The door clattered back against the cement dome. Through the rectangular opening protruded the head and shoulders of Paul Firth. His face was convulsed with rage.
“What are you trying to do?” he demanded. “Speak up!”
Chapter Eleven
“Speak up!” Paul Firth commanded as Flo and I stared at him in astonishment. “Why are you trying to get into my cave?”
“Listen to that wind!” I said, recovering my powers of speech. I pointed at the sky.
“A tornado!” exclaimed Firth in a stunned voice.
“And it’s coming this way,” added Florence. “Let us down into the cave!”
Instead of stepping aside, the man came up the stone steps. Slamming the door of the cave, he padlocked it.
“Quick! Into the house!” he ordered.
“We’ll be much safer underground,” I protested. “That twister could easily lift a building from its foundation.”
“Do as I say!” commanded Paul Firth. “The cave is half-filled with water. You can’t go down there.”
He ran toward the house. Flo and I followed, overtaking him as he reached the porch.
“Get inside!” he ordered.
We scurried through the door, and he closed it behind us. Barely had we reached shelter when the wind struck the house in full force, fairly shaking it to its foundation. Windows rattled, a tree bough came crashing down on the porch, and the air outside was filled with flying debris.
As a hard object shattered a pane of glass, there was a terrified scream from the kitchen. A moment later a girl ran into the room. She stopped short as she saw Flo and me. It was Rosie Larkin.
“Stop that silly screeching!” Firth ordered Rosie. “The center of the storm is passing to the south. Now get back to your work!”
“Yes, sir,” Rosie mumbled.
Still looking at Florence and me, she slowly retreated. However, as Paul Firth went to the window, Rosie made strange signs to us behind his turned back. She obviously did not wish us to speak to her, for she raised a finger to her lips begging us to keep silence.
The wind increased. A gate was wrenched from its hinges and carried across the yard. Across the road, a tree was uprooted with a crash. Rosie fled to the kitchen with a stifled scream.
“That stupid girl drives me crazy,” Firth muttered. “I don’t know why I ever hired her.”
“You can’t blame her for being frightened,” Florence said. “This is a dreadful storm.”
“The worst is over now,” said Firth. “You’ll be able to go in a few minutes.”
Firth did not invite us to sit down. He paced from window to window, watching the clouds. Rain came in a heavy downpour, then slackened somewhat. The wind no longer tore at the doors.
“You’ll be able to go any time now,” said Firth. “I can let you have an umbrella.”
“It’s still rather bad,” I said. “If you don’t mind, I believe we’ll wait a few minutes longer.”
Firth looked exceedingly displeased with our continued presence in his living room.
“Who sent you here?” Firth demanded. “Why did you come?”
“My father has a cottage close by, along the river,” I said. “We were returning from there when the storm broke.”
My explanation seemed to satisfy the man. He shrugged and fell again to pacing the floor.
The rain ceased, and Flo and I left the house after politely thanking the man for the protection of his home during the storm.
As we rounded the corner of the house there was a light tap on the window. I looked up to see Rosie’s face pressed against the pane.
“She’s signaling for us to wait,” I said to Flo. “I guess she wants to talk with us.”
We stepped into the doorway of a woodshed. In a moment Rosie slipped from the house, a coat thrown over her head.
“I hope old Firth doesn’t see me,” she said. “Let’s get out of sight.”
Florence and I followed Rosie into the woodshed and closed the door behind us.
“How long have you worked here?” Flo asked.
“Ever since I met you girls on the boat. I answered an advertisement the next morning and got this job.”
“Do you like it?” I asked. “I imagine farm work is hard.”
“There’s nothing much in the way of farming going on here, so the work is easy enough, but I hate the place! That’s why I wanted to talk with you. Do you know of anyone who needs a girl? I’ll work for very small wages.”
“I don’t know of anyone at the moment,” I said.
“I can’t stay here much longer,” Rosie said, a note of desperation in her voice. “Mr. Firth is so overbearing and mean! He can’t bear noise either. If I so much as rattle a dish he berates me.”
“Does he pay you a decent wage?” Florence asked.
“Six dollars a week. I can’t complain on that score. But there’s something about him—I can’t explain—it gives me the creeps.”
“Firth is a peculiar type,” I admitted. “He didn’t act very friendly toward Florence and me. By the way, why does he keep the storm cellar padlocked?”
“That’s something I wish you would tell me.”
“He wouldn’t allow us to enter it even when the storm was coming.”
“Firth always keeps the cave padlocked,” said Rosie. “He goes there every day, too. Sometimes he spends hours beneath ground. It rather frightens me.”
“What do you think he does there?”
“I don’t know. Once I asked him about the cave, and he flew into a violent rage. He said if he ever caught me near it he would discharge me.”
“He told us that the cave was half-filled with water.”
“I don’t believe that,” said Rosie. “He has something hidden down there.”
“Haven’t you any idea what it is?”
“No, and I don’t care very much,” returned Rosie. “All I want to do is get away from this place. If you hear of a job anywhere will you let me know?”
“Of course,” I promised. “Mrs. Timms, our housekeeper, may know of a vacancy. If she does, I’ll telephone.”
“We haven’t any telephone here. Mr. Firth had it taken out because the ringing of the bell made him jumpy. He said the neighbors always listened to his conversations, too, on the party line. He’s very suspicious of everyone.”
“Then I can run out in the car and tell you,” I said. “I don’t blame you for not liking this place. I shouldn’t like it, either.”
“Thanks for everything,” Rosie said. “You’ve been awfully good to me. I must run back now or old Firth will ask me a million questions.”
Rosie hastily said goodbye and darted back to the house. Florence and I walked slowly down the road while we discussed Paul Firth’s strange actions. We were both inclined to agree with Rosie that he had hidden something of considerable value beneath ground.
Across the road from the farmhouse, a giant elm tree had been uprooted. A chicken house was overturned, fences laid flat, and tangles of telephone and electric wires littered the edge of the field.
“Even more damage must have been done farther down the river,” I said. “I hope Dad’s new cottage hasn’t blown away.”
“Shall we go there and see?”
“I wish we could.”
For several hundred yards we followed the road, then once more we cut across the fields toward the winding river. All along the waterfront trees had been toppled and split. In sections, there were wide paths cut as if by a scythe.
“The cottage is still there!” I said as we ascended to higher ground. “I can see it.”
“Several trees are down, though. One has fallen across the porch.”
“A beautiful birch, too,” I said. “Anchor Jim will have a job clearing it away.”
As we neared the cottage, I called out for the workman, but there was no answer.
“I wonder where he went?” I said to Flo.
We rounded the corner of the cottage. A giant birch had dem
olished the porch railing. A slight movement among the leaves startled me. A hand lay limp against the trunk.
“Anchor Jim! He’s pinned beneath the tree!”
Chapter Twelve
I stooped down beside the groaning man who lay pinned on his side beneath the tree. As Flo and I attempted to move him, he writhed in pain and pleaded with us not to touch him.
“The tree will have to be lifted,” I said. “I’ll go for help.”
Leaving Florence to encourage Anchor Jim, I ran the entire distance to the main road. The nearest house was the one owned by Paul Firth. However, as I ran in that direction, I met a truck filled with telephone linemen coming my way. I flagged down the truck and told them what had happened.
“I am afraid the man is badly hurt,” I said. “I’ll telephone for a doctor while you go on to the cottage.”
One of the linemen offered to make the call, leaving me free to guide the other four men to the cottage.
The men managed to raise the fallen tree. They carefully lifted Anchor Jim who had lapsed into unconsciousness.
“Bring him into the cottage,” I told them, going ahead to open doors.
I lead them into one of the bedrooms which had been furnished with an old cot, a chest of drawers and other odd pieces Dad had brought from our basement and attic. I spread a blanket over the mattress and the injured man was stretched upon it.
“He’s seriously hurt, isn’t he?” I said to one of the linemen.
“Afraid he is,” he replied. “Heat up some water, and I’ll do what I can until the doctor gets here.”
Flo and I hurried to the kitchen to struggle with the wood-burning range. By the time we had the fire going and water near boiling-point, we heard voices in the yard. The lineman who’d stayed behind to telephone was coming toward the cottage. A doctor carrying a small black bag walked beside him.
“It’s Doctor Edwards,” Florence said. “He made a quick trip from town.”
I ran to open the door, then back to the kitchen again for the boiling water.
“You carry it in,” Florence said. “I can’t bear to see poor Anchor Jim.”
All the linemen had left by the time I reentered the bedroom. The doctor was working over Anchor Jim, and I was relieved to see that he had recovered consciousness.
“Where do you feel pain?” the doctor asked as he unfastened the man’s shirt.
“My back and chest, Doc,” the sailor mumbled. “Feels like all my insides is crushed.”
“Hardly that,” said the doctor cheerfully, “or you wouldn’t be telling me about it. Now let’s see.”
He took Anchor Jim’s pulse, then gently probed his chest and sponged a break in the skin. Carefully, he turned the man upon his stomach.
When I got a look at the man’s back, I nearly dropped the pan of water. Across Anchor Jim’s back was tattooed the sprawling figure of an octopus. Beneath the front arms of the fearsome sea creature appeared a single word: One.
Richard Hamsted’s tattoo was the same, save for the word. It was All, while Anchor Jim’s was One. What could be the significance?
Even the doctor was startled by the strange tattoo, for I saw him glance at it curiously as he probed.
“You are a sailor?” he inquired.
“That’s right,” muttered Anchor Jim. “Ouch, doc! Take it easy, will you?”
I could not remain silent. “Jim, do you know a man named Richard Hamsted?” I asked.
“Sure, I know him,” the sailor mumbled. “We shipped together on the Darling Dora.”
“Your tattoo is very similar to his.”
Anchor Jim’s pain-glazed eyes turned upon me as if he were seeing me for the first time. He tried to pull the blanket over his back.
“We had ’em put on together,” he muttered. “Jack an’ Richard, and that rat, Otto—”
“Please don’t talk to the patient,” said the doctor. “He should be kept quiet.”
“I’m sorry,” I said and did not speak again until the doctor had completed his examination and had bandaged Anchor Jim’s cuts and bruises.
“What do you advise, doctor?” I asked. “Will it be necessary to remove Jim to a hospital?”
“Neither advisable nor desirable for at least twenty-four hours,” he replied. “I find no indication of internal injury, but it is best to be safe. The patient should be kept quiet, in bed, for at least a day or two.”
“It’s something of a problem to care for him here,” I said. “Do you suggest a nurse?”
“Anyone who has had practical experience in caring for the sick would do.”
“Mrs. Timms, our housekeeper, may be willing to come,” I said. “I’ll telephone home at once and learn what arrangements can be made.”
Although I was too young to remember that period clearly, I know that Mrs. Timms nursed my mother through the lengthy illness which preceded her death. There’s no one on earth better suited to watch over an injured person than our housekeeper.
When the doctor left, I accompanied him as far as the first house. From there, I telephoned my father, who promised to get Mrs. Timms and come at once to the cottage.
Florence was uneasily waiting by the time I returned. We held whispered consultation outside the bedroom door.
“Has Anchor Jim talked?” I asked Flo. “You know what I mean. Has he said anything about Richard Hamsted or the tattoo?”
“Not a word. But every so often he mutters that he’ll get even with someone by the name of Otto—a fellow sailor who ratted.”
“He mentioned Otto when I was in the room, too,” I said. “I wish we dared question Jim, but the doctor advised against it.”
“I don’t think we should annoy him, right now. Perhaps, when he’s recovered, he’ll tell us about the tattoo and its meaning.”
“If I am any judge of character, Anchor Jim isn’t the talkative type. As soon as he gets over the shock of this accident, he’ll seal those lips of his up tighter than a sarcophagus. We’ll learn nothing.”
“Why are you so convinced there’s a deep mystery connected with the tattoo?”
“I can’t explain it, Flo. I just know there is. I’ll never rest until I learn the significance of those words, all and one.”
Within a half hour, Mrs. Timms and Dad arrived at the cottage, bringing a supply of linen, food, and comforts for the injured man. The housekeeper agreed to assume charge until Anchor Jim could be safely removed to a hospital.
Dad drove back to Greenville, and I rode along with him while Flo followed in Bouncing Betsy. It was useless to leave Betsy behind at the cottage for Mrs. Timms to use, she doesn’t drive. During the ride home, I questioned my father regarding Anchor Jim.
“I know almost nothing about Jim Loewen,” Dad told me. “He was sent to me by the Acme Employment Agency, and I didn’t bother to ask for a recommendation.”
“I’ve learned that he’s a friend of Richard Hamsted,” I said. “As soon as he’s able to get about again, I mean to ask him a number of things.”
When we reached home, I took Florence on to the Radcliff’s and then returned to the Morning Press building.
I greeted Mrs. Applebee, who was working in the advertising office and climbed the stairs to my own office.
For the next half-hour, I checked over galley proofs, marking corrections on the margins. I never imagined there could be so many things to do on a weekly. I feared I was never going to finish on time.
A board creaked in the newsroom. I glanced up. A shadow passed slowly across the frosted glass of the office door.
“Come in,” I called out.
No one answered, and the shadow disappeared. I waited a moment, then arose and went to the door. The newsroom was deserted. It was exceedingly odd. I was sure someone had walked past my office door.
I went to the head of the stairs and called down to Mrs. Applebee: “Did anyone come up here a moment ago?”
“Not unless someone let themselves in with a key by way of the back entrance,” Mrs. A
pplebee called back up to me. “No one came by here.”
I was puzzled, but I returned to my desk. As I sat down, a sheet of paper lying on the blotter pad drew my attention. I was certain it had not been there a few minutes earlier.
I picked it up. The paper bore a message scrawled in black ink and read:
To the Editor:
You are hereby warned to give up your story paper which offends public taste. We give you three days to wind up your business and close doors. A word to the wise is sufficient.
Chapter Thirteen
I read the message three times. Obviously, it had been placed on my desk during the few minutes I had been absent. Yet, I reasoned that it would be useless to search for the cowardly person who undoubtedly had already slipped from the building.
“So, I am warned to close shop!” I muttered to the empty room. “Carter’s All-Story Weekly offends public taste! What a load of piffling banana oil.”
I crumpled the paper into a ball and hurled it into the wastepaper basket. I immediately reconsidered, recovered the note and, carefully smoothing the wrinkles, placed it in my handbag.
When my anger had cooled, I was a bit frightened. I told myself that it was not unusual for editors to receive threatening notes. Often my father had shown me such communications sent to the Examiner by cranks.
It didn’t mean a thing. I’d keep on publishing Carter’s All-Story Weekly for as long as I pleased. But I couldn’t shake my uneasiness. Often, I worked late in the building, and a single light burning from an upper story window proclaimed to anyone watching from the street that I was alone. In the future, I must use far more caution.
Try as I might, I could not forget the warning. After Mrs. Applebee had gone home for dinner, I caught myself starting at every sound. I finally gave up. I was accomplishing very little good by staying. I couldn’t concentrate. I might as well go home and get a decent night’s sleep, for once.
I took care to lock all doors and windows and left the building. Street lights were blinking on as I climbed into Bouncing Betsy.
The Oblivious Heiress: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Four) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 4) Page 7