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

by Alice Simpson

  “How very reassuring. Next thing you know you’ll be offering to loan me that bludgeon you keep in your handbag.”

  “My cosh? I’d be happy to let you have it for a few days, if you’d find it a comfort,” I told Mrs. Timms.

  “No, thank you very much. I’ve listened to your crazy schemes for years, Jane, but this one takes the prizewinning pound cake.”

  “You’ll do it, won’t you?”

  “I most certainly will not!”

  “Oh, Mrs. Timms,” I moaned. “You don’t realize how much this means to me!”

  “This is one of the wildest schemes you’ve ever come up with,” Mrs. Timms said firmly. “And I’m having nothing to do with it.”

  “It isn’t wild,” I protested. “It’s absolutely logical. I would try for the job myself only I know Firth wouldn’t give it to me. Besides, I will be run off my feet getting out the next issue of Carter’s All-Story Weekly.”

  “I refuse to play detective for you, Jane. That’s final.”

  “Well, if you won’t, you won’t. I shall be forced to take Rosie to a charity home. She had intended to start working at our place.”

  “The girl may spend a few nights with us if you like. We have an extra room.”

  “Rosie would never accept such a favor,” I insisted. “She has too much pride. More than anything else she wants a job. Mrs. Timms, please reconsider—I’ll do anything you ask. Anything at all.”

  “It’s a crazy scheme.”

  “No, it isn’t,” I said. “And it’s highly temporary. Only for a few days until Rosie can find another position, and you help me find out what’s inside that storm cellar.”

  “I’ll do it—” said Mrs. Timms.

  I gave a triumphant yelp, but I had started celebrating too soon.

  “—on one condition,” Mrs. Timms continued. “You know how you persist in turning that poor Jack Bancroft down every time he so much as asks you to the pictures.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t call Jack Bancroft poor. He’s doing just about as well as any other young newspaperman, which is to say he eats regularly but hasn’t anything extra to put by for the inevitable arrival of old-age and infirmity.”

  “If you aren’t interested in striking a bargain—” Mrs. Timms pursed her lips.

  “No, no,” I hastily amended, “I’ll stop being so facetious. I’m very interested in striking a bargain, but I don’t see why you’re introducing Jack into this conversation.”

  “If you solemnly swear to step out with Jack Bancroft the next ten times he asks you,” said Mrs. Timms, “then I’ll undertake your wretched assignment.”

  “Ten times! You catch me going to the picture with the same fella ten times in a row, and you can consider me practically engaged,” I protested.

  “All the better, then.”

  “But what’s the benefit to you, even if do I agree to go to the pictures with Jack?”

  “It’s a weight on my mind, Jane,” Mrs. Timms insisted. “I keep seeing this image in my head of you growing old all alone.”

  “But you’re growing old all alone,” I said. “Unless of course there’s some mystery man waiting in the wings to sweep you off your feet and carry you away on his white horse.”

  I was instantly sorry that I’d said it—it was unconscionably rude—but Mrs. Timms appeared unfazed. This made me wonder if she and my father already had some secret understanding that they were keeping from me. Perhaps, Mrs. Timms was so eager to marry me off because she wanted me out of the house and my father all to herself.

  “How about three times?” I bargained. “I’ll see three movies with Jack Bancroft. That seems about the going rate for a temporary change in duties?”

  “Ten,” said Mrs. Timms, holding firm.

  “Six?”

  “Ten.”

  “Eight?”

  “I’ll do it for no less than ten dates with Jack Bancroft.”

  “Mrs. Timms!” I said. “You shouldn’t be having dates with Jack Bancroft. He’s much too young for you. What would the members of your Ladies’ Sewing Circle say about you carrying on with a young man of twenty-seven? It would be the scandal of the year.”

  Mrs. Timms was not amused.

  “Oh, alright,” I said. “A deal is a deal, but I’ll not be blamed for not holding up my end of the bargain if he fails to ask me. You’ll try for the job, then, Mrs. Timms?”

  “What will your father say?”

  “Don’t you worry about Dad. Just leave everything to me.”

  During the ride to Greenville, Mrs. Timms was further influenced by Rosie Larkin’ account of Firth’s peculiar actions. Gradually, she began to share my opinion that the man might have reason to fear for his life. However, she did not agree with us that anything of great value was hidden in the cave.

  “Perhaps we’re wrong,” I conceded, “but you must go there with an open mind, Mrs. Timms. Observe everything you can and report to me. Particularly, I want to learn what Firth knows about Richard Hamsted and the octopus tattoo.”

  At half past five the next morning I awakened Mrs. Timms from a sound slumber, reminding her that it was time to start for the Firth farm. Protesting that the idea seemed crazier than ever, the housekeeper snuggled down beneath the covers again.

  “You promised you would go,” I said heartlessly. “Please hurry, because I must get you established before I go to work at the Press building.”

  By the time Mrs. Timms was dressed, breakfast and Bouncing Betsy awaited her. She drank my bitterly strong coffee, polished off my underdone eggs and nibbled at my scorched toast. Then, still protesting, she allowed me to drive her within view of the Firth farm.

  “Is this the place?” Mrs. Timms inquired with distaste as Bouncing Betsy pulled up at the gate to the weedy pasture.

  “Yes, I don’t dare go any closer for fear Firth will see me. You know the story you’re to tell him.”

  “Which one? You’ve suggested so many that my mind is awhirl.”

  “Then make it simple. Just say you’re a widow, you’re looking for a job and that you’re a wonderful housekeeper—that part’s true, at least. I’ll wait here. If you go inside, I’ll know you’ve been given the position.”

  “When will you come for me?”

  “I’ll try to see you tomorrow, but hold the fort until I arrive, even if it’s a week.”

  A bundle of clothing under her arm, Mrs. Timms trudged on down the road. I watched her with misgiving. The adventure was not to Mrs. Timms liking, and it was doubtful that her application for work would be an enthusiastic one.

  I turned off Betsy’s ignition and waited. Mrs. Timms reached the farmhouse. She knocked at the side entrance. The door was opened by Paul Firth.

  The interview took a long while, but at least Firth did not close the door in the Mrs. Timms’ face.

  Then, to my delight, Mrs. Timms followed the man into the house. The job was hers. I could feel in my bones that Paul Firth’s cave would soon yield its secret.

  Chapter Nineteen

  By mid-afternoon, I could take no more.

  “If I have to read one more of Mrs. Dunst’s horrific butcherings of the English language, I shall scream,” I told Flo. “Whoever heard of trying to rhyme hanged with forbad?”

  “I thought you were working on the next installment of ‘The Mystery of the Octopus Tattoo’?”

  “I got bogged down on that, too. I just don’t know enough about the life of sailors to write an accurate depiction.”

  “Since when did you favor accuracy over dramatic potential?” Flo said.

  “Since I determined to become a serious novelist. I may be a legitimate woman of letters soon. I expect to get a reply from Litchfield Press. Hopefully, it will be telling me that they wish to advance me five-hundred dollars against the publication of Perpetua’s Promise.”

  Flo was too polite to piffle. A good friend wishes one to succeed no matter how unrealistic the aspiration, and Flo is nothing if she is not a good friend.


  “Flo, I have an idea!” I said. “How about we pay a call on Ellis Pruitt?”

  “Who is Ellis Pruitt?”

  “A tattoo artist who has a little shop on Dorr Street. He takes passport pictures, too. I noticed the place weeks ago.”

  “Why do you want to talk to him?”

  “Tattooing is a fascinating subject. It would add atmosphere and verisimilitude to my story.”

  “Tattooing may be a fascinating subject to you,” said Flo, “but I doubt if the average reader of Carter’s All-story Weekly shares your enthusiasm.”

  “The average reader will when they read my story,” I insisted.

  “I’m sorry I can’t go,” said Flo. “Mother is reorganizing the liturgical linens down at the church, and my expertise is indispensable.”

  I usually believe Flo when she cries off on one of my hair-brained schemes because she must do something for her mother, but I know Mrs. Radcliff. She’s not a woman who needs assistance at organizing anything. That woman would reorganize the seasons if only God would allow it.

  I said goodbye to Flo and set out to Mr. Pruitt’s downtown shop.

  Mr. Pruitt’s place of business was a den-like crack in the wall, barely wide enough to accommodate a door. A sign at the entrance proclaimed that for a nominal sum Mr. Pruitt would—according to their preference—tattoo or photograph all comers. A glass frame displayed samples of tattooing—bleeding hearts, clasped hands, sailing ships, birds in flight and other artistic conceptions.

  I toyed with the idea of inviting Mr. Pruitt to work his magic on me. Perhaps, a small red rose on my bicep. I soon discarded the notion. I could hear Mrs. Timms’ voice inside my head telling me that gentile young ladies—or any young ladies, save those who worked for the traveling circus and similar establishments—do not disfigure their bodies with tattoos.

  I don’t mind giving Mrs. Timms the odd shock. I believe being occasionally started out of one’s complacency is an excellent tonic for the nervous system. However, I feared that a tattoo would deliver a shock from which Mrs. Timms might not recover, and I had no desire to lead our beloved housekeeper to an early grave.

  I entered the shop. The front end of the long, narrow room was unoccupied, but the sound of hammering attracted me to the rear. A man of some sixty-odd years was engaged in making a new shelf. As he saw me, the hammer dropped from his hand.

  “Good morning,” I said in my friendliest tone. “Are you Mr. Pruitt?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Excuse me for bothering you,” I said, “but I’m a lady novelist. I’m writing a serial story about a tattoo artist, and I should like to interview you.”

  Mr. Pruitt’s intelligent eyes fixed me with a steady stare.

  “A lady novelist,” he said finally in a long-suffering tone. “You writers wouldn’t respect a man’s privacy—or anything else for that matter, I reckon.”

  “There is one thing I am sure all writers respect, Mr. Pruitt,” I said. “Art. From the samples of your work which I saw out front I am sure you are a great tattoo artist.”

  Mr. Pruitt melted like a lump of butter on a hot stove. I had struck his weakest spot.

  “You flatter me,” he said, a faint pattern of a smile etching his face. “I admit I’m good, although maybe not quite the best in the business. What do you want to know?”

  “I want to know about the tattooing business in general, and you in particular, Mr. Pruitt. How do you do it? How did you start? Who was the most famous person you ever tattooed? What is your favorite design? Do you think a tattoo looks better on the arm or the chest? What—?”

  “Hold it, young lady, hold it. You seem to be a living question mark.”

  Mr. Pruitt motioned for me to follow him to the front of the shop. He offered me a chair which sat under a row of dirty, smeary bottles of chemicals on a shelf above my head.

  “Now let’s take your first question,” said Mr. Pruitt, seating himself opposite me. “I can’t tell you how to tattoo—that’s a secret of the profession.”

  “How much do you charge for one?”

  “Depends upon how much a fellow is willing to pay. Take this town—it’s a cheap place. Nobody has any money. The King of England paid fifty dollars for his tattoo and what do I get? I’m lucky if it’s a dollar. And mostly hoodlums to work on. You can’t give a man much of a tattoo for a dollar.”

  “Do you ever remove tattoos, Mr. Pruitt?”

  “It’s against the law,” the man replied briefly.

  “I didn’t know that,” I said. “Why?”

  “Crooks can be identified by their tattoos. Oh, it’s easy for a fellow to get one on, but not so easy to get it off.”

  “But it can be done?” I persisted. “Have you ever removed one?”

  “I’m the only man in the state who can take off a tattoo, so it doesn’t show,” boasted Mr. Pruitt. “Surgeons sometimes try, but you always can see where it was.”

  “Tell me about some of the tattoos you’ve removed,” I urged.

  “I’ve told you more than I should, already,” said Mr. Pruitt.

  “This will be strictly confidential,” I promised. “I’m not a reporter. I deal in pure fiction.”

  “It’s this way,” Mr. Pruitt said. “I never do any work for crooks—not me. But if a law-abiding, respectable citizen comes here and says he’s sick of his tattoo, then sometimes I take it off for him if he’s willing to pay the price. Fact is, I’m workin’ on a mighty interesting case right now. It’s a design that’s rare—an octopus.”

  I did not trust myself to speak for a moment.

  “How interesting, Mr. Pruitt,” I said as casually as I could manage. “An octopus tattoo? Was the man a sailor?”

  “He’s an old Salt all right, though he denies it.”

  “What is his name?”

  “I couldn’t tell you that,” Mr. Pruitt demurred. “I have to protect my customers.”

  “Tell me more about the tattoo,” I urged.

  “It’s just a figure about so large—” Mr. Pruitt demonstrated with his hands, “on the man’s back. Funny place for a tattoo, ain’t it?”

  “I should say so. Is it merely a figure of an octopus? No words or anything like that?”

  “There are two words. I took ’em off last week.”

  “Two? What are they, Mr. Pruitt?”

  “They don’t make sense. The words are For One.”

  “I once saw an octopus tattoo such as the one you describe,” I said. “But I distinctly recall that the design used only a single word. It was One.”

  “Is that so?” said Mr. Pruitt. “Maybe the tattoo isn’t as uncommon as I thought, but I never saw one like it before.”

  “I wonder what those words mean?”

  “I was asking my customer about it. He pretended he didn’t know, but I figure maybe he and some buddies had a sentence tattooed on ’em.”

  “You mean that if one were able to read several tattoos together, the words would make sense?”

  “That’s right,” nodded Mr. Pruitt. “I don’t know about this octopus tattoo, but I figure it may have been that way.”

  “Did your customer have any other tattoos on his body? An anchor, for instance?”

  “Didn’t notice ’em if he did.”

  “I suppose it takes a long while to remove a tattoo. Does your customer come often?”

  “Every Tuesday and Thursday night. He complains because I don’t do the work faster, but I tell him if he wants a good job it has to be done carefully.”

  Before I could ask another question, two young sailors swaggered into the shop. Ellis Pruitt, scenting business, immediately arose.

  “Be careful what you include in that yarn of yours,” he warned as he left me. “There’s been a lot of news articles on tattooin’, but not a one that’s right. It just ain’t possible for a reporter to write a true story unless it’s about a murder or a fire! Maybe you novelists can get it right for once.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I pro
mised.

  I didn’t believe Mr. Pruitt could have been mistaken about the words which were incorporated in the design, and I was equally certain I wasn’t mistaken about Anchor Jim’s tattoo. It had only the single word, One. Mr. Pruitt’s declaration that his customer was not the possessor of a tattooed anchor caused me to doubt if the person could be Jim Loewen. However, the man was wanted by government agents, and it seemed reasonable to believe that he might seek to remove tell-tale markings. I decided that on Thursday night I’d watch Mr. Pruitt’s shop. I might succeed in identifying his mysterious customer.

  Chapter Twenty

  “All unwittingly, Mr. Pruitt gave me just the clue I need,” I told Flo. “It will be a gigantic step forward if I learn the identity of his mysterious customer.”

  “What’s to be gained by it?” asked Florence as she slugged a story and speared it on a hook. “What will be proven?”

  “Well, if I’m ever going to solve the mystery I must gather every fact I can,” I said. “I aim to learn the meaning of those strange tattoos and, above all, the reason why Richard Hamsted was pushed from the bridge.”

  “You certainly have your work cut out for you.”

  “But Mr. Pruitt’s information helps. You remember I told you that Richard Hamsted’s tattoo bore the word All. Anchor Jim’s was the same except for the word One. And now Ellis Pruitt has a customer with two words on his back: For One. I believe I have it!”

  “You have what?” asked Florence calmly.

  “It came to me like a flash—the meaning of those tattooed words! If we haven’t been a couple of Dumb Doras!”

  “I’ll thank you not to include me in that remark. Will you kindly stop jumping around and explain.”

  “Mr. Pruitt told me he thought several sailors might have had a sentence incorporated in their tattoo. That is, only a word or two was used in each design, but, taken as a whole, it would make sense.”

  “And you think you have the phrase?”