“A houseboat! Then Florence and I really found the hide-out and didn’t realize it.”
“Jack was imprisoned there along with two other men— Harwood and Merriweather. He learned their stories. Merriweather had been robbed of his jewels, while Harwood was being kept there to prevent him from disclosing his knowledge. That was why Ralph captured Jack, too. Having learned that he was a reporter, he feared exposure.”
“Why didn’t Ralph simply take his loot and disappear?”
“His henchmen, there are some eight or ten involved in the plot, were greedy for more money. They brought pressure on Ralph to keep up the little game a few days longer. There was also a great deal of disagreement amongst the ruffians as to the fate of the prisoners. There was a contingent for taking them to a deserted location and letting them go, on the logic that since they’d been bound and blind-folded for the duration of their captivity, they would be unable to identify their captors. There was another equally vocal faction in favor of shooting the prisoners in the head and dumping their weighted bodies into the river.”
“How did Jack escape?”
“He managed to get away when one of his captors brought food. Merriweather and Harwood helped him to overpower the man, and Jack jumped overboard, but not before he had been struck on the head. You know the rest of the story. He’d never have reached land if Mud Cat Joe’s boat hadn’t been handy to pick him up.”
Before Dad could say more, Emma Brown hurried up.
“Oh, Jane,” she said, “you had such a narrow escape from death!”
My father stared at me, bewildered by the remark.
“Oh, Florence and I had a little adventure with Ralph, ourselves,” I said.
I told him the whole story.
“There must have been machinery in one of those wardrobes to move the wall panel behind the painting that swung back,” I surmised. “And some mechanism to lock the door to room seven.”
Dad agreed with my theory.
“Ralph was very wicked and very clever,” I said. “I’m afraid he escaped with all the loot and will never be seen again.”
“There’s a good chance he’ll be caught,” Dad said. “The police have sent a squad to search for the houseboat where Merriweather and Harwood are still imprisoned. They may be able to surprise Ralph there.”
“If the houseboat can be located,” I said. “It has a tricky little habit of vanishing at inconvenient moments!”
“Jack said it hid out in a narrow river most of the time, venturing on the Grassy only occasionally. But he was kept blindfolded, and couldn’t identify the stream.”
“I’m sure it was the Mulberry River! That’s where Florence and I last saw the boat.”
“Then the police will never find it because they didn’t start for the Mulberry River!” Dad said. “Where’s Clarence? We’ll organize our own searching party!”
By this time the fire was well under control. The volunteer firefighters were incensed that Ralph and Violet had left four people to perish in a burning building, and they required little convincing to help us track down Ralph’s gang. My father and the detective hastily loaded the volunteers into cars. Flo and I crowded in beside Dad, to lead the way to the Mulberry River.
When we reached the river road, we abandoned the automobiles and took to the woods. Drawing close to the river, Clarence Emerson assumed command of the situation, instructing the men to move quietly and to be careful in any use of firearms.
There was no sign of a houseboat when we reached the banks of the Mulberry, so the party broke into two groups. Dad led some of the men upstream, while the others walked toward the mouth of the river.
Flo and I remained with Mud Cat Joe and Dad. When we had gone only a short distance, Dad called for silence. From far upstream, we heard the muffled beat of an engine.
“That may be the houseboat coming,” Dad said. “Spread out men, along the banks where the stream is narrow. If I fire a shot, leap aboard her.”
Scarcely had the men hidden in the bushes when the boat chugged slowly into view.
“Doggone, if that ain’t my missin’ houseboat!” Mud Cat Joe muttered.
A shot rang out. As the houseboat grated softly against the river bank, a dozen men sprang aboard. Those who did not have revolvers had armed themselves with big sticks. Mud Cat Joe wielded his club with deadly intent, determined to avenge himself upon the persons who had robbed him of his houseboat. He felled two men neatly and was sadly disappointed when the others took refuge and pleaded for mercy.
Ralph alone attempted to escape by trying to shoot his way out of the cabin. He was quickly overpowered.
The sound of firing brought Clarence Emerson, who provided handcuffs for all of Ralph’s gang. A key taken from Violet opened the padlocked inner door of the houseboat, and there, crudely trussed up, lay the two prisoners, Mr. Merriweather and his friend, Frank Harwood.
They were rushed at once to a hospital, although their condition did not appear to be critical. Clarence Emerson took charge of Ralph and his henchmen and assumed responsibility for the loot found on the boat. In addition to the jewels stolen from Merriweather, Mrs. Fairchild’s paintings were recovered undamaged, and there likewise was a box of gold coins which, when counted, totaled nearly three thousand dollars.
“Them no ’count ruffians sure banged up The Empress a-plenty,” Mud Cat Joe said, as he inspected his recovered property. “But I kin fix her up again as good as new. I sure am much obliged to you, Ma’am, fer leadin’ me to her.”
“And I’m grateful to you for saving Jack’s life,” I said.
“Didn’t do much, ma’am.”
“You did,” I said. “Without you, Jack would certainly have drowned.”
Dad echoed my words, adding: “You’ll certainly hear from me within a few days, Joe. Right now, I must get back to Greenville. This is a big story, and I want to freeze it in type before The Times learns what is up.”
“I’m depending upon you to write an account of everything you found in Ralph’s laundry,” Dad said, turning to me. “Make it thorough.”
“Even the dirty shirts?”
When we reached the newspaper office, the members of the editorial staff were enjoying a brief rest between editions.
“We’re putting out an extra,” Dad barked. “Harwood and Merriweather have been found. The whole case is cleaned up. A banner for the front page, DeWitt! And make it a triple-decker across all the columns. I’ll handle the main story myself, right-hand column with a break on page two. Jane’s story will take the left column.
I’d never agreed to write any story, and I didn’t intend to. I’d just jot down the facts of the case and hand it off to one of Dad’s reporters.
“Dig up that flash lamp photograph of the portraits in room seven!” my father continued. “We’ll run it on page one. We’ll also need pictures of Mud Cat Joe’s houseboat, Old Mansion, and Sing Lee’s Laundry, but they can catch the second edition. The thing now is to get those presses rolling!”
I vanished into Dad’s office and sat down at the typewriter. I’d only intended to write down some detailed notes, but instead, the story seemed to write itself. Words, sentences, paragraphs flowed and transferred themselves to paper.
I was only vaguely aware as the city editor, after showing my father the dummy for the front page, peered over my shoulder to read what I had written.
“Great stuff,” said Mr. Dewitt. “Keep it up.”
I filled five sheets of copy paper and then sat back in my chair.
“The presses are all ready to roll,” Dad said. “Once they start, nothing can stop them!”
Like an excited schoolboy, he paced the floor, and could not relax until the first issue of the paper was placed in his hand. I had conflicted feelings as I looked over his shoulder and saw Miss Hortencia Higgins name signed to the story I had just written.
“It’s a beautiful layout, every bit of it,” my father said. “You took care of your part like a veteran, Jane.�
�
“Don’t think Hortencia Higgins is going to make it a habit of contributing to the Examiner,” I said. “Miss Higgins is going to be far too preoccupied with figuring out what her dastardly villain is going to do once he discovers that the password to the secret cave is ‘Death to Traitors’.”
“Surely the talented Miss Higgin’s considerable brain power won’t be completely squandered on villains and secret caves,” Dad protested.
“No, I expect not,” I said. “The balance of Miss Higgins’ attention will be devoted to determining what her heroine is going to say when she emerges from her dread delirium and discovers that the only man she’s ever loved has been falsely accused of being a murderous horse thief.”
Dad pretended not to hear me.
“I want to see Jack,” I said.
“There’s no reason you can’t,” said Dad. “Everything is well under control here. I’ll drive you to the hospital.”
“You never drive, Dad,” I said. “At least not when I’m around.”
“Nonsense,” my father protested. “I may take advantage of you now and then, but I wouldn’t think of making you play chauffer after the day you had.”
“Everything turned out beautifully.” I was so tired, I felt as if my eyes would close against my will. “You achieved your scoop, Mud Cat Joe recovered his houseboat, and Jack will get well.”
“Yes, the breaks did come our way, Jane.”
“I suppose Ralph and Violet will be sent to prison?”
“Undoubtedly. Glen Conrad may have to serve a sentence, too, but his wife should get off lightly.”
“Well, I’m rather glad of that, even if I never liked her. I wonder what will become of Emma.”
“Maybe I can find a job for her, but I fear she’ll never make a newspaper reporter.”
“No, newspaper work would kill a stronger person than Emma.”
I needn’t have worried about Emma. Three days later, I would receive a letter from her, postmarked Chicago. It seemed Emma had made a deep impression upon Mrs. Fairchild, and when the rich old lady returned to the east, she’d taken Emma with her to serve as secretary and companion.
“I wonder what will happen to Sing Lee and his daughter,” I said.
“Dr. Hamsted seemed to think Mr. Lee would make a full recovery,” said Dad. “Although, I’m afraid the laundry is a total loss. I heard Sing Lee’s daughter mention something about some relatives in San Francisco, so I expect they’ll go there when Mr. Lee is well enough.”
When we reached the hospital, Dad refused the invitation to come in with me and even went so far as to press return taxi fare into my hand.
“Don’t hurry home,” said Dad. “And tell Jack ‘Hello’ for me, although I expect as long as he’s got you in the room he won’t care to think of his old boss.”
“Dad!”
“You know that young fellow thinks you’re ‘the bee’s knees,’ or whatever the expression is that young people are using these days.”
“I think ‘elephant’s adenoids’ is more the current vogue,” I corrected him. “Or ‘caterpillar’s kimono,’ if one prefers.”
I didn’t look back as Dad pulled away from the curb, but I smiled all the way into the building.
THE END
First Chapter of The Missing Groom
I leaned indolently against the edge of the kitchen table and watched Mrs. Timms, our housekeeper, stem the last of the strawberries from our kitchen garden into a bright green bowl. Already, we’d had a few light frosts, and the berries had only survived because Mrs. Timms was vigilant about covering them every evening before the sun went down.
“Tempting bait for Dad’s jaded appetite,” I said, helping myself to the largest berry in the dish. “If he can’t eat them, I will.”
“I do wish you’d leave those berries alone,” our housekeeper protested in an exasperated tone. “They haven’t even been washed yet.”
“Oh, I don’t mind a few germs.” I laughed. “I just toss them off like a duck shedding water. Shall I take the breakfast tray up to Dad?”
“Yes, I wish you would, Jane,” said Mrs. Timms. “I’m right tired on my feet this morning. Rainy fall days always did sap my energy.”
She washed the berries and then offered the tray of food to me. I started off with it toward the kitchen vestibule.
“Now where are you going, Jane Carter?” Mrs. Timms demanded suspiciously.
“Oh, just to the automatic lift,” I said, giving her the blue-eyed innocent act.
“Don’t you dare try to ride in that contraption again!” Mrs. Timms scolded. “It was never built to carry human freight.”
“I’m not exactly freight,” I said with an injured sniff. “It’s strong enough to carry me. I know because I tried it last week.”
Mrs. Timms may be our housekeeper, but she’s also been like a mother to me ever since I lost my own fourteen years ago. I keep hoping that she and Dad will light a fire under a pot together someday, but so far, if they are working up to a rolling boil, they’re certainly keeping the lid on it.
“You walk up the stairs like a lady, or I’ll take the tray myself,” Mrs. Timms threatened. “I declare, you may be twenty-four already, but I don’t know when you’ll grow up.”
Mrs. Timms and Dad both have something in common: they are disappointed in me. Dad is disappointed because I refuse to become a reporter on his newspaper, the Greenville Examiner, instead of squandering my literary talents on writing melodramatic serials for Pittman’s All-Story Weekly Magazine. Mrs. Timms is disappointed in me because she’s never managed to turn me into a proper lady who remembers to check her stockings for snags before she goes out and doesn’t let her shoes run down at the heel before relegating them to the rubbish bin.
Poor Mrs. Timms. Her one consolation is that she did manage to marry me off once—to a lovely newspaperman named Timothy Carter. Unfortunately, a year into our marriage Timothy went down a dark Chicago alley in search of a scoop and came between a Mafia Hitman’s bullet and it’s intended victim. That’s how I came to be a widow at twenty-one. I still miss Timothy, even after three years. I have no intention of ever marrying again, and if I ever do, it will certainly not be to another newspaperman.
“Oh, all right, Mrs. Timms,” I grumbled. “I’ll use the stairs, but I do maintain it’s a shameful waste of energy.”
Balancing the tray precariously on the palm of my hand, I tripped up the stairs and tapped on the door of my father’s bedroom.
“Come in,” he called in a muffled voice.
My father sat propped up with pillows, reading a day-old edition of the Greenville Examiner.
“’Morning, Dad,” I said. “How is our invalid today?”
“I’m no more an invalid than you are. If that old quack, Doctor Edwards, doesn’t let me out of bed today—”
“You’ll simply explode, won’t you, Dad? Here, drink your coffee and you’ll feel less like a stick of dynamite.”
Dad tossed the newspaper aside and made a place on his knees for the breakfast tray.
“Did I hear an argument between you and Mrs. Timms?” he asked.
“No argument, Dad. I just wanted to ride up in style on the lift. Mrs. Timms thought it wasn’t a civilized way to travel.”
“I should think not.” The corners of my father’s mouth twitched slightly as he poured coffee from the silver pot. “That lift was built to carry breakfast trays, but not in combination with athletic young ladies.”
“What a bore, this business of adulthood,” I said. “One can’t be natural at all.”
“You seem to manage rather well with all the restrictions. What happened to the paperboy this morning?” Dad asked between bites of buttered toast.
“It isn’t time for him yet, Dad,” I said. “You always expect him at least an hour early.”
“First edition’s been off the press a good half hour. When I get back to the Examiner office, I’ll see that deliveries are speeded up. Just wait until I talk wi
th Rigsby!”
“Haven’t you been doing a pretty strenuous job of running the paper right from your bed?” I inquired as I refilled Dad’s coffee cup. “Sometimes when you talk to that poor circulation manager, I think the telephone wires will burn off.”
“So, I’m a tyrant, am I?”
“Oh, everyone knows your bark is worse than your bite, Dad. But you’ve certainly not been at your best the last few days.”
Dad’s eyes roved about his luxuriously furnished bedroom. The tinted walls, chintz draperies, and genuine Turkish rug were all completely lost on him.
“This place is a prison,” he grumbled.
For nearly a week, our household had been thrown completely out of its usual routine by my father’s attack of influenza. Dr. Edwards had sent him to bed, there to remain until he should be released by the doctor’s order. With a telephone at his elbow, Dad had kept in close touch with the staff of the Greenville Examiner, but he fretted at his confinement.
“I can’t half look after things,” he complained. “And now Miss Holmes, the society editor, is sick. I don’t know how we’ll get a good story on the Furstenberg wedding.”
“Miss Holmes is ill?”
“Yes, DeWitt, the city editor, telephoned me a few minutes ago. She wasn’t able to show up for work this morning.”
“I really don’t see why he should bother you about that, Dad. Can’t Miss Holmes’s assistant take over the duties?”
“The routine work, yes, but I don’t care to trust her with the Furstenberg story.”
“Is it something extra special, Dad?”
“Surely, you’ve heard of Mrs. Clarence Furstenberg?”
“The name is familiar, but I can’t seem to recall—”
“Clarence Furstenberg made a mint of money in the chain drug business. No one ever knew exactly the extent of his fortune. He built an elaborate estate about a hundred and twenty-five miles from here, familiarly called The Castle because of its resemblance to an ancient feudal castle. The estate is cut off from the mainland on three sides and may be reached either by boat or by means of a picturesque drawbridge.”
Sinister Goings-on in Room Seven: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Two) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 2) Page 14