The Oblivious Heiress: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Four) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 4)

by Alice Simpson

  “It was odd that he would lie about being pushed off the bridge. Jack, will you write about it for the paper?”

  “The story isn’t worth more than a few lines. We can’t say that Hamsted was pushed off the bridge.”

  “Why not? It’s true.”

  “Hamsted would deny it, and then the Examiner would appear ridiculous.”

  “If I owned a paper, I would certainly use the story,” I said. “It has wonderful dramatic possibilities.”

  “Serious journalists aren’t supposed to be swayed by such things as ‘dramatic possibilities.’ Your father never would agree to write such a story. You talk him into printing the yarn, and I’ll be glad to write it.”

  “Oh well, I suppose I might as well forget about it,” I grumbled.

  We cleaned the mud from our shoes on the pavement before walking on to the waiting taxi. Florence immediately plied us with questions, displaying interest in the octopus tattoo.

  “Do you suppose the man knew who pushed him off the bridge?” she asked.

  “I’ll venture he did,” I answered. “Probably, that was the reason he lied to us.”

  The taxi crossed the bridge and made slow progress away from the river. As the road gradually wound toward higher ground, the fog became lighter and the driver was able to make faster time. As we passed Reverend Radcliff’s church, the clock in the tower chimed the hour of eleven.

  “How about stopping somewhere for a bite to eat?” Jack suggested.

  “Won’t Dad be waiting at the Examiner office?” I asked.

  “He suggested that I keep you ladies entertained until around eleven-thirty if I could.”

  “That being the case, we’ll accept your invitation with alacrity. How about the Golden Pheasant?”

  “Oh no, you don’t! Phillip’s Bean Pot is nearer my speed.”

  A block farther down the street Jack paid the driver and escorted us into a clean but low-priced restaurant.

  “No item on the menu over five cents,” he told Flo and me. “Do your worst. I can take it.”

  Florence and I ordered sandwiches, while Jack fortified himself with a plate of scrambled eggs, two doughnuts, and a cup of coffee. Returning to the front counter for a forgotten napkin, he nodded at an older man with faded blue eyes who sat alone, sipping a glass of orange juice.

  The man acknowledged the greeting in an embarrassed way, quickly lowering his head. Then he got up from the counter and left the café.

  “Jack, who was he?” I asked. “I am sure I’ve seen him before, but I can’t remember where.”

  “That was Marcus Roberts.”

  “The former publisher of the Morning Press?”

  “Yes, the old man’s been going to pieces fast since he closed his newspaper plant. Looks seedy, doesn’t he?”

  “His clothes were a bit shiny. I thought he seemed rather embarrassed because you spoke to him.”

  “Old Roberts feels his come-down I guess. In the flush days, he wouldn’t be caught dead in a beanery.”

  “Is he really that poor, Jack?”

  “Probably down to his last hundred thousand.” Jack grinned.

  “What you say is conflicting. First, you imply that Mr. Roberts is poor, and then that he’s rich. I wish you would make up your mind.”

  “Frankly, I don’t know. Roberts owns a fine home—I’d call it a mansion—on Drexell Boulevard, but he’s allowed the place to run down over the last year or so. I’ve been told he sold the Morning Press building—which had also fallen into disrepair—several months ago. Some say Roberts has piles of cash squirreled away, others say that he’s flat broke.”

  “How did he lose so much of his money, Jack?”

  “No one seems to know for certain. According to rumor, he played the stock market and suffered heavy losses.”

  “It’s strange he closed down the Morning Press,” I said. “I always thought it was a profitable paper.”

  “So did everyone else. The Press had a large circulation, but one bright Monday morning Roberts posted a notice, closed the plant, and threw over a thousand employees out of work.”

  “That was nearly a year ago, wasn’t it, Jack?”

  “Thirteen months to be exact. Why this sudden interest in Marcus Roberts?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “His case seems rather pathetic. Then, too, he reminds me of someone I’ve seen recently. I wish I could recall—”

  Jack glanced at the wall clock, swallowing his coffee with a gulp.

  “Time to move along,” he announced. “We mustn’t keep your father waiting, Jane.”

  We left the café, and Jack hailed a passing taxicab.

  “It’s only four blocks to the Examiner building,” I protested. “Aren’t you being too lavish with your money, Jack?”

  “Oh, I’ll add this item to my expense account. Jump in.”

  The taxi turned left at Adams street, rolling slowly through the downtown business section where an enormous four-story stone building occupied a large corner lot.

  “That place sure looks like a morgue these days,” Jack said as he pointed up at the building. “The Morning Press.”

  I twisted sideways to stare at the dark, deserted building. The windows were plastered with disfiguring posters and the white stone blocks, once beautiful, were streaked with city grime.

  “When the Press closed, machinery, furniture and everything else was left exactly as it stood,” remarked Jack. “Too bad an enterprising newspaperman doesn’t take over the place before it’s a complete loss. The present owner doesn’t even employ a watchman to protect the property.”

  “It does seem a shame—” I began, only to break off. “That’s very odd!”

  “What is?” asked Flo.

  “The building isn’t deserted after all!” I said. “There’s a light burning in one of the upstairs rooms!”

  Chapter Five

  Jack rolled down the window, thrust his head through it, and looked back at the Morning Press building.

  “Where do you see a light?” he demanded.

  “It was on the third floor,” I said. “I can’t see it myself, now.”

  Jack grinned as he settled back into his place between Flo and me.

  “You certainly get a kick out of playing jokes.”

  “But it wasn’t a joke,” I insisted. “Honestly, I saw a light. Didn’t you, Florence?”

  “Sorry, but I didn’t. I’m afraid your imagination works overtime, Jane.”

  “I know what I saw,” I said.

  As Jack and Florence smiled at each other, I lapsed into injured silence. I was certain I had not been mistaken. There had been a light on the third floor, a moving light which had been extinguished before Jack or Flo had noticed it.

  The cab drew up at the curb in front of the Examiner building. My father, a newspaper tucked beneath his arm, stepped from the vestibule where he had been waiting.

  “Hope we haven’t kept you waiting, Chief,” Jack said as he held open the cab door, and Flo and I emerged.

  “Only a minute or two. Thanks, Jack, for bringing the girls from the boat. May we offer you a ride home?”

  “No, thanks, Chief. I’ll walk from here. Good evening.”

  Jack tipped his hat politely to Florence, winked at me and walked away. Dad asked Flo and I if we had enjoyed our trip aboard the Flamingo.

  “The trip itself proved to be rather boring,” I said, “but we met some interesting people on the way home.”

  During the drive to the Radcliff’s to drop off Flo, I told Dad about Rosie Larkin, the mysterious young woman who had dropped a bundle of clothing into the water, and the sailor with the strange octopus tattoo.

  “Thanks for bringing me home, Mr. Fielding,” said Flo when we arrived at her doorstep.

  “What do you think of the tattoo story?” I asked Dad as the cab rolled on. “Won’t it make a dandy feature for the Examiner?”

  “I regret to say it sounds like first-rate fiction.”

  “Wh
y, Dad! Florence and Jack will confirm everything I’ve said.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt your word, Jane. I am sure everything occurred as you report. Nevertheless, were we to use the story our readers might question its veracity.”

  “Veracity?”

  “Veracity means truth, Jane.”

  “I know that. One doesn’t produce scores of column inches of romantic bilge for the likes of Pittman’s All-story Weekly Magazine without expanding one’s vocabulary to at least that elementary degree which allows one to comprehend ten-dollar words like veracity.”

  “Have you and Mr. Pittman patched things up, yet?” My father asked.

  “No, unfortunate and hostile statements were made in the heat of the moment.”

  “By whom?”

  “Me,” I admitted. “Flo pointed out just this evening that perhaps I’d been a trifle unwise to draw Mr. Pittman’s attention to the obvious.”

  “The obvious?”

  “That Pittman is a scurvy knave and a pustule on the face of literature,” I said.

  I could see that my father was trying not to laugh, but he did not stoop to comment on my uncharitable assessment of my former editor.

  “Your story of the sailor with the octopus tattoo is very interesting,” said my father, returning to the original subject, “but I think you may have placed your own interpretation upon certain facts.”

  “For instance?”

  “Well, according to Richard Hamsted’s statement, he fell from the bridge and was not pushed.”

  “But I saw him get pushed in with my own two baby blues, Dad.”

  “There was a heavy fog on the river. You easily could have been mistaken. As for the octopus tattoo, what is so strange about it? Sailors compete in striving for startling decorative effects.”

  “Dad, you could rationalize the national debt,” I said.

  “How about you give up the fiction game and come and work for me,” my father suggested. “You wouldn’t even have to be a reporter. If you really want a challenge, I could create a special position for you in the advertising department. I could use a strong-minded person to deal with unwanted advertisers.”

  “Unwanted advertisers? Since when did you start turning down good money from anyone?”

  “Since Mrs. Philip Dunst started wanting me to print inflammatory advertisements urging the local female population to vote their own conscious in the upcoming presidential election. Did you know she’s establishing a local chapter of the American League of Women Voters?”

  “I don’t see anything remotely inflammatory about urging women to exercise their right to vote!” I said frostily.

  “It’s not that I don’t support suffrage for women,” my father amended hastily,” but it’s just that Mr. Philip Dunst has forbidden me from accepting the advertisements proposed by his wife on pain of losing his entire account. What’s more, I’m forbidden to let on to Mrs. Dunst that he’s made any such a threat.”

  “I’m disappointed in you, Dad,” I said, and I meant it. “I thought you were a man of pure principle. Just how big is this account of Mr. Dunst’s?”

  “It’s beginning to feel like he owns a stake in half the retail establishments in Greenville,” my father said. “If Philip Dunst were to withdraw all advertising for every business he has an interest in, it would account for over a third of our advertising income.”

  “Oh.”

  I was beginning to see why Dad was having difficulty sticking to his principles.

  The cab drew up at our front door. A light still burned in the living room where Mrs. Timms, our housekeeper, sat reading a magazine.

  “I am glad you have come, Jane,” she said, switching on another light. “I was beginning to worry.”

  Mrs. Timms may not be my mother, but she certainly worries about me as if she were. Mrs. Timms has been a widow for as long as I can remember, and it’s long been a cherished dream of mine that she and my father will light a fire under a pot together, and perhaps, one of these days, center-aisle it to the alter together to say, “I do.”

  From time-to-time, I dare to hope that the water is at least approaching a tepid simmer, but every time I catch a little glance between them or find out they’ve gone off some place together, they strenuously deny there’s anything in the nature of a rumpus-bumpus going on between them.

  Mrs. Timms main hobby is cookery. Because her sister, Henrietta, has a husband in the diplomatic service, we are often served dishes harking from the Indian subcontinent, at least until the contents of Henrietta’s periodic care-packages shipped straight from Calcutta give out.

  Unfortunately, my father has a sensitive stomach lining, and curries are pure poison to him. However, since I’ve been forbidden to whisper a word of his condition to Mrs. Timms, I’m certain Dad entertains feelings for Mrs. Timms which go well beyond ordinary friendship. It takes more than loyalty and gratitude to acclimate a man with a sensitive stomach lining to curry on a thrice-weekly basis.

  Mrs. Timms soon went to bed, leaving my father and me to explore the refrigerator. As we helped themselves to deviled eggs flavored with turmeric and cumin, celery sticks and the remains of an excellent chocolate cake, I told Dad about the light which I had seen in the third story window of the abandoned Morning Press building.

  “It may have been a watchman making his usual rounds,” Dad suggested.

  “Jack tells me the building has no watchman.”

  “Could it have been a reflection from a car headlight?”

  “I don’t think so, Dad.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t lose sleep over it. Better run along to bed now.”

  I woke late the next morning. I ate a leisurely breakfast alone in the kitchen. I felt at loose ends. Since “Evangeline: The Horse Thief’s Unwilling Fiancée” had wound its way to its most unsatisfying conclusion, I did not know how to occupy my time. I could work on a novella to send out on speculation to competitors of Pittman’s All-story, but I lacked the will. I could submit any of the half-dozen completed serials—previously rejected by Mr. Pittman for various reasons—which lay clipped together in my nightstand drawer to other magazines, but I my usual enthusiasm for providing light serial fiction for the masses was on the wane that morning.

  I wandered the house, picking up objects at random, putting them down again and occasionally dropping things until I shattered a favorite china dog of Mrs. Timms’, and she begged me to stop marauding through the house “leaving a swath of destruction in my wake.”

  I lay on the davenport and stared at the ceiling until the telephone rang, and I was summoned to the receiver by Mrs. Timms.

  I half-hoped it was Jack. Jack used to call up a few times a week and ask me to go to the pictures, or for a stroll in the park or to split a sundae with him at the local ice cream parlor. But ever since he’d almost kissed me, I’d taken to turning down all invitations from Jack Bancroft—save those which included a crowd. I could not afford to be alone with Jack. If I were alone with him, it might lead to kissing. I would not allow myself to kiss Jack Bancroft. Jack was the sort of man who’d rapidly move from kissing to proposals of marriage, and I was not sure I could bring myself to break his heart by turning him down.

  “It’s Harold Amhurst on the telephone,” Mrs. Timms said, “Now you be nice to that young man!”

  “I’m always nice to Mr. Amhurst,” I said. “As nice as one can be to an insufferable bore.”

  Harold Amhurst is a young man of my acquaintance who, despite my repeated attempts to hand him the icy mitt, persists in proffering invitations to play tennis with him.

  I enjoy the odd game of tennis, at least I do when I’m playing with Flo or Jack, but Mr. Amhurst has this annoying habit of doing far more talking than playing. His pet hobby is investment schemes—and they are never sound—which he insists on explaining to me in excruciating detail.

  After going to the telephone and pleading a headache to Harold Amhurst, I returned to the davenport and resumed my spiritual communion with
the living room ceiling. I’d been there another half hour when Mrs. Timms came in.

  “Jane, are you ill?” Mrs. Timms asked.

  “No, that line about having headache was just a ploy to let that gangly unfortunate down easy.”

  “Oh? Must you really refer to Mr. Amhurst as a gangly unfortunate?”

  “Well, he is. I know you value scrupulous honesty, but surely even you can see the merits of me not telling Harold Amhurst that I refused to play tennis with him because I didn’t want to spend the afternoon receiving an education on the comparative merits of gold matriculated amalgamative certificates vs. silver cantilevered multi-leveraged optimized shares or some such rot. I made that up just as an example because I never bother to listen to the sordid details of his ill-fated get-rich-quick schemes.”

  “I only asked if you were ill because you’ve been lying on that couch for the past two hours.”

  “I’m in conference with myself,” I told Mrs. Timms. “I am trying to arrive at a momentous decision.”

  For three quarters of an hour, I scribbled figures on a sheet of paper. When my father came home at five o’clock, he found me still engaged in scribbling.

  “Well, Jane,” he said, hanging up his hat, “how did it go today? Make any progress on that new novella of yours? ‘Rosemary’s Retrograde Renegade,’ was it?

  “Rosalind’s Refulgent Revenge,” I said.

  Apparently, I’m not the only one who doesn’t listen.

  “Refulgent?”

  “Refulgent: brilliant, shining, splendid. From the Latin verb fulgere.”

  “I see. Make any progress on ‘Rosalind’s Refulgent Revenge’ while I was out?”

  “If you don’t mind, let’s discuss a less painful subject. Suppose you tell me what you know about Marcus Roberts and the Morning Press.”

  “Why this sudden display of interest?”

  “Oh, I saw Mr. Roberts last night at the Bean Pot. He looked rather depressed.”

  Dad sat down on the arm of the davenport.

  “It’s too bad about Roberts,” he said. “I always admired him because he was a clever newspaperman.”