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

by Alice Simpson

  “I do, Florence! Why couldn’t it be: All for one, one for all?”

  “If the men were close friends, that would be fairly logical. But the words we must juggle don’t make such a sentence, Jane.”

  “Obviously there must be a fourth sailor whose tattoo includes the words, ‘for all,’” I pointed out. “Then it would fit perfectly.”

  “Just because four men were pals, you think they would have such nonsense tattooed on their backs?”

  “That’s my theory.”

  “If you’re right, then the mystery is solved.”

  “Far from it,” I said. “I haven’t learned who pushed Richard Hamsted from the bridge or why. You remember how Anchor Jim talked about someone who had ratted? The four of them must have been in on a scheme, and one man betrayed his comrades.”

  “Better bridle that imagination before it takes you for too wild a ride,” said Florence.

  “Then you think there’s nothing to my theory?”

  “I think that if you speculate upon it much longer we’ll never get any work done,” Florence replied, turning once more to her typewriter. “If you don’t spend more time on your editorial duties and less time sticking your nose into other people’s business, this week’s edition of Carter’s All-Story Weekly will be nothing but more of Mrs. Dunst’s sentimental verses. If you have to round out all the remaining pages with full page ads for the League of Women Voters, I suspect we may not sell a single issue.”

  Florence was right. I needed to get to work. It wasn’t quite as bleak a picture as she was painting, but Mrs. Pruitt’s latest offering, “Lady Porefield’s Larcenous Landlord,” needed considerable pruning and paring if the Mrs. Browns of Greenville were not to be further scandalized. The first thing to go would be a passage where the impoverished-but-still-gentile Lady Porefield locks the larcenous landlord into the bell-tower of a church and sets the bell to clanging until his eardrums burst, and he is rendered permanently deaf.

  I was starting to feel frightened for Mrs. Pruitt’s husband. That level of dormant rage obvious in Mrs. Pruitt’s prose was bound to come out in real life sooner or later. It might take as little as Mr. Pruitt commenting uncharitably on the quality of supper or leaving an errant dirty sock lying about for Mrs. Pruitt to snap and visit who-knew-what horrors upon him.

  I was also disappointed that Flo did not take the matter of the tattoos more seriously.

  I shook off my gloom and went to consult Harry in the composing room. The pressman had proven to be worth many times the small salary I paid him. Not only had he made the rotary presses ready for service, but he had cleaned and oiled every usable piece of machinery in the building. Eagerly, he awaited the day when we would print Carter’s All-Story Weekly in our own plant.

  “Everything’s all set,” he told me. “Whenever you give the word, we can go to press.”

  “That’s fine. Florence and I have been having a few difficulties, financial and otherwise. But I hope it won’t be long now.”

  I talked with Harry about various technical problems, then returned to my desk. I slipped a sheet of paper into my typewriter and composed a letter to the well-known steamship, the Darling Dora.

  I put the letter in my pocket and walked down the hall to Florence’s office.

  “Do you mind staying here alone for a while?” I asked her.

  “No, of course not. Where are you going?”

  “To mail an important letter. Then I want to drive out to Firth’s farm and see Mrs. Timms.”

  “I’ll look after everything until you get back,” Florence promised. She glanced curiously at the letter but did not ask to whom it was directed.

  I dropped the stamped envelope into a convenient corner mailbox, and then drove to the outskirts of the city. As I neared Drexel Boulevard, it occurred to me that I never had found time to revisit Marcus Roberts’ home. Henrietta still owed me an explanation for the way she’d acted that day I’d seen her on the Flamingo. I decided to stop and see if she was alone.

  I spun the wheel and followed the boulevard to the Roberts’ home. The iron gate stood open. I drove through and up the curve of cement to the house.

  An indifferent and untidy maid answered my knock and admitted me to a dark and dusty, but once-lavish living room. As I waited for Henrietta, I looked around the room. The wall-paper was coming loose in curling tendrils, and the expensive-but-neglected upholstered furniture had assumed a moth-eaten appearance. The entire room seemed to have given up on itself and fallen into a chronic depression.

  Henrietta came slowly down the circular stairway. She hesitated as she recognized me but could not retreat.

  “How do you do,” she said stiffly. “Nice of you to call.”

  “I think you know why I came,” I said. “We were unable to talk freely when I was here before.”

  “I’ve told you all there was to tell,” Henrietta declared, seating herself opposite me. “Frankly, I can’t see that the affair is any of your concern. I wore the disguise because I didn’t wish to be recognized on board the Flamingo.”

  “Your explanation isn’t very satisfactory, I’m afraid. Rosie Larkin is staying at our home now.”

  “What of it?”

  “She was robbed that night on the boat.”

  “We discussed it before,” Miss Roberts said in exasperation. “You insult me by suggesting that I may have snatched the girl’s pocketbook! Why should I steal when my father is wealthy? I’ve always had whatever I want.”

  “I should like very much to believe you,” I said. “But unless you are willing to offer a complete explanation, I am afraid I can’t.”

  “Very well, if I must know, I’ll tell you,” Miss Roberts replied angrily. “You may have read in the newspapers that I am engaged to marry Major Howard Atchley?”

  “The story escaped me.”

  “I admire Howard very much,” resumed Henrietta, still in an icy tone. “He comes from an excellent family, is well-to-do, and, in Father’s opinion, will make me a good husband.”

  “Your opinion differs?”

  “I admire Howard, but I do not love him, and I never shall. On the night you saw me aboard the Flamingo, I had gone with another friend of mine, Carl Feldman, intending to enjoy the excursion trip.”

  “Your father knew nothing about it?”

  “I told him I was going with another girl.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “There was nothing wrong about it,” Henrietta said irritably. “But I’m fairly well known. I realized that if I were recognized, Father or Howard might learn about it. Then there would be trouble, for Howard is a very jealous person.”

  “So, you resorted to the wig and veil?”

  “Yes, that was my sole reason. Major Atchley met me at the boat. Before joining him, I threw the bundle of clothing into the river. Now, are you satisfied with my explanation?”

  “I am,” I said. “In fact, I never believed that you had robbed Rosie.”

  “You certainly acted as if you did.”

  “Perhaps, I only wanted to learn the truth.”

  “Is there anything else you wish to know?” she asked after a giving me a cold hard stare. “Any more humiliating details of my private life you wish me to divulge?”

  “Nothing, Miss Roberts. I was only thinking that I would like to help you and your father.”

  “Thank you. We don’t require assistance.”

  “Perhaps, you don’t,” I said, “but your father needs friends. He admitted to me that if it weren’t for you he would be tempted to end it all.”

  “Father never said that!”

  “He did.”

  “I can’t believe it. Father’s the most cheerful person in the world!”

  “In your presence, possibly. The loss of the Morning Press must have been a heavy blow to him.”

  “Father wasn’t forced to give up the paper,” Henrietta protested. “He did it because he was tired of working so hard.”

  “Was that what he told you?
”

  “Yes, is was. I know of no other reason.”

  “The general belief seems to be that your father speculated on the stock market, losing large sums of money.”

  “That can’t be true. To my knowledge Father never gambled. He may have bought a few stocks from time to time, but only for investment purposes.”

  “Then you feel sure he did not dispose of the Press because he needed money?”

  Henrietta hesitated before she answered. “It never occurred to me before, but Father has been rather close the past year. I thought it was sheer carelessness that he is letting this place run down because he always gives me everything I want.”

  “Why does he favor your marriage to the Major?”

  “Perhaps money does enter into it,” Henrietta said. “Many times, Father has reminded me that I would have every luxury as Howard’s wife.”

  “Your friend Carl is poor?”

  “He has a fairly good position, but not much money. Father always seemed to like Carl. That was why I couldn’t understand when he asked me not to see him anymore.”

  “I am sure your father thinks only of your welfare.”

  “But I would rather marry Carl and be poor always than to have riches with Howard.”

  “You’ve not told your father that?”

  “Why, no. It never occurred to me that money had influenced him.”

  “There’s another rumor,” I said. “I suppose I shouldn’t mention it.”

  “I wish you would.”

  “I’ve heard it said that your father disposed of the Press because he had been blackmailed.”

  “By whom?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. It’s only a rumor.”

  “There may be truth in it. You’ve opened my eyes, Miss Carter. I’ve been very blind.”

  “Then you think someone may have forced your father to pay money?”

  “I don’t know. But Father has acted strangely ever since he gave up the paper. Once a month, on the fourth, he receives a visit from an odd-looking man. He always tries to get me out of the house before the fellow comes.”

  “Don’t you know the man’s name?”

  “No, Father has never told me. The man seldom stays longer than ten minutes.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Not very well, because I never saw him at close range. I should say he’s middle-aged. Short and stocky with light brown hair. I’ve never seen him smile. He doesn’t seem at all the sort Father would choose for a friend.”

  “Your father offers no explanation as to why the man comes?”

  “None. He refuses to discuss the subject. I’ve noticed, though, that for days after the fellow leaves he’s very nervous and morose.”

  “Excuse me for asking so many questions, Miss Roberts, but do you know of any reason why your father might be blackmailed?”

  “No, I don’t. I am sure he’s never been involved in anything dishonorable.”

  I was convinced that Henrietta had given a truthful account of the situation and had no more of significance to tell. I was not particularly welcome, so I stood up to take my leave.

  “I am glad you came,” Henrietta said, extending her hand. “Please excuse my rudeness. There were so many things I failed to understand.”

  “You must forgive me, too,” I said. “I didn’t mean to meddle. I truly want to help your father.”

  “I wish I could help him, too. In the past, I fear I’ve been very selfish and inconsiderate. Oblivious, one might say.”

  “There’s a way to help your father if you’re willing to do it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You say that on the fourth of each month a man comes here to see your father. If you tried, could you learn his name?”

  “I might drop in upon them at an awkward moment, compelling Father to introduce me.”

  “Are you willing to do it?”

  “Yes, but I fail to see what will be gained.”

  “Perhaps, nothing. Perhaps, a great deal,” I said. “If the man is a blackmailer, it should surely help for us to know his name.”

  “I’ll learn what I can.”

  “Then until the fourth, goodbye. And please, not a word to your father. We must work in secret.”

  I drove on toward Paul Firth’s home. A quarter of a mile away I parked Bouncing Betsy and set off on foot, hoping to attract no attention should the owner of the Willows be at home.

  It was well that I took the precaution. I was three hundred yards from the house when I saw a man emerge from behind the barn. He was too tall to be Paul Firth.

  The man moved stealthily across the yard to the front door of the farmhouse. His face turned slightly in my direction. It was Anchor Jim.

  Anchor Jim dropped a white envelope on the front porch, then he pounded forcefully on the door several times before darting into the shelter of the lilac bushes.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Several minutes elapsed before Paul Firth opened the door. He looked first around the yard then noticed the envelope. He muttered to himself as he picked it up.

  As he read the message his face became convulsed with rage. Still muttering, he crumpled the paper and thrust it into his pocket. Then he went back into the house and slammed the door behind him.

  With Paul at home, I dared not try to see Mrs. Timms. As I hesitated, debating what to do next, Anchor Jim came from his hiding place. He had not seen me.

  “Jim!” I called softly.

  The sailor turned. I could see in his expression that he recognized me. He immediately turned and ran in the opposite direction across the yard. Keeping low behind a hedge, he sprinted toward the river.

  “Jim! Come back!” I called again.

  He fled through the fields, without even turning his head back to look at me. Soon he was hidden by tall trees and bushes.

  The farmhouse door swung open. I barely had time to step behind a large maple before Paul Firth came down the path. He went directly to the barn and, a few minutes later, backed out his automobile.

  As soon as the car had disappeared down the main road, I ran to the kitchen door and knocked. When it was not opened immediately, I thrust my head inside and called out for Mrs. Timms.

  “Here I am,” answered Mrs. Timms, hurrying in from the dining room. “I hope you’ve come to take me home, Jane!”

  “No, only to receive your report.” I sank into a chair beside the stove. “You don’t act very pleased with your new job.”

  “It’s a dreadful here. I was crazy to say I would stay.”

  “Haven’t you learned anything?”

  “I’ve learned that Paul Firth is one of the most disagreeable men I ever met in my life. There’s no satisfying him. He requires a slave, not a housekeeper!”

  “But what about the storm cave?” I asked. “Were you able to find out what Firth keeps in it?”

  “Of course not. The padlock always is locked, and he keeps the key in his pocket.”

  “But he does have something hidden there? He goes down into it at night?”

  “I’ve seen him enter the cave only once since I came here.”

  “When was that?”

  “Last night after I had gone to bed. I heard the door close, so I went to the window and watched.”

  “How long did he stay there, Mrs. Timms?”

  “About three hours I’d judge. It was after two o’clock when he returned to his room.”

  “What can he have hidden in the cave?”

  “Nothing, in my opinion,” Mrs. Timms said. “I think he cooks something. At least he builds a fire.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I could see smoke seeping out from the cracks of the cave door.”

  “Cooking? Surely, he doesn’t have a still down there.”

  “I doubt it very much. I’ve never seen him show any signs of being a drinker. Probably, you’ve built up a great mystery about nothing.”

  Mrs. Timms began to wash the di
rty plates stacked in the sink. I picked up a towel and automatically wiped and stacked them away.

  “This house is still being watched,” I told Mrs. Timms. “Only a few minutes ago I saw Anchor Jim sneak up to the door.”

  “Anchor Jim!”

  “Mr. Mortimer never caught him, it seems. But why should the fellow come here? What message did he leave Firth?”

  “I heard a knock on the front door,” Mrs. Timms said. “Firth answered it, and when he came back into the kitchen he was in a dreadful temper.”

  “The letter upset him?”

  “I didn’t know he had received one.”

  “Yes, Anchor Jim left it on the doorstep. It may have been a threatening note. I’d give a lot to know what it said.”

  “Firth has been very nervous ever since I arrived here,” Mrs. Timms said. “If he hears any unusual sound in the yard he immediately becomes alert.”

  “As if he were afraid for his life?”

  “Yes, he does act that way. I doubt if he’ll stay here much longer. His clothes are all packed in suitcases.”

  “That is important information,” I said. “Oh, dear, if only we knew why he’s being threatened, and why he intends to leave! I believe I’ll go upstairs and inspect his room.”

  “You’ll learn nothing there,” Mrs. Timms insisted. “Firth is a careful man. He leaves no papers lying about.”

  “It will do no harm to look.”

  I climbed the creaking stairs, followed by Mrs. Timms.

  “This is his room,” said the housekeeper, opening a door. “I haven’t made the bed, yet.”

  Mrs. Timms busied herself smoothing covers while I wandered about. The room had no rug. It was furnished with an old-fashioned dresser, a washstand, and a bed with a high headboard.

  I opened the closet door. The hangers were dangling together, without clothing. Everything had been packed into two suitcases which stood against the wall.

  “I’ve already inspected the luggage,” said Mrs. Timms as I bent to open one of the bags. “You’ll find nothing except clothing. I tell you, Paul Firth is a very cautious man.”

  “I can believe it. This room is as bare of evidence as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.”

  “Just what do you hope to find?”