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

by Alice Simpson

Chapter Twenty-Three

  I followed Jack, quickly overtaking him. The two men heard us coming and abruptly ceased their desperate struggle. They turned and fled, one toward the river, the other toward the road.

  “Well, we broke that up in a hurry!” said Jack. “Wonder what made them run?”

  “They must have been afraid we would recognize them. Didn’t you think that shorter stocky man looked like Paul Firth?”

  “I never have seen Mr. Firth, to my knowledge. He was the fellow who ran along the river?”

  “No, he ran the other way. Firth’s farmhouse is across the fields.” I pointed toward a light shining dimly from a window.

  “They’ve both disappeared now,” Jack said. “Wonder how the fight started, anyway?”

  “Firth has been threatened,” I revealed. “Yesterday, Anchor Jim left a drawing of an octopus on his doorstep.”

  “What was the big idea?”

  “It must have been intended as a warning of some sort. Anchor Jim, and other men, too, keep watch on Firth’s house.”

  “How did you learn that, Jane?”

  “I keep my eyes open. I see things. Besides, Rosie Larkin, who worked there, told me what she had seen. Even Mrs. Timms agrees that Firth is afraid for his life.”

  “Mrs. Timms?”

  “She’s gone undercover at the Firth farm.”

  “How did you talk her into that? I know better than to think she did it of her own volition.”

  “Oh, I promised to do a little something for her in return.”

  “What?”

  “It’s of a rather personal nature.”

  Jack gave up. “Maybe it was Anchor Jim who attacked Firth just now,” he suggested.

  “It may have been. I wish we could have seen those men at close range.”

  I walked on to the spot where the pair had fought. Grass was beaten down over a large area, indicating that the struggle had carried on long before Jack and I had interrupted it. A shiny object gleamed in the moonlight. I picked it up, then called softly to Jack who had remained by the river bank.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve found a key, Jack! It was lying here on the ground.”

  “One of the men must have lost it from his pocket.”

  “This may have been what they were fighting over.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Doesn’t the key look as if it belonged to a padlock?”

  “It does.”

  “I am convinced this key will fit the lock on Paul Firth’s storm cellar. His attacker was trying to get it away from him.”

  “Just a minute,” Jack said. “You’re traveling too fast for me. Explain the storm cellar part.”

  “You’ll promise not to use anything I tell you for the Examiner?”

  “That’s fair enough.”

  I was satisfied that Jack would keep his promise, so I told him everything I had learned at the Firth farm.

  “So, you believe this key may unlock the door?” he asked.

  “I’d like to try it, at least.”

  “Now?”

  “There never will be a better time. Mrs. Timms thinks that Firth is getting ready to leave Greenville.”

  Jack hesitated only briefly. “All right, I’m with you,” he said. “Lead the way.”

  We were leaving the river when the suspension bridge creaked beneath human weight. As we paused, listening, a familiar voice called: “Jack! Hey, Jack!”

  “Here!” Jack responded.

  It was Shep Murphy, my old friend and one of my father’s photographers on the Examiner staff.

  “I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for you,” Shep groused. “Jack, you’re wanted back in Greenville.”

  “What is this, a gag?” Jack asked suspiciously.

  “It’s no gag. The Fulton Powder Company just blew up. Jim and Gus and Philips are already on their way. DeWitt sent me to get you.”

  “The Fulton Powder Plant!” Jack exclaimed, falling into step with Shep. “That’s a big story!”

  “It sure is, and we’re late! Get a move on, brother.”

  Jack hesitated and looked over at me.

  “We’ll go to Firth’s place tomorrow,” he promised hurriedly. “Back you go to camp. This riverside haunt of criminal types is no place for a woman alone at night.”

  My protests went unheeded. Jack and Shep marched me between them back to the cottage. Unceremoniously turning me over to my father, they leaped into a press car and were gone.

  Hours later, when I arrived home with my father after dropping Harry at the old Press building, we were startled to find Mrs. Timms was at home. I cornered her in the kitchen, out of hearing of my father.

  “Mrs. Timms! I thought you intended to stay on the farm until tomorrow,” I said.

  “I decided a few hours would make no difference. Jane, the place was unbearable.”

  “How did you get home?”

  “By taxicab.”

  “I wish you had stayed one day longer,” I said. “Did you learn anything since I saw you last?”

  “Nothing of value. Firth came home a short time before I left. He was in a dreadful temper.”

  “Had he been in a fight?” I asked.

  “There was a black and blue mark across his cheek.”

  “Then I was right! I wish I knew for certain who attacked him.”

  I told Mrs. Timms what Jack and I had witnessed at the river, and proudly displayed the key.

  “What were you and Jack doing down by the river? Were you alone with him?” Mrs. Timms asked, looking like the cat who ate the cream.

  “Well, I was looking at the moon,” I said. “I suppose we were alone if you don’t count Paul Firth and whoever was attempting to give him the walloping of a lifetime.”

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Timms, looking even more like a feline who’d just withdrawn its head from a jug containing dairy products.

  “I did allow him to hold my hand,” I said. “Which is a far greater excess than I’ve ever consented to before.”

  Mrs. Timms was practically licking her whiskers now.

  “But then we were interrupted,” I added. “Now back to this key.”

  I held up the key once more.

  “It does resemble one I’ve seen Firth use,” Mrs. Timms said.

  “Then it must unlock the cave. Tomorrow I’ll go there and find out.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” replied Mrs. Timms firmly. “Going there alone would be foolhardy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed.”

  “I wish you would forget that storm cave and the octopus tattoo,” said Florence unsympathetically. “Maybe then we could get out another issue of this wretched magazine.”

  “You’re sick of it, aren’t you?” I said.

  “No,” Florence denied, “it’s been fun, and we’ve learned a lot. But there’s so much work. It never ends.”

  “It will soon,” I said. “Our advertisers are dropping off one by one. Sales are falling, too.”

  “We can always quit,” said Florence cheerfully.

  “No, we can’t,” I said, “not until I get a positive response from Litchfield Press on Perpetua’s Promise. Then I can retire from my editorial duties with dignity and devote myself to writing the sequel.”

  “But you just said we are failing—”

  “Where there’s life, there’s hope,” I said.

  “You’re nothing if not persistent. Oh, before I forget it, Mr. Horner has been up here several times inquiring for you.”

  “More bad news, I suppose.”

  “He didn’t say why he wished to talk with you. I thought he seemed rather disturbed, though.”

  “I’ll see what he wants.”

  I looked for Harry in the composing department and pressroom and even ventured into the basement. He was not to be found. I concluded that he had left the building and gave up the search.

  I helped Florence read proof until six o’clock, and then telephoned home to inquire if my father w
as there. Mrs. Timms told me that he did not expect to come until later. I decided to remain downtown for my own dinner.

  “Why don’t you stay with me, Flo?” I said. “Afterwards, I’ll take you on a little adventure.”

  “Not to Firth’s?” Flo eyed me suspiciously.

  “Unfortunately, I haven’t the time. There’s another bit of spade work to be done. I intend to watch Ellis Pruitt’s shop. This is Thursday, you know, the day the mystery man comes to get his octopus tattoo taken off.”

  “It may be a long, tedious wait,” Flo said.

  “I’ll consider it well worth the time if I learn the identity of Pruitt’s customer. You don’t care to come, I suppose?”

  “On the contrary, I do. I’ll telephone Mother and inform her not to expect me home for dinner.”

  We dined at a café not far from the old Press building and, soon thereafter, stationed ourselves a half block from Ellis Pruitt’s shop. An hour elapsed. Several times we became hopeful as someone paused to gaze at the exhibits in the show window, but no one entered. A cold wind made our vigil increasingly uncomfortable.

  “If we don’t get action in another fifteen minutes I am going home,” said Florence through chattering teeth.

  A clock struck eight-thirty. Five minutes later, a familiar figure walked briskly down the street. I touched Flo’s arm.

  “It’s Paul Firth,” Florence murmured. “You don’t think he’s the one?”

  “We’ll soon see,” I said.

  Firth was too far away to notice us. As we watched, he walked to the doorway of Ellis Pruitt’s shop. He glanced about as if to reassure himself that the street was deserted. Then he slipped into the shop, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Paul Firth,” murmured Florence. “Can there be any doubt that he is the customer Ellis Pruitt meant?”

  “Not in my opinion,” I said.

  “Isn’t it possible that he went into the shop to have a photograph taken or for some other reason?”

  “Possible but not probable. No, Flo, we should have guessed long ago that Firth is an ex-sailor. It’s all becoming clear now.”

  “Then I wish you would explain to me.”

  “Don’t you see? Anchor Jim, Richard Hamsted, Paul Firth, and probably a fourth man must have been good friends at one time. They had their tattoos with that phrase, All for one, one for all, printed on their backs. Then Firth must have done something which made the others angry. They followed him here to get even with him.”

  “What makes you think that?” Florence asked.

  “Anchor Jim gave us a good broad hint. We know that he and at least one other man have been spying on the Willows.”

  “What can Firth have done to offend them?”

  “I can’t guess that part,” I admitted. “And another thing, why should Firth decide to have his octopus tattoo removed?”

  “And who pushed Richard Hamsted off the bridge?” Florence added. “We’re as much in the dark as ever.”

  “Not quite,” I said. “I feel that if only we could get into that storm cave, we might learn the answer to some of our questions.”

  “You’re not thinking of investigating it tonight?”

  “No. I’m practically a human icicle. It’s home and into a hot bath for me.”

  There was nothing more to be learned by waiting, so we returned to Bouncing Betsy. As we motored toward Florence’s home, we discussed various angles of the baffling case. The fact remained that Paul Firth’s reputation in Greenville was excellent, while Anchor Jim and Richard Hamsted appeared to be persons of questionable character.

  “You never learned why Jim was wanted by the authorities?” Florence inquired, alighting at her doorstep.

  “No, I haven’t seen Mr. Mortimer since that day at the cottage. I’m reasonably sure Jim Loewen is still at liberty.”

  “He may be the one at the bottom of all the trouble,” declared Florence. “We tend to suspect Firth of evildoing because we dislike him so heartily for his disagreeable personality.”

  “That’s true, Flo. The best way is to have no opinions and wait for the facts but waiting wears me to a frazzle.”

  After I left the Radcliffs’, I did not drive home. Instead, I turned into Drexel Boulevard, and to the Roberts’ home.

  The door was opened by Marcus Roberts. I had not expected to meet the former publisher. Somewhat confusedly I inquired for Henrietta.

  “My daughter isn’t here, right now,” replied Mr. Roberts. “I expect her home within a few minutes. Won’t you wait?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I’ll drop in some other time.”

  “I wish you would stay,” Mr. Roberts urged. “I find an empty house so depressing.”

  I hesitated, and then followed the former publisher to the same shabby living room where I had conducted my painful interview with Henrietta. Mr. Roberts had been reading the newspaper. He swept it from a chair so that I could sit opposite him.

  “Tell me how you are getting on with your All-Story Weekly,” he said.

  I talked entertainingly, relating the various difficulties which beset a fledgling publisher.

  “I’ve even received threatening notes,” I said. “Or rather, one. I think it was left on my desk by a man named Paul Firth.”

  “Firth?” Mr. Roberts’ face darkened.

  “Yes, do you know him?” I watched the publisher face.

  “Only by reputation. He’s a scoundrel!” Mr. Roberts’ voice rose.

  “Can you tell me anything definite against him?”

  “No—no, I can’t. I only advise you to have nothing whatsoever to do with him.”

  The telephone rang, and Mr. Roberts arose to answer it. During his absence, I tried to decide what to do next. Dare I mention the clipping which I had found in the publisher’s old desk? I did not wish to antagonize him, yet there were many questions I longed to ask.

  Mr. Roberts returned, and I decided to risk his anger.

  Casually, I introduced the subject by mentioning that I was using his former office and desk as my own.

  “Yesterday, I came upon a clipping caught beneath the lower drawer,” I said. “It concerned a man named Marcus Jewel. He bore a striking resemblance to you.”

  The publisher’s hands gripped the chair arms so hard that the knuckles became a bluish-white. Splotches of red appeared on his forehead.

  “Marcus Jewel?” he murmured at last.

  “Yes, Mr. Roberts, but you have nothing to fear from me. I shall not expose you.”

  “Then you know?”

  “The likeness was unmistakable. I read the clipping, too.”

  The publisher arose, nervously walking to the fireplace. His hands trembled as he rearranged the dusty ornaments on the mantlepiece.

  “I searched everywhere for that clipping when I cleaned out my desk,” he mumbled. “I’ve gone through every imaginable torture fearing it would be found. And now I am to be exposed!”

  “But I assure you I have no intention of telling anyone,” I said. “Your past is your own.”

  “A man’s past never is his own,” responded Mr. Roberts bitterly.

  “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I hoped I might be able to help you.”

  “You haven’t told Henrietta?”

  “No, nor any other person.”

  Mr. Roberts’ tenseness relaxed slightly. He paced across the room and back, then stood before me and looked me in the eye.

  “All my life,” he said very quietly, “I have tried to spare Henrietta the knowledge that her father was—a convict. I haven’t much to offer, but I’ll give anything within reason to keep the story out of the paper.”

  “You don’t understand,” I said. “I have no intention of telling anyone. I’m running an All-Story Weekly, not a newspaper. We print pure works of fiction. Furthermore, I have no thought of taking the story to the Examiner. I want nothing from you. But I do wish you would tell me the true story. I am sure there were
extenuating circumstances.”

  Mr. Roberts sagged into an armchair.

  “None,” he said. “None whatsoever. I used money which did not belong to me. My wife was desperately sick at the time, and I wanted her to have the care of specialists. She died while I was serving my sentence.”

  “You did have a compelling reason for taking the money,” I said. “You should have been granted a pardon.”

  “A theft is a theft. When I left prison, I made a new start here, and devoted myself to Henrietta who was still a little girl then.”

  “How old was she?”

  Mr. Roberts gave no indication that he heard the question and continued talking.

  “The truth has been concealed from Henrietta. She believes that I was abroad during those years I spent in prison. Here in Greenville, I prospered, and people were kind to me. I made a great deal of money, and I made it honestly. The future was very bright until a year ago.”

  “Then you gave up your newspaper,” I said. “Why?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “Blackmail?”

  Mr. Roberts nodded.

  “One day a man came to me, a man I had known in prison. He threatened to expose me unless I paid him a large sum of money.”

  “And you agreed?”

  “I did.”

  “Wasn’t that rather foolish? People would have been charitable if you had admitted the truth.”

  “I considered it from every angle, particularly from Henrietta’s standpoint. I gave the man what he asked, although it cost me the Morning Press. But that was not the end.”

  “He still hounds you?”

  “Yes, I’ll pay as long as I have a dime. I’ve thought of taking Henrietta and going away, but he would trace me.”

  “Who is the man, Mr. Roberts?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Is it either Anchor Jim Loewen or Paul Firth?”

  Mr. Roberts’ face did not alter.

  “I can’t tell you,” he repeated.

  “I wish you would talk to my father,” I said after a moment. “He might be able to help you.”

  “No,” returned Mr. Roberts, growing agitated again, “you gave your promise that you would not tell anyone what you know.”

  “Of course, and I’ll keep it,” I said. “It does seem to me, though, that the easiest thing would be to admit the truth and be rid of the man who robs you. Henrietta would understand.”