We found a stairway leading down into a dark, dirty hole. At first glance, I thought we were doomed to further disappointment. The room was crowded with wash tubs, boilers and a drying machine, but that was hardly surprising.
“I don’t know what you expect to find,” Flo said. “But whatever it is, it can’t be here.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “We’re already here. Let’s make a thorough inspection.”
I moved around the room, investigating every nook and cranny. When I came to a large airing cupboard, I reached up and pulled a strange object off one of the upper shelves.
“Take a look at this, Flo!”
I flashed my light into the dark recess, so Flo could see. Three oil paintings, stacked neatly together, their frames removed, were concealed in the airing cupboard. We found six more portraits—far superior to the imitations which had replaced them, stashed in a carton next to the wringer.
“Well, now we have found something!” Florence admitted.
“These are Mrs. Fairchild’s stolen pictures, Flo. I’m almost certain of it.”
“Shall we take them with us?”
“No, they’re too large to carry. We’ll have to come back for them.”
“I believe those two have been up to far worse things than stealing a few paintings,” I said. “Now, on to the second floor. That’s where I expect things to get really interesting.”
We returned to the main floor. I’d seen a narrow staircase at the back of the workroom which must lead to the second floor.
“Should we really bother with the second floor?” said Florenc
e, as we stood in the back room contemplating the narrow staircase. “I think we’d better go. We already know about the paintings. Whatever the meaning behind that note on that bit of pasteboard, the police will find it.”
I refused to be talked into leaving. Ignoring Flo, I started up the stairs. When I reached the upper landing, I shot the beam of my flashlight around the room.
The stairwell opened into what appeared to be an ordinary storage room scattered with boxes and pieces of broken furniture. Against the east side of the windowless room stood a row of shabby wardrobes which took up the entire wall.
On the outside of one of the wardrobes, a dark cloak and a mask depicting the face of a bird hung from a hook. Someone’s discarded Halloween costume, I guessed.
It was a small room, and I thought it could not possibly encompass the whole of the second floor.
On the wall opposite the wardrobes, there was a heavy wooden door constructed of fresh yellow boards. It was mounted on stout hinges and held closed from the outside by a heavy bolt.
I whispered to Flo to climb up.
Florence hesitated.
“Close the door at the bottom of the stairs,” I said. “Then, even if they do come back, it’ll buy us some time, and they’ll not see our flashlight.”
“Then we’ll be trapped,” Flo protested, but she climbed up anyway.
“Look at those wardrobes,” I said. “Aren’t they spaced exactly as the four paintings on the east wall of room seven?”
“I believe they are!”
A single bulb hung overhead. I handed the flashlight to Florence and went in search of a light switch. I found it, and electric light flooded the room.
I walked to one of the wardrobes and had just started to open it when Flo said.
“Look at this!”
She held up an old cake tin.
“I opened one of the boxes,” she said, “and this was inside.”
From within the tin, she withdrew a tangle of sparkling jewels.
“Loot taken from Mr. Merriweather,” I said, “but the pearls seem to be missing.”
I opened the door of the wardrobe wide. It was empty except for a flashlight lying on the floor of it. It didn’t even contain a shelf. The only thing unusual about it was a small sliding panel, located at eye level, on the back wall of the wardrobe.
Sinister Goings-on in Room Seven: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Two) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 2) Page 12