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

by Alice Simpson

  “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 demolished 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. Applebee 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.

  Driving mechanically, I weaved through downtown traffic, now and then halting for a red light. As I was accelerating from an intersection, a man suddenly stepped from the curb. He was staring down at the pavement and did not see Bouncing Betsy approaching.

  I swerved and slammed on the foot brake. The edge of Betsy’s fender brushed the man’s overcoat. He gasped in astonishment and staggered backward.

  I brought the car to a standstill at the curb.

  “I hope you’re not hurt,” I said to the man, who had managed to keep his footing.

  “No—no,” the man murmured in a bewildered manner.

  As he turned his face toward me, I recognized Marcus Roberts, the former publisher of the Morning Press.

  “Let me take you home, or wherever you are going,” I urged. “You don’t look well, Mr. Roberts. I’m afraid I gave you a ghastly fright. I am very sorry.”

  “It was my fault,” admitted the old gentleman. “I was preoccupied with a distressing matter when I stepped from the curb.”

  “This is a dangerous intersection. Please, Mr. Roberts, can’t I take you home?”

  “If you insist,” he murmured, climbing aboard Bouncing Betsy. “You seem to know my name, but I haven’t the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

  “I’m Jane Carter. My father publishes the Examiner.”

  “Oh, yes.” Mr. Roberts replied mechanically.

  “Your home is on Drexel Boulevard, I believe?”

  Marcus Roberts nodded and in the same dull, lifeless voice supplied the address. He made no attempt at conversation. Mr. Roberts face bore lines of mental fatigue and discouragement. He stared straight ahead with glazed, unseeing eyes.

  Hoping to start a conversation, I remarked that I was the managing editor of Carter’s All-Story Weekly. For the first time, Marcus Roberts displayed interest.

  “Oh, are you the young lady who has taken over my building?” he asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Vaughn allows me the use of it rent-free. I hope you don’t mind?”

  “Mind?” repeated Mr. Roberts, laughing mirthlessly. “Why should I mind?”

  “Well, I thought—that is—”

  “You thought that because I gave up my own paper I might not wish to see the building used by another?”

  “Something like that,” I admitted.

  “I try not to think about the past,” said Mr. Roberts quietly. “Long ago, I made my decision, and now I must abide by it. I realize that I never can publish the Morning Press again. I’m broken, beaten!”

  “Surely one can’t be defeated so long as one is willing to keep up the fight,” I said. “If you chose to make a come-back, I’m certain you would succeed.”

  Mr. Roberts shook his head impatiently. “You don’t understand. I am through—finished. All I can hope to do is to hold fast to what little I have and try to protect Henrietta.”

  “Henrietta is your wife?”

  “My daughter. If it weren’t for her—” Mr. Roberts hesitated, then finished in a voice deliberately casual: “If it weren’t for her, I probably would end it all.”

  “Why, Mr. Roberts!” I protested. “You can’t mean that.”

  “Don’t be alarmed,” he said, smiling faintly. “I have no intention of taking the easy way out.”

  A dozen questions flashed through my mind, but I was afraid to ask any of them.
From Mr. Roberts’ remarks, it was evident that he had not relinquished the Press of his own free will. But could financial difficulties alone account for his state of mental depression?

  In the darkening twilight, we approached a huge white-painted brick house, set back some distance from the boulevard. It had once been an elegant, palatial dwelling, but now peeling paint had made it unsightly. Roof shingles were curling, and the expansive front veranda sagged. An iron fence failed to hide a swath of overgrown gardens and untended lawn.

  “This is my home,” said Mr. Roberts. “Turn into the driveway, if you wish.”

  I stopped Bouncing Betsy just inside the iron gate.

  As Mr. Roberts got out, a girl who appeared to be in her early twenties, arose from a bench on the veranda. She came toward the car, a white collie trotting at her side. Midway across the lawn, she paused, then half turned as if to retreat.

  “Henrietta,” called Mr. Roberts. “Will you come here, please?”

  Reluctantly, the girl approached the car, her gaze meeting mine defiantly. Henrietta was a beautiful girl with bright brilliant red hair and steel-blue eyes.

  “Henrietta, this is Mrs. Carter,” said her father.

  “How do you do,” the girl responded coldly.

  I recognized her instantly. Mr. Roberts’ daughter, Henrietta, was the girl who had tossed the wig and clothing into the river after disembarking from the Flamingo.

  “How do you do, Miss Roberts,” I said. “Haven’t we met before?”

  Henrietta kept her face averted from her father. She met my gaze with a bold stare.

  “I think not,” she said evenly. “No, Mrs. Carter, you are mistaken.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Won’t you stay for a few minutes?” Mr. Roberts said to me. “Henrietta, why not show Mrs. Carter our rose garden?”

  “It’s rather dark,” his daughter replied. “Anyway, she wouldn’t care to see it.”

  “On the contrary, I should enjoy it immensely,” I said and switched off Bouncing Betsy’s ignition.

  Henrietta glared at me but dared make no protest in her father’s presence. With a shrug, she led me along a gravel path to the rear of the house. Mr. Roberts remained behind.