“Yes, although I did not learn that until a day or so ago. Otto has been trying to get his tattoo removed so that it would be harder to trace him. The four sailors had their backs marked with an octopus design and words which read, All for one, one for all, when put together. They were feeling very friendly toward each other at that time.”
“Then I was right!” I said. “And the four conspired to steal the gold bars?”
“Otto was entrusted by his pals to dispose of the stolen gold. Instead, he gave them the slip and tried to keep it for himself. Evidently, he rigged up a furnace and melted the metal into usable form. But the three sailors trailed him here, determined to avenge themselves.”
As Firth was hustled to a waiting car, I told Mr. Mortimer everything I knew about the prisoner, save his connection with Marcus Roberts. I withheld the information about the blackmail plot.
While the prisoner was being loaded into the government car, another automobile drew up nearby. It was Father. Jack and I ran to tell him the latest news.
“Full speed ahead, Chief,” said Jack. “We’ve got a big story by the tail.”
“A lot of good it does us,” my father responded gloomily.
“You mean the firemen failed to save the Examiner building?” I asked.
“The building’s saved, but considerable damage was done by fire and water. We can’t use the plant for at least a week. It’s enough to make a man ill! Scooped by the opposition when the story is ours!”
“You forget that you know the illustrious editor of Carter’s All-Story Weekly,” I reminded my father. “Mr. Horner has our presses ready to roll. I’m turning the plant over to you.”
“To me?” Dad asked.
“Yes, gather your mechanical force. The plant’s yours for the night.”
“Jane, you’re the tops!” Dad said, starting his car with a lurch. “Together we’ll get out an extra!”
After that, I lost all sense of time. As if by magic, the staff of the Examiner appeared to take over the Press plant. The building shook off its lethargy and machinery began to turn.
In the composing room, printers were locking the forms, using pages previously made ready for the next issue of the Morning Press. Stereotypers were testing the pneumatic steam tables. Pressmen under Harry’s direction oiled the double-deck rotaries and tightened bolts.
At last, came the moment when the plate was fitted into place on the cylinder. With a half turn of a wrench, Harry made it secure.
“She’s ready,” he announced, flashing the signal light.
The press began to roll faster and faster. In a moment papers dropped so swiftly from the folder that my eye could not follow. A conveyer carried them upward over the presses to the distributing room.
Later, while newsboys cried their wares, my father and I sat in the private office, talking with Marcus Roberts. From his own lips, we learned how he had submitted to blackmail rather than disgrace Henrietta by returning to prison.
“Your case is a deserving one,” my father told him. “I assure you we’ll never publish the story, and I’ll do everything in my power to help you obtain a pardon.”
Before leaving the office, Mr. Roberts promised me that he would tell his daughter the truth, allowing her to break her engagement to Major Atchley if she chose.
“We’ll go away somewhere,” he said. “California, perhaps. Although I’ll never try to publish a paper again, at least my life will cease to be a torment.”
Alone with my father once more, I had two requests to make.
“Name them,” he urged.
“Can you get Rosie Larkin a job?”
“Easily.”
“And will you take Harry Horton into your own plant?”
“I’ll be glad to do it as soon as the Examiner operates again. Until remodeling work is completed I have no plant.”
“Yes, you have, Dad. This building is yours if you can make arrangements with Mr. Vaughn.”
“Jane! You’re willing to give up the Weekly?”
“Willing? I’m desperate to get rid of it. Matters have reached a state where either I must abandon Carter’s All-Story Weekly or my budding career as a novelist. I’ve only awaited a chance to end my magazine career in a blaze of glory.”
“A blaze expresses it very mildly,” Dad said. “In all modesty, let us say a conflagration, but what’s all this about your budding career as a novelist?”
I produced the letter I’d received in the morning post from Litchfield Press out of the recesses of my handbag and handed it over to my father. As he read it, a broad smile spread across his face.
“Did you read the part about the thousand-dollar advance?” I said. “They’d never offer me such an extravagant sum if they weren’t confident that Perpetua’s Promise was going to be a hit!”
“I’m very relieved,” Dad said. “Now you can stop siphoning gas out of my car to keep Bouncing Betsy on the road.”
I did not dignify the accusation of petty larceny with a response.
“You’ll never guess what my very first expenditure will be,” I told Dad.
“Well, a normal woman would splash out on a whole new wardrobe, but you’re not exactly—”
“—a normal woman.”
“I wouldn’t call you abnormal,” my father said. “But I would be surprised if you blew your windfall on shoes. What do you plan to do with the money?”
“I shall reserve a portion of it for a rainy day,” I said. “But I’ve got a marvelous idea of how to put the rest to good use. Dad, how should you enjoy going on a nice long cruise?”
“Why would I want to go on a nice long cruise?” my father was incredulous. “What about the paper?”
“Oh, I expect DeWitt would be capable of doing without you for a month or two.”
“A month or two! Are you proposing to take me off on some round-the-world galivant?”
“I do not propose,” I said, “to take you off anywhere. Any proposing to be done, you’ll have to do yourself.”
“What are you talking about, Jane?”
“I’m talking about you proposing,” I said.
“Proposing what? And to whom?”
“Don’t be so coy, Dad. I’ll admit you managed to keep me in the dark until quite recently, but sooner or later I was bound to find out your secret.”
“What secret?”
“You and Mrs. Timms.”
Dad turned the color of an overripe tomato.
“You know I think very highly of Mrs. Timms,“ I told my father. “She’s a veritable queen among women, and I’ve never wished for anything more earnestly than I’ve wished for you two to light a fire under a pot together.”
My father mumbled something incoherent.
“Now that the pot has reached a nice steady rolling boil,” I continued, ignoring my father’s indignant spluttering in the background. “It’s time to center-aisle it and make an honest woman of Doris Timms. You propose and book the church, and I’ll cover the honeymoon cruise. Cabin class, of course. If you want to splash out on a first-class deck compartment complete with assorted trimmings, you’ll need to come up with the kale for that yourself.”
THE END
A Country Catastrophe
A Jane Carter Historical Cozy
Book Five
By Alice Simpson
In this Series:
Peril At The Pink Lotus (Book One)
Room Seven (Book Two)
The Missing Groom (Book Three)
The Oblivious Heiress (Book Four)
A Country Catastrophe (Book Five)
Robbery at Roseacres (Book Six)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Country Catastrophe: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy©2018 Alice Simpson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portion
s thereof in any form whatsoever, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Inspiration for this series: This series is an adaption of Mildred Wirt’s Penny Parker Mysteries which have fallen into the public domain. Although the author has made extensive alterations and additions to both the plots and characters, readers familiar with Ms. Wirt’s books will recognize many elements of both from the originals.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter One
As I walked through the dimly-lit newsroom of the Greenville Examiner, my rubber heels made no sound on the bare, freshly mopped floor. The final night edition of the paper had gone to press half an hour earlier, and only the scrubwomen remained at work. One of the women arrested a long sweep of her mop just in time to avoid splashing me with water.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t look for someone to come so very late.”
“Oh, curfew never rings for me,” I said, side-stepping a puddle of water. “I’m likely to be abroad at any hour.”
At the far end of the long room, a light glowed behind a frosted glass door marked: “Anthony Fielding—Editor.” I paused, opened the door a tiny crack, and rumbled in a deep voice:
“Hands up! I have you covered!”
Taken by surprise, my father swung quickly around, his swivel chair squeaking a loud protest.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that!” he grumbled. “You know it always makes me jump.”
“Sorry, Dad,” I grinned, slumping into a leather chair beside his desk. “A young woman is allowed so few amusements, you know.”
“Didn’t three hours watching moving pictures at the Pink Lotus Theater satisfy you?”
“Oh, the show was worse than awful. Not even Florence liked it, and you know she’ll generally go back six or seven times to see anything with John Gilbert in it. She’s in love with him now, you know.”
“I thought your friend Flo fancied herself madly in love with that Randolph Valentine,” my father said.
“Rudolph. Valentino. And yes, the old infatuation still lingers, but it’s hard to keep a crush of that caliber going since Mr. Valentino hasn’t starred in a picture in ages. No, now Flo fancies herself the ideal woman to reform Mr. Gilbert.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, her being the daughter of a member of the clergy and all. She says she’s the ideal person to administer spiritual succor and prop up Mr. Gilbert’s weather-beaten soul.”
“Is Mr. Gilbert’s soul weather-beaten?” my father asked.
“His second marriage just went caput,” I said. “By the way, I brought up a delivery for you.”
I removed a sealed yellow envelope from my purse.
“I met a Western Union boy downstairs,” I explained. “He was looking for you. I paid for the message and saved him a trip upstairs. One dollar and ten cents, if you don’t mind.”
Absently, my father took a crisp dollar bill from his pocket and reached for the telegram.
“Don’t forget the dime,” I reminded him. “It may seem a trifle to you, but to a lady novelist who has to live on the pittance eked out from hours of grinding labor at the feet of the muse, a dollar and ten cents is not to be sneezed at.”
“How is the sequel to Portia’s Premise going?” my father asked.
“Perpetua’s Promise,” I corrected him. “It’s coming along in fits and starts.”
Just last April, after years of dabbling in light serial fiction for the masses for such fly-by-night rags as Pittman’s All-Story Weekly, I’d finally sold my first novel.
The first printing of Perpetua’s Pride had sold out, but I’d barely made back my advance, so even though the powers that be at Litchfield Press had seen fit to print a second run and advance me five-hundred dollars on the sequel, Perpetua’s Pride, I still felt the need to economize.
“Why must you scrip and pinch?” my father said. “You earned more last month with your advance than what the Greenville Examiner took in from its three largest advertising accounts combined.”
“I must scrip and pinch,” I said, “because the life of a lady novelist is fraught with peril. Plenty may rain down upon her in the spring of her career only to end in tears come the drought of summer. A young destitute widow must be always on her guard to keep the wolves of poverty at bay.
“Well, looking at the condition of your shoes,” said my father, “I’d say the wolves of poverty have already been having a good gnaw on them. If Mrs. Timm’s catches you going about in public wearing shoes in that condition, she’ll die of embarrassment.”
“Speaking of Mrs. Timms, “I said. “When are you going to take me up on my offer of financing your honeymoon cruise, cabin class, of course.”
My father turned the color of beetroot, his perpetual habit whenever I mention his only-recently-exposed clandestine romance with our housekeeper, Mrs. Timms.
I’ve been hoping for years that they will someday center-aisle it, but ever since I discovered that my father and Mrs. Timms have been hotsey-totsey since I was barely out of pinafores, they’ve both been remarkably resistant to making it official. Whenever I bring up the subject, my father finds a way to transition to another topic.
“If you’re so concerned about financial stability,” said my father, “I know of a nice young reporter who’d be happy to offer you his hand and ho—”
“Dad!” I protested. “Just because Jack Bancroft and I step out from time-to-time to see a picture together.”
“From time-to-time? I was under the impression that the two of you were practically attached at the hip these days.”
Dad was right, but I was loath to admit it. Jack and I have become so inseparable that I’m beginning to feel a bit bad for Florence. Flo has been my fast companion since we were toddlers, and now she’s been suddenly relegated to role of third-wheel.
Dad tossed me over another quarter to pay for the telegram, and I pocketed it with deep satisfaction.
Dad ripped open the envelope, and, as he scanned the telegram, his face darkened.
“Dad, what’s wrong?”
My father crumpled the sheet into a ball and hurled it toward the wastepaper basket.
“Your aim gets worse every day,” I said, stooping to retrieve the paper. I smoothed it out and read aloud:
“YOUR EDITORIAL ‘FREEDOM OF THE PRESS’ IN THURSDAY’S EXAMINER THOROUGHLY DISGUSTED THIS READER. WHAT YOUR CHEAP PAPER NEEDS IS A LITTLE LESS FREEDOM AND MORE DECENCY. IF OUR FOREFATHERS COULD HAVE FORESEEN THE YELLOW PRESS OF TODAY, WE WOULD HAVE REGULATED IT, NOT MADE IT FREE. WHY DON’T YOU TAKE THAT AMERICAN FLAG OFF YOUR MASTHEAD AND SUBSTITUTE A CASH REGISTER? FLY YOUR TRUE COLORS AND SOFT-PEDAL THE FIELDING BRAND OF HYPOCRISY!”
“Stop it—don’t read another line!” Dad commanded before I had half finished.
“Dad, you poor old wounded lion,” I said. “I thought you prided yourself that uncomplimentary opinions never disturbed you. Can’t you take it anymore?”
“I don’t mind a few insults,” my father snapped, “but paying for them is another matter.”
“That’s so, this little gem of literature did set you back one dollar and ten cents. Lucky I collected before you opened the telegram.”
My father slammed his desk shut with a fo
rce which rattled the office windows.
“This same crack-pot who signs himself ‘Disgusted Reader’ or ‘Seth Burrows,’ or whatever name suits his fancy, has sent me six telegrams in the past month. I’m getting fed up!”
“All of the messages collect?”
“Every last one of them. That nitwit has criticized everything from the Examiner’s comic strips to the advertising columns. I’ve had enough.”
“Then why not do something about it? Refuse the telegrams.”
“It’s not that easy,” Dad growled. “Each day the Examiner receives many ‘collect’ messages, hot news tips from out-of-town correspondents and from reporters who try to sell freelance stories. We’re glad to pay for those telegrams. This fellow who keeps bombarding us is just smart enough to use different names and send his wires from various places. Sometimes, he addresses the telegrams to me, and sometimes to City Editor DeWitt or one of the other staff members.”
“In that case, I’m afraid you’re out of luck,” I said. “How about drowning your troubles in a little sleep?”
“It is late,” my father admitted, glancing at his watch. “Almost midnight. Time we’re starting home.”
My father reached for his hat, switched off the light, locked the door, and followed me down the stairway to the street. At the parking lot opposite the Examiner building, he tramped about restlessly while waiting for an attendant to bring my car.
“Good thing I’m driving,” I said, sliding behind the steering wheel of my old Peerless. “In your present mood, you might inadvertently pick off a few pedestrians.”
“It makes my blood boil,” my father muttered, his thoughts reverting to the telegram. “Call my paper yellow, eh? And that crack about the cash register.”
“Oh, everyone knows the Examiner is the best paper in the state,” I said, trying to coax him into a better mood. “You’re a good editor too, and a pretty fair father.”
“Thanks,” my father said. “Since we’re passing out compliments, you’re not so bad yourself.”
Suddenly relaxing, he reached out to touch my hand in a rare expression of affection. My father has a reputation for courage and fight, and he has only two interests in life—his paper and me. Scratch that. My father has only three interests in life—his paper, me and Doris Timms.
Jane Carter Historical Cozies: Omnibus Edition (Six Mystery Novels) Page 57
