Jane Carter Historical Cozies: Omnibus Edition (Six Mystery Novels)

by Alice Simpson

“That’s too heavy,” said Flo. “You’ll never be able to lift it.”

  “No,” I said. “But all three of us can.”

  We gave it a try, Miss Lee and I in the front, and Flo holding onto the bottom. We swung it like a battering ram, the pointed ornamental piece making contact with the wall first. Our first attempt was very disappointing. We only managed to break off the ornamental piece and barely made a dent in the plaster.

  “Again,” I said. “Let’s take a run at it this time.”

  The room was too small to get much of a run at it, but even a few feet made all the difference. This time we broke a small hole through the first layer of lathe and plaster.

  “Again!” I cried.

  On our ninth try, we saw a bit of light from the other side. The hole was far too small still to get through, but success spurred us on.

  “Everyone yell,” said Flo. “Every time, just before we hit the wall, shout ‘Help!’”

  I didn’t think anyone who hadn’t already been alerted to the fact that someone was breaking through the wall would notice a bit of yelling, but I followed Flo’s lead anyway.

  The hole was getting bigger, bit by bit, but so were the wisps of smoke leaking in around the door frame.

  From the street below, I heard the bell on the hook and ladder truck. The volunteer fire brigade had arrived. Some passerby must have seen smoke and sounded the alarm.

  “Should we try yelling out the window again?” suggested Miss Lee.

  “No time,” I said. “Besides, we’ve almost broken through.”

  It took three more rams before we finally had a hole big enough to crawl through.

  Flo went through first, and Miss Lee coaxed her injured father into crawling to the opening. He was badly hurt, but we had no option of leaving him behind. I feared we had only a few minutes before the flames burned through the stout wooden door, and the room we’d been imprisoned in was engulfed.

  We’d broken through the wall directly above the bathtub in the upstairs’ bath.

  I yelled as loud as I could, but no one came. Emma and Mrs. Fairchild must have wisely left the house and gone out to the street when the hook and ladder arrived. I was worried now, not just about the laundry going up in smoke, but that it would take Old Mansion down with it.

  “I’m sorry to have to do it, but we’ll have to pull your father through by force,” I said to Miss Lee before clambering through the opening.

  “Even if we ran down to the street to get help,” I told Flo, as I emerged into the bathroom, “no one’s going to be able to enter this room through the attic. The flames have spread too far. The only way out is through this hole.”

  Flo was the strongest of the three of us, so she stood in the bathtub, inserted her upper body back into the hole and extended her arms.

  “He’s passed out completely, now, ” Miss Lee said.

  “Give me his arms!” Flo instructed.

  Flo took ahold of Mr. Lee’s arms, and I wrapped my arms around Flo’s waist. On Flo’s command, I pulled. It took three tugs, but after the third attempt, the mercifully unconscious Sing Lee lay in the upstairs bathtub.

  I rushed down the stairs and into the street, blessedly free.

  “We’ve got an injured man in here!” I yelled at a group of volunteers pumping water from the river and squirting it onto the roof of the laundry.

  Twenty minutes later, Flo and I were standing in the street with Emma and Mrs. Fairchild looking up at the blackened carcass of the laundry. The fire still was not out, but well under control. Old Mansion would sustain some smoke damage, certainly in the bathroom, but the structure itself appeared safe.

  Just a few minutes before, Mr. Lee had been taken away to Doctor Hamsted’s. Miss Lee had gone with him. I hoped the unfortunate man would not suffer any permanent damage from the beating he’d received from Ralph and his minions.

  I wondered how far Ralph and Violet had gotten.

  “I hope all the evidence against Ralph and his confederates didn’t get destroyed,” Flo said, echoing my thoughts.

  Before I could answer, I saw an automobile draw up at the curbing.

  “There’s Dad!” I said and ran across the street.

  “Jane!” he cried. “This building must be saved! I’ve just learned that a gangster by the name of Ralph Zantello is the one behind everything! He’s been hiding out right next door. Valuable evidence will be found in that laundry!”

  “You’re telling me!” I said.

  Dad obviously had no suspicion that his daughter had just escaped death. He and Clarence Emerson ran to help the fire fighters, but their services were not required. In a few minutes, they came back, satisfied that the blaze was under control.

  “Dad, how did you learn about Ralph?” I asked.

  “From Jack,” replied my father. “Clarence and I just came from the hospital.”

  “Is he better?”

  “Yes, perfectly rational again. He told us what happened. It’s a fantastic story, and it may not be true in every particular, although Jack seemed to realize what he was saying.”

  “After tonight, I’d believe anything,” I said.

  “Jack learned everything while he was being held a prisoner. Mr. Zantello induced Glen Conrad to go in with him on a scheme to steal Mrs. Fairchild’s paintings. Mrs. Conrad, however, had nothing to do with the plot, although she realized what was afoot when cheap paintings were substituted for the originals.”

  “It was a crude scheme.”

  “From Glen Conrad’s standpoint, yes. But he was a weak character, and he felt confident Mrs. Fairchild never would return to discover the deception. Of course, unwittingly, Conrad played into Zantello’s hands. By threatening him with exposure, Glen could be induced to agree to anything.”

  “Then he had a part in those mysterious disappearances?”

  “No active part, Jack says, but he had a very good idea of what had occurred. Ralph Zantello was the one who placed those four portraits in room seven, all against the east wall.”

  “I could tell you something about those pictures,” I said, but my father did not even notice the interruption.

  “This is the part I can’t believe,” Dad went on. “I fear Jack is still a bit mixed up. Anyway, he claims that after he retired to room seven that night of the party, all was quiet for nearly two hours. He was just dozing when he became aware of a strange scent in the room.”

  “Floral,” I said. “I remember that.”

  “Jacks says the smell grew overpowering and the effects of whatever it was—”

  “Opium,” I said. “I bet it was opium. Having never smoked the stuff, Jack was probably sensitive—as were both Harwood and Merriweather.”

  “What do you know about opium?” Dad demanded.

  “Don’t worry, Dad,” I said. “All my research has been purely of the academic variety.”

  “Anyway, the effects of the opium—if that’s what it was—must have been already impeding his judgment,” Dad continued his story, “because instead of sticking his head out into the hall and yelling for help, Jack went to the window, drew up the sash and opened the shutters. He breathed in some fresh air, but he was still feeling dizzy, so he remained by the window until a noise drew his attention toward the paintings on the east wall. Then the eyes of those paintings, four pairs of them, focused upon him. The way Jack described it made chills run down my spine.”

  “Then what happened, Dad?”

  “The sight of those eyes staring at him was terrifying. Even in his altered state of mind, he realized that something was afoot, so he snapped the photograph, and moved to the door. It was locked—probably from some trick mechanism. Jack insists that he had not locked it himself. He tried frantically to open the door, but he was a prisoner in the room.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Jack says one of the paintings swung away from the wall, as if on hinges. Then a ghostly figure swathed in black and wearing the hideous mask depicting the face of a raven, em
erged from the opening. The figure was brandishing a sword, and Jack says he tried to cry out, but in his terror, he barely made a squeak. The sword-wielding figure advanced toward him, and Jack’s one thought was to get out of that room. He was frightened out of his wits at that point and took the only way of escape available to him.”

  “The window,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Which dropped him straight into the river.”

  “Yes, the cold plunge brought him to his senses, but before he could start to swim for shore, a motor boat came alongside, and he was hauled into it by two men. Jack was robbed of his watch and a ring and taken downstream to a houseboat.”

  “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 pag
e, 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.”