“I don’t suppose you recognize me,” I began. “My father and I were here last night with Sheriff Daniels.”
“I remember you very well,” the woman said. “What do you want?”
“I should like to buy some melons,” I replied, the idea only that instant occurring to me. “Have you any for sale?”
“Melons?” the woman repeated, and the hard line of her mouth relaxed. “I thought you came to pester me with questions. Sure, we’ve got some good Heart o’ Gold out in the patch. How many do you want?”
“About three, I guess.”
“You can pick ’em out yourself if you want to,” Mrs. Dorner offered. Setting down the water bucket, she led the way through a gate to a melon patch behind the cabin. Her suspicions not entirely allayed, however, because halfway to the melon patch she demanded: “Sheriff Daniels didn’t send you out here, did he?”
“Certainly not,” I said. “I haven’t seen him since last night.”
“It’s all right then,” Mrs. Dorner said in a friendlier tone. She stooped to examine a ripe melon. “I figured maybe he sent you to find out what became of my husband.”
“Oh, no. Didn’t Mr. Dorner return home last night?”
“Not on your life,” the woman answered grimly. “And he won’t be back either—not while Sheriff Daniels is looking for him.”
“Don’t you think it would be wise for your husband to give himself up?” I said. “By hiding, he makes it appear as though he actually did set fire to the Franklin barn.”
“Sidney would be a fool to give himself up now. They’s all against him, and they’d be sure to hang the fire onto him, even though he wasn’t within a mile of the Franklin place.”
“Then couldn’t he prove it?”
“Not a chance,” the woman said with a short, hard laugh. “Sidney was framed. They thought of everything, but he never rode the horse last night, and that black hood was planted in the stable.”
“Does your husband have any enemies?”
“Sure, he’s got plenty of ’em.”
“Then perhaps you can name a person who might have tried to throw blame on your husband.”
“I could tell plenty if I was a mind to,” the woman said. “There’s plenty I’d like to name, only it would make things worse for Sidney.”
I started to reply, then remained silent as I saw that Mrs. Dorner’ gaze had focused upon a section of cornfield which fringed the melon patch. The tall stalks were waving in an agitated manner, suggesting that someone might be moving among them.
“Here are your melons,” Mrs. Dorner said nervously, thrusting three large ones into my hands. “That will be fifteen cents.”
I paid her, and she abruptly turned and hurried toward the house.
“Just a minute, Mrs. Dorner,” I called. “If you’ll only talk to me, I may be able to help your husband.”
The woman heard me but paid me no heed. She picked up her water bucket, entered the cabin, and closed the door behind her. Flo and I stood in silence staring at the closed door as Mrs. Dorner threw the bolt in the lock.
“Well, we gained three melons, and that’s all,” Florence said. “What’s our next move?”
“I think Mrs. Dorner was on the verge of telling us something important. Then she saw someone out there in the cornfield and changed her mind.”
“I don’t see anyone now. The stalks aren’t even moving.”
“They were a moment ago. Sidney Dorner may be hiding out there. Or it could be some of Sheriff Dorner’s men watching the cabin.”
“Or, perhaps, it’s a pack of ravening wolves waiting to tear us limb-from-limb,” teased Florence. “Unless, of course, you have a torch and a corset stay to keep them at bay until your one-armed cowboy lover arrives to take over combat duties.”
“I’ll thank you not to make fun of my literary efforts,” I told Flo. “And may I remind you that in the story you so flippantly reference, the cowboy hero would not have lost his arm had the heroine been allowed to defend herself.”
“I forgot myself for the moment,” said Flo with feigned contrition. “I wouldn’t think of mocking the outcome of ‘Evangeline: The Horse Thief’s Unwilling Fiancée’: your version, or that of Mr. Pittman.”
Mr. Pittman is my former editor. It was a bitter dispute over the outcome of my long-running serial “Evangeline: The Horse Thief’s Unwilling Fiancée” which led to a parting of the ways between Pittman’s All-Story Weekly Magazine and me, to which I was formerly a star-contributor under the nom de plume, Miss Hortencia Higgins. In truth, I sold my novel just in time. My short-lived attempt at running my own all-story weekly paper featuring light short fiction for the modern woman of discriminating tastes met its inglorious end when a lunatic attempted to burn down my father’s newspaper plant. I was only too happy to give up my position of editress-in-chief of the newly-minted Carter’s All-Story Weekly to allow Dad to take over my premises until his own were repaired.
“Ravening wolves or no, let’s go back to the car.” Flo turned back toward Bouncing Betsy who waited patiently for our return.
I shook my head and started toward the corn patch. Reluctantly, Florence followed, overtaking me at the edge of the field.
“Sheriff Daniels!” I called through cupped hands.
There was no answer, only a gentle rippling of the corn stalks some distance from us.
“Whoever the person is, he’s sneaking away,” I whispered to Flo. “Come on, let’s stop him!”
“Don’t be a Dumb Dora—” I heard Florence protest, but I had already plunged into the forest of tall corn. I think Flo had a little struggle with herself, but a minute later I could hear that she, too, had entered the corn patch.
“Jane!” Flo shouted frantically. She was close by but had already managed to become disoriented.
“Here!” I called out, as loud as I dared.
I continued to call out to Flo until we were finally face to face.
“Such a commotion as you’ve been making,” I scolded Flo. “Not a chance to catch that fellow now.”
“I don’t care,” Florence retorted. Her hair was disarranged, and her stockings matted with burs. “If we can get out of this dreadful maze I want to go to the car.”
“We’re at the edge of the field. Follow me, and I’ll pilot you to safety.”
We emerged a minute later at the end of the corn row. I saw the stable only a few yards away. Impulsively, I proposed to Florence that we investigate it for possible clues.
“I’ve had enough detective work for one day,” Flo said. “Anyway, what do you hope to discover in an old barn?”
“Maybe I can induce the horse to talk,” I said. “Sal must know all the answers if only she could speak.”
“You’ll have to give her the third degree by yourself. I shall await you in the car.”
Flo took the melons with her and marched stiffly down the lane. I watched her climb into Bouncing Betsy. She then rearranged her hair and began to pluck burs from her dress and stockings. I left Florence to her futile efforts to make herself presentable again and slipped into the barn.
A full twenty minutes elapsed before I emerged.
“Sorry to keep you waiting so long, Flo,” I said when I’d reinstalled myself in the driver’s seat of Bouncing Betsy. “See what I found.”
I held up a bright silver object which resembled a locket, save that it was smaller.
“What is it?”
“A man’s watch charm. It has a picture inside, too.”
I pried open the lid with my fingernail. Inside was the photograph of a boy who might have been ten or twelve years of age.
“Where did you get it, Jane?”
“I found it lying on the barn floor, not far from the place where we picked up the black hood last night.”
“Then it must belong to Sidney Dorner!”
“It may,” I admitted. “Still, I don’t believe the Dorners have any children.”
“What will you do with the charm?
Turn it over to the sheriff?”
“I suppose I should, after I’ve shown it to Dad,” I replied, carefully tying the trinket into the corner of a handkerchief. “You know, Flo, since finding this, I wonder if Mrs. Dorner may not have told the truth.”
“About what, Jane?”
“She said that her husband was framed.”
“Then you think this watch charm was left in the barn to throw suspicion upon Sidney Dorner?”
I shook my head. “No, this is my theory, Florence: Someone planted the black hood there, then rode Sidney’s horse to make it appear he was the guilty person. Inadvertently, that same person lost this watch charm.”
“In that case, you would have a clue which might solve the case.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Get ready for a fast ride into town. I’m going to rush this evidence straight to the Examiner office and get Dad’s opinion.”
Chapter Seven
Florence asked me to drop her off at the Radcliff home. I left her there and then drove on alone to my father’s office. The newsroom hummed with activity as I sauntered through to the private office.
“Just a minute, please,” my father said, waving me into a chair.
He completed the letter he was dictating, dismissed his secretary, and then was ready to listen. Without preliminary ado, I laid the watch charm on his desk, explaining where I had found it.
“Dad, this may belong to Sidney Dorner, but I don’t think so. It’s my theory that the person who planted the black hood in the stable must have lost it.”
My father scrutinized the charm, gazing at the picture of the little boy contained within it.
“Very interesting,” he said. “However, I fear you are allowing your imagination to take you for a ride. There isn’t much question of Sidney Dorner’ guilt according to the findings of the sheriff.”
“Has any new evidence come to light, Dad?”
“Yes, Jane, the sheriff’s office has gained possession of a document showing beyond question that Sidney Dorner is a member of a renegade band known as the Black-Hooded Hoodlums.”
“Where did we get their proof?”
“Sheriff Dorner won’t disclose the source of his information. However, Jack is working on the case, and something may develop any hour.”
“Then you’re intending to make it into a big story?” I asked.
“I am. An underground, subversive organization, no matter what its purpose, has no right to an existence. The Examiner will expose the leaders, if possible, and break up the group.”
“Since the hoodlums burned the Franklin storage barn, their purpose can’t be a very noble one,” I commented. “Nor are their leaders especially clever. The trail led as plain as day to Sidney Dorner—so straight, in fact, that I couldn’t help doubting his guilt.”
“Jane, I’ll keep this watch charm, if you don’t mind,” my father said, locking the trinket into a drawer. “I’ll put Jack to work on it, and he may be able to learn the identity of the little boy in the picture.”
Abruptly changing the subject, Dad inquired regarding my success in selling Camp-Benefit tags.
“I have only one left,” I replied, presenting it with a flourish. “Twenty-five cents, please.”
“The cause is a worthy one. I’ll double the amount.” My father flipped a half dollar across the desk.
“While you’re in a giving mood I might mention that you owe me five gallons of gasoline. I saw Sam McKee this morning, and he agreed with me that the Moresby clock struck thirteen last night.
My father had no opportunity to reply, for just then his secretary came back into the office to say that a Mr. Clark Bronson wished to see him.
“I suppose that means you want me to evaporate,” I said.
“No, stay if you like. It’s probably nothing of consequence.”
I welcomed an invitation to remain. After my talk with Sam McKee, I was curious to see the man who had caused the old bell maker to lose his position at the Moresby Tower.
“Bronson probably wants to ask me to do him a personal favor,” my father confided. “He’s a pest!”
The door opened again to admit the real estate man. He was heavy-set, immaculately dressed, and the only thing noteworthy about his appearance was that his right arm was somewhat shorter than the left.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Fielding,” he said expansively. “This must be your charming daughter.”
Dad introduced me. I bowed politely and retreated to a chair by the window. I was prejudiced against Mr. Bronson and had no desire to talk to him.
“What may I do for you?” my father asked Mr. Bronson.
“Ah, this time it is I who shall bestow the favor,” Mr. Bronson responded, taking a checkbook from his pocket. “Your paper has been campaigning for a very worthy cause, namely the Orphans’ Summer Camp Fund. It wrings my heart that those unfortunate kiddies have been denied the benefit of fresh air and sunshine.”
“If you wish to make a donation, you should give your money to Mrs. Vanhee,” Dad cut him short.
“I much prefer to present my check to you,” Mr. Bronson insisted. “Shall I make it out for a hundred and fifty dollars?”
“That’s a very handsome donation,” said my father. “But why give it to me?”
Mr. Bronson coughed. “I thought you might deem the offering worthy of a brief mention in your paper.”
“Oh, I see,” Dad said.
“I don’t wish publicity for myself, you understand, but only for the real estate company which bears my name.”
“I quite understand, Mr. Bronson. If we should use your picture—”
“That will be very acceptable,” the real estate man responded, smiling with satisfaction. “I’ll be happy to oblige you by posing.”
Mr. Bronson helped himself to a pen, wrote out the check and presented it to Dad.
“Jane, how would you like to write the story?” my father said as he turned to me. “We’re a bit short on help at the moment. There’s five dollars in it for you.”
“I’m rather bogged down with work,” I demurred. “I think Mrs. Timms wants me to help her clean the attic when I get home. Plus, I need to put in some hard labor on the opening chapters of Perpetua’s Pride if I’m to bring my worthy heroine’s feud with the cruel and corrupt Duke Damion to the required thrilling conclusion before the deadline imposed on me by the powers that be at Litchfield Press.”
“Never mind the attic,” my father said petulantly. “And a pox and a pestilence on the cruel and corrupt Duke Damion. Kindly conduct Mr. Bronson to the photography room and ask one of the boys to take his picture.”
“A pox and a pestilence are both excellent ideas,” I said as I arose obediently. “I shall give strong consideration to subjecting the dastardly Duke Damion to not one, but both of those odious outcomes.”
I smiled brightly at my father as I said spoke, but as the real estate man left the office ahead of me, I switched off the smile and shot my father a black look. I considered a publicity story very trivial indeed, and it particularly displeased me to be asked to write honeyed words about a man I did not admire.
“You have a very nice building here, very nice,” Mr. Bronson said as I escorted him toward the photographic department. A pile of freshly printed newspapers lay on one of the desks, and he helped himself to a copy.
“I see the sheriff hasn’t captured Sidney Dorner, yet,” he commented, scanning the front page. “I hope they get him. It’s a disgrace to Greenville that such a crime could be perpetrated, and the scoundrel go unpunished.”
“He’ll probably be caught,” I replied. “But I do wonder if he’s the guilty person.”
“What’s that? You think Dorner didn’t burn the Franklin barn?”
“I was only speculating upon it.”
“Reflecting your father’s opinion, no doubt.”
“No, not anyone’s thought but my own. I am quite in the habit of forming independent opinions. Been a common practice of mine since I was going
about in pigtails. All my teachers remarked upon it. They'd say things like—”
“Your father seems to be making quite a story of the fire,” Mr. Bronson interrupted, transparently disinterested in both my teachers and their opinion of me, “It will be most unfortunate for the community if he stirs up talk about underground organizations.”
“Why unfortunate?” I asked.
“Because it will give the city a bad reputation. I doubt there is anything to this Black-Hooded Hoodlums talk, but if there should be, any publicity might lead to an investigation by state authorities.”
“A very good thing, I should think.”
“You do not understand,” Mr. Bronson said. “Depredation would increase, innocent persons surely would suffer. With Greenville known unfavorably throughout the country, we would gain no new residents.”
I did not reply as I opened the door of the photographic room. While Mr. Bronson wandered about, inspecting the various equipment, I relayed my father’s instructions to Shep Murphy, one of the staff photographers.
Shep and I have been friends for almost as long as Flo and I have, although he and Flo have only recently become friendly with each other. Well, not friendly exactly. Aware of each other. That’s a better way to put. Flo insists that she could not be less interested in my old friend Shep, but despite her insistence that her heart belongs to Rudolph Valentino, or Mr. John Gilbert, when Mr. Valentino isn’t available, I think there’s a bit of a spark between her and Shep, but I daren’t broach the subject with either of them.
I’ve decided to take a strong noninterventionist stance, seeing how well it worked with Mrs. Timms and my father. Perhaps, one of these days, I’ll catch Shep and Flo canoodling, and find out they’ve been sparking away for years behind my back.
“Better get a flattering picture of Bronson,” I warned Shep in a whisper. “He’ll be madder than a hen doused with dishwater if you don’t.”
“I’ll do my best,” Shep whispered back, “but I can’t make over a man’s face.”
Jane Carter Historical Cozies: Omnibus Edition (Six Mystery Novels) Page 61
