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

by Alice Simpson

  “What do you want done with ’em?” inquired the foreman.

  “Have the papers carried to the mailing room and stacked by the door,” I told him. “I’ll be around in the morning to arrange for deliveries.”

  Monday’s first issue of the Examiner was hot off the press when I stationed myself beside the veritable mountain of Carter’s All-Story Weeklies. The room was a bedlam, with newsboys shouting noisily for their wares. As they passed by me on their way to the street, I waylaid them one by one.

  “Here you are, boys. Two dozen papers each. Sell them for a nickel and keep half of it for yourself. Turn in the money at the old Morning Press building.”

  “Two and a half cents!” exclaimed one of the boys. “Gee, that’s more than we get for selling the Examiner!”

  “Generosity is my motto,” I said. “Just push those papers for all you’re worth.”

  I left the Examiner plant and went directly to the Morning Press building. As I unlocked the front door, I noticed a faint odor of tobacco lingering in the air. No one was allowed to smoke in the building. One of Mrs. Dunst’s first acts as restorer of cleanliness and order had been to plaster “No Smoking” placards at the entrance and other prominent places as part of her cleanup of the plant.

  I was too busy to search the plant for possible violators of Mrs. Dunst’s antismoking campaign, so I gave the matter scant consideration. I tossed the lunch Mrs. Timms had prepared for me on the counter and prepared for a hard day’s work.

  Now and then, to rest my mind from columns of figures, I wandered to the window. Down the street, newsboys called their wares, and it pleased me that they shouted Carter’s All-Story Weekly as frequently as they did the Greenville Examiner.

  By ten o’clock the boys began to straggle in with their money. Only a few had failed to sell all their papers, and not one neglected to make a report. My final check revealed that six thousand eight hundred and twenty-nine Weeklies had been sold.

  I knew I couldn’t expect to do that well after the novelty wore off, but one thing was certain, my Weekly wasn’t going to be weakly.

  I had a large sum of money in my possession, and I decided to take no chance of losing it. After making a careful count, I poured the coins into a bag which I loaded up into Bouncing Betsy and drove straight to the bank.

  It was lunch-time when I returned to the plant. I went to the counter for Mrs. Timms’ package of sandwiches. To my surprise, it had disappeared.

  I was annoyed. I did not believe that one of the newsboys had picked up the package. Accumulative evidence pointed to a likelihood that someone was hiding in the building. The moving light, tobacco smoke, and unexplained footsteps all suggested that a tramp might be using the empty plant as a comfortable shelter.

  But how had he gotten in? The doors and windows were kept locked. Flo and I and a few members among the women of the LWV possessed keys, but I believed we were all conscientious about locking the door behind us whenever we entered or left the building.

  As I considered whether to report the matter to police, there was a pounding on the entrance door.

  I opened the door and a short, stocky brown-haired man of early middle age, well dressed, but with a sharp, weather-beaten face and a misshapen nose, pushed his way past me.

  “This the office of Carter’s All-Story Weekly?” he demanded.

  “Yes,” I said. “Is there anything—”

  “I want to see the editor.”

  “You’re looking at her now.”

  “You! A Woman!”

  “Mrs. Jane Carter, Editress, at your service.”

  I smiled and waited. The stranger hesitated and then took a rolled-up copy of the newly-minted Carter All-Story Weekly from his overcoat pocket. With his forefinger, he jabbed at the story on page three, “The Mystery of the Octopus Tattoo.”

  “You know who wrote this?” he questioned.

  “I do.”

  “That’s a right interesting yarn,” he said after a long pause.

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I was kind of curious to know where your writer got his idea for that story.”

  “Her idea.”

  The man squinted at the story again.

  “That story was authored by a Miss Hortencia Higgins,” I informed him.

  “And where might I find this Miss Higgins?” the man asked.

  “I am Miss Higgins.”

  “But you just said you were Mrs. Carter.”

  “Nom de plume.”

  The man stared at me blankly.

  “Hortencia Higgins is my pen name. Lots of writers use them. I have three if the truth be told.”

  “Alright,” said the man, “then I’ll ask you. Where did you get the idea for this story?”

  “It was inspired by true events. I saw a man pushed from a bridge. I’m a lady novelist. We lady novelists are always on the lookout for inspiration. It had great dramatic possibilities. The story practically wrote itself.”

  The man stared at me sullenly until I decided to try and move the conversation along. I was tired and hungry and eager to go in search of my lunch. If I did not find it, I intended to make a foray to some nearby restaurant before I succumbed to fatigue and starvation.

  “Mr.—? I don’t believe you told me your name.”

  “Firth. Paul Firth.”

  “I was driving near the bridge at the time the man was pushed into the water,” I said.

  “You didn’t see the one who did it?”

  I crossed my fingers behind my back before I continued.

  “Not clearly. But what does it matter? I’m not much interested in the truth of what happened. I view the occurrence merely as inspiration for a work of fiction. May I ask why you are so interested in the story?”

  “I thought maybe I knew that man, the one who got pushed into the water. What became of him? In real life I mean, not in the story”

  “I have no idea what happened to him,” I said. “And I haven’t even attempted to formulate the continuing plot of ‘The Mystery of the Octopus Tattoo.’ Who knows where my imagination will have led me by installment seven.”

  “But what happened after the man fell into the water?” The man persisted.

  “I can’t tell you much. He was rescued by a tugboat captain. Everything I know about the true affair is in the story, excepting the pearl-handled revolver discovered in the hero’s pocket, of course. I thought that the gun was a nice touch. I’m toying with the idea of making the hero a duke on the lam because he killed his brother, the crown prince of Bolatestein, in a dual over a woman.”

  Mr. Firth tipped his hat and made an exit. I watched through the plate glass window as he left the office and walked to his large, shiny car. I had never seen the man before, but his visit left me with a vague unease. I strongly suspected that he knew far more about the matter of the sailor pushed from the bridge than he pretended.

  I soon dismissed the matter from my mind, turning my thoughts to the problem of the missing lunch. I made a tour of the building, venturing everywhere save into the basement with the rats. Any person foolhardy enough to venture down there with a packet of sandwiches would end up meeting a similar fate to Mrs. Pruitt’s villainous Malcolm McGrew.

  As I had half expected, I found neither my lunch nor whoever had taken it. I went out for a bowl of soup and grilled cheese sandwich at Philip’s Bean Pot. When I returned once more to my work in the deserted Press building, I occasionally caught myself listening for footsteps.

  At a quarter ‘til five, Flo came from officiating at the Greenville library’s Tiny Tots Story Hour. She and I retired to her private office to discuss plans for the next week’s paper.

  “Flo,” I said, “did you ever hear of a man named Paul Firth?”

  “I have. Why do you ask?”

  “He was here earlier to ask me about the octopus tattoo story. He didn’t seem to think much of it. What can you tell me about him?”

  “Not very much. He lives on a farm about
two miles from the south edge of Greenville. A place called the Willows.”

  “Oh, he’s a farmer? He doesn’t look much like one.”

  “He isn’t a farmer. He merely lives on one. According to the report, he has prospered by leaps and bounds.”

  “Then how does he make his money?”

  “No one seems to know. When Firth came here a year or so ago he didn’t appear to have anything, but recently he bought a fine car, and he spends money rather lavishly.”

  “He asked about Richard Hamsted, although he didn’t inquire after him by name,” I said. “I got the distinct impression that Mr. Firth was trying to pump information from me for a particular reason.”

  “Those who know Firth say he’s a sly old fox.”

  “That’s the way he impressed me, Flo. Perhaps I flatter myself, but I believe my tattoo story may end up causing quite a stir in Greenville.”

  “Was Firth annoyed by it?”

  “I think so, Flo, although he tried to cover his feelings. He may or may not be a friend of Richard Hamsted, but he certainly was anxious to learn what became of him.”

  “You didn’t ask him any questions?”

  “No, his visit took me by surprise. Suppose we run out to Firth’s farm tomorrow.”

  “What purpose would there be in that?”

  “Firth may be able to tell us interesting facts which will throw light on the mystery. He may understand the significance of the octopus tattoo.”

  “You’re rather overly optimistic, I think.”

  “But you’ll go with me?”

  “Yes,” promised Florence. “I’ve always had a curiosity to see the Willows. Besides, I need a vacation from my strenuous duties as editor.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Well, Jane,” Dad said next morning at the breakfast table. “I finally bought the cottage.”

  “You bought a cottage?” I said. “Where? When? Why?”

  “I’ve been talking about it for the past week, but you were so busy stealing the Examiner’s advertisers that you never listened.”

  “I’m all ears now, Dad,” I assured him, absently reaching for another piece of toast. “Tell me all about it.”

  “The cottage is located on the Grassy River. Four rooms and a boathouse. Incidentally, I’ve hired a man to look after the place and keep the boat in shape. He calls himself Anchor Jim.”

  “Are you planning to live at the cottage this summer?” I asked.

  “No, I merely bought it for weekend trips. I plan on a bit of fishing now and then. You may enjoy going with me.”

  “Oh, Dad,” I groaned. “How can I? These days I don’t even have time to wash my neck. Running a story paper is more work than I anticipated.”

  “I wasn’t aware you’d ever made washing anything your top priority,” Dad said. “I’ll give you the address of the cottage, at least. If you have any spare time during the next three months drive out and look the place over.”

  “I’ll get there somehow,” I promised, pocketing the card. I pulled out a typed, folded sheet of paper which I placed in front of my father. “Oh, by the way, sign this for me, will you?”

  “No more checks.”

  “This is only an order for a ton-roll of paper. I’m trying to store up a few supplies so that eventually I can publish Carter’s All-Story Weekly in my own plant. I have the money in hand to cover the bill.”

  Dad signed the order.

  “Have you engaged your pressman, yet? Their wages come rather high, you know.”

  “It takes everything the Weekly makes to meet its current bills. But one of these days I’ll get the paper out in my own plant. Just wait and see!”

  “Have you heard back from Litchfield Press, yet?” Dad asked.

  I told him that I had not. I did not tell him that I was fast losing hope that the response, assuming I got one, would be a positive one. I already had a bundle of rejection slips secreted in my nightstand drawer. Litchfield Press really was my last hope for seeing Perpetua’s Promise in print.

  Later, when I studied the address card given to me by my father, I noticed that the new cottage was situated not far from the Willows. Often, Florence and I had talked of calling upon Paul Firth, but both of us had been kept busy at the Weekly office and other responsibilities. Now that a linotype operator had been hired to set type, we both had a little more free time. I decided that if I could get Flo to accompany me, I’d visit both the new cottage and the Willows that evening.

  At four-thirty Flo and I were walking through a dense maple and oak woods which rimmed the Grassy River. A breeze stirred the tree leaves, but even so, the day was unseasonably hot and sultry.

  “I wish it would rain,” remarked Florence, trudging wearily beside me. “I never knew it to be so warm at this time of year.”

  “Maybe we can cool off by taking a boat ride when we get to the cottage,” I said. “I think I see the place through the trees.”

  Directly ahead, in a tiny clearing, stood a freshly-painted white cottage. When we arrived at the front door, no one seemed to be about, so we pushed it open and went in.

  It was a tiny dwelling. The front door opened into a long skinny living room with a cobblestone fireplace, and beyond that was the kitchen with a dining alcove. Off to one side were two minuscule bedrooms.

  When we went outside again, a short, wiry man was coming toward the cottage from the river.

  “You’re Miss Fielding?” he asked, looking at Florence.

  “No, I am,” I corrected him. “Or rather, I used to be Miss Fielding. I’m Mrs. Carter, these days, but you can call me Jane. You must be Anchor Jim.”

  Anchor Jim had a tattoo of a four-masted sailing ship imprinted on his arm.

  “That’s me,” the man said. “Go ahead an’ look around all you like.”

  Florence and I wandered about the grounds, then returned to find Anchor Jim giving the motorboat, which was upturned on the grass, a coat of varnish.

  “We thought you might take us for a ride,” I told him. “It must be cool on the water.”

  “I sure would like to, Mrs. Carter—Jane,” said Anchor Jim regretfully. “But I dasn’t get ’er wet now. Not until this varnish dries.”

  “You’re a sailor, aren’t you? Where have you sailed?”

  “The Atlantic, the Great Lakes, the Gulf o’ Mexico. I’ve been everywhere.”

  Flo and I chatted with Anchor Jim for a time, but although we asked all manner of questions, we gained very little definite information. The sailor seemed unwilling to tell anything about himself, save in generalities.

  “We may as well go on to Paul Firth’s place,” I said to Flo. “It’s getting late.”

  Anchor Jim’s varnish brush became motionless. He glanced up sharply.

  “I wouldn’t go there if I was you gals,” he said.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “The weather don’t look so good. She might blow up a gale before sundown.”

  “Oh, we’re not afraid of a little wind or rain,” I said. “Come along, Flo.”

  Anchor Jim said nothing more, but he looked far from pleased that we were following through with our plans to visit the Willows.

  We walked a riverside path which I knew would lead to the main road and Paul Firth’s farm.

  “Odd sort, isn’t he?” I said to Flo as we walked along.

  “Anchor Jim?”

  “Yes, I wonder where Dad found him? He certainly didn’t tell us much about himself.”

  We crossed the river by means of a swaying suspension bridge and came out from beneath the solid canopy of tree branches festooned with early spring leaves. I paused to look up at the sky.

  “Aren’t those clouds odd? Just watch them boil.”

  “They must be filled with wind,” said Flo. “Anchor Jim said he thought a storm would blow up.”

  “It’s not far away, either. Unless we step right along, we’ll surely get caught in it.”

  “Perhaps we should forget the Willows and start
for home.”

  “We wouldn’t make it before the storm breaks,” I said. “If we hurry we may reach Firth’s place before it gets truly unpleasant.”

  We hurried along the winding path. The air remained sultry and very still. The sky had changed to a peculiar yellowish color.

  I watched, with increasing alarm, as a writhing, twisting, funnel-shaped arm reached down from the boiling clouds, anchoring them to earth. For a moment the entire mass seemed to settle and flatten out.

  “Listen!” I said to Flo.

  There was a sullen, deep-throated roar as the storm moved forward.

  “A tornado!” gasped Florence. “It’s coming this way!”

  “Run!” I said, seizing Flo’s hand. “We still have a chance to make Firth’s place. Hopefully, he has a storm cellar.”

  A white farmhouse, a red barn and a silo stood at the back of a weed-infested field. Clearly, Mr. Firth was no farmer. One side of the property was bounded by the willow-rimmed river, the other by the road.

  Flo and I crawled beneath a barbed-wire fence and cut across the field. The sky was darker now and the roar of the wind ominous. The tail of the funnel whipped along the ground, veering to the south, then coming toward us again.

  “We’ll never make the house,” I said. “Let’s hunker down here in this ditch.”

  “We can make it,” Flo insisted, “but only if we run.”

  Flo raised another wire strand for me to roll beneath. The sleeve of my dress caught on the sharp barbs, tearing a large hole as I jerked free.

  Dust had begun to blow. Trees and bushes bowed before the first gusts of wind.

  I glanced frantically about for a place of refuge. A low, circular cement hump rose from the ground not many yards distant. It as an old-fashioned storm cellar.

  “We’ll get in there, Flo!” I shouted. “Come on!”

  We ran across the yard to the cave. The entrance was guarded by a door built in the side of the cement dome. A brass padlock hung unsnapped in the hasp.

  “Thank goodness, we can get in,” gasped Florence. “Hurry!”

  I tugged at the heavy door. It would not raise, and then it gave so suddenly that I nearly tumbled backward.