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

by Alice Simpson

  Mr. Bronson proved to be a trying subject. Shep posed him on a stool in front of a screen, and Mr. Bronson immediately froze into position like Patience on a monument, but only if Patience, rather than being a Greek goddess, was a man of late middle age with a balding pate, a very respectable paunch and one arm slightly longer than the other.

  “Be sure to make it only a head and shoulders picture, if you please,” he ordered Shep.

  “Can’t you relax?” the photographer asked wearily. “Unloosen your face. Think of all those little orphans you’re going to make happy.”

  Mr. Bronson responded with a smirk which was painful to behold. Nothing that Shep could say or do caused him to become natural, and at length the Shep took two shots which I knew would not be satisfactory.

  “That’ll be all,” Shep said.

  Mr. Bronson arose, drawing a deep sigh. “Posing is a great ordeal for me,” he confessed. “I seldom consent to have my photograph taken, but this is a very special occasion.”

  Completely at ease again, the real estate man began to converse with me. In sudden inspiration, Shep seized the small portable camera he took out on assignment, and before Mr. Bronson was aware of his act, snapped a picture.

  “There, that’s more like it,” he said. “I caught you just right, Mr. Bronson.”

  The real estate man turned swiftly, his eyes blazing anger.

  “You dared to take a picture without my permission?” he demanded. “I’ll not have it! Destroy the film at once, or I shall protest to Mr. Fielding!”

  Chapter Eight

  The real estate man’s outburst was so unexpected that Shep and I could only stare at him in astonishment.

  “It’s a good full-length picture,” the photographer argued. “Much better than those other shots I took.”

  “I can’t allow it,” Bronson answered in a calmer tone. He touched his right arm. “You see, I am sensitive about this deformity. Unreasonable of me, perhaps, but I must insist that you destroy the film.”

  “Just as you say,” Shep shrugged. “We’ll use one of the other pictures.”

  “No, I’ve changed my mind,” Bronson said shortly. “I don’t care for any picture. Kindly destroy all the films—now—in my presence.”

  “Mr. Bronson!” I protested. “I thought you wanted a picture to accompany the story.”

  “I have no objection to the article, but I’ll have no picture. The films must be destroyed.”

  “As you wish,” responded Shep. He removed two plates from the large camera he had used to take the formal portraits and exposed them to the light. He started to take the film from the candid camera but did not complete the operation. Mr. Bronson, however, failed to notice.

  “Thank you, young man,” Mr. Bronson said. “I am sorry to have taken so much of your valuable time, and I appreciate your efforts.”

  Mr. Bronson nodded to me, left the studio, and closed the door behind him.

  “Strange duck,” said Shep. “His picture on the front page would be no break for our readers.”

  “I can’t understand why Mr. Bronson became so provoked. That excuse about his arm seemed a flimsy one.”

  “Let’s develop the film and see what it looks like,” Shep suggested, starting for the darkroom. “It was just an ordinary shot, though.”

  I followed Shep into the developing room, watching as he ran the film through the various trays. In precisely six minutes the picture was ready, and he held it beneath the ruby light for me to see.

  “Nothing unusual about it,” Shep said. “Bronson’s right arm does look a bit shorter than the left, but we could have blocked that off.”

  “It’s not as if that slight deformity would be any news to the citizens of Greenville,” I pointed out. “It’s not as if anyone who’s met him in person would have failed to notice it already.”

  Shep tossed the damp picture into a wastepaper basket, only to have me promptly rescue it.

  “I wish you would save this,” I said. “Put it in an envelope and file it away somewhere in the office.”

  “What’s the big idea, Jane?”

  “Oh, just a hunch, I guess. Someday the paper may want a picture of Bronson in a hurry, and this one would serve very nicely.”

  Time was fast slipping away, so I returned to my father’s office to report Mr. Bronson’s strange action. My father, well versed in the peculiarities of newspaper patrons, shrugged indifferently.

  “Bronson always was a strange fellow,” he commented, staring down at the check which still lay on his desk. “I’ve never trusted him, and I wish I hadn’t accepted this money.”

  “How could you have refused, Dad?”

  “I couldn’t very well. All the same, I have a feeling I’ll regret it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “No reason I can put my finger on. It’s just a feeling. Bronson isn’t the sort of man to give something for nothing. He aims to profit by this affair, or I’m no judge of human nature.”

  “He craves publicity, that’s certain.”

  “Yes, but there’s more to it than that,” my father said. “Oh, well”—he dismissed the subject, “I’ll turn the check over to the camp committee and let someone else do the worrying.”

  “I’ll tell you why I dislike Mr. Bronson,” I said. “He caused Sam McKee to lose his job at the Moresby Tower.”

  “That so?” Dad asked in surprise. “I hadn’t heard about it.”

  “Bronson gave the position to a friend of his. Can’t you do something about it, Dad?”

  “I don’t even know any of the basic facts, Jane. Why should I interfere in a matter which is none of my affair?”

  “At least let’s not give Mr. Bronson a big build-up because of his donation.”

  “The story must be written,” my father said with finality. “I always keep a bargain, even a bad one.”

  “Then you might write the story yourself,” I said. “I refuse to be an instrument in propping up Clark Bronson’s already overinflated ego.”

  “Never mind,” my father said. “I shouldn’t have asked you to begin with. I’ll get one of the junior reporters to take it on, though I’ll have to pay them double-time. You can devote the rest of the day to attics and Dukes.”

  “Attics!” I said. I was experiencing a brainwave. “Perhaps, I’ll have Perpetua and the dastardly Duke face each other in the final showdown in the attic of a deserted mansion. I could introduce a swarm of bats to swoop down upon the Duke at the decisive moment, thus reducing him to a spent force, upon which Perpetua can mercifully decline to administer the deserved deathblow to the villainous Duke, thereby preserving her honor and rendering the Duke in her debt for the rest of his short, miserable life.”

  My father just grunted as he tapped away at his typewriter, so I took my leave and headed out through the newsroom. I paused beside Jack’s desk.

  “Covering the Franklin fire, I suppose?” I asked him.

  “Nothing that spectacular. DeWitt’s sending me out to the Greenville Orphans’ Home to dig up human interest material in connection with the camp-fund campaign. Want to ride along as ballast?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” I said. “I have rather a lot to do today.”

  “Oh, come on,” Jack coaxed, getting up from his desk and taking me by the arm. “You can talk to the orphans while I gather my material, and on the way back we can stop off for a friendly ice cream in some nice quiet corner booth somewhere.”

  “Oh, all right,” I said and followed Jack out to the parking lot.

  We got into one of the press cars, and Jack drove us through the heavy downtown traffic.

  “What’s the latest on the Franklin case?” I asked as I clutched my hat to keep it from blowing out the window.

  “There is no latest. The Franklins won’t talk, Mrs. Dorner won’t talk, the sheriff won’t talk. So far it totals up to one little story about a fire.”

  “Dad said the sheriff had learned Sidney Dorner was a member of a secret orga
nization, probably known as the Black-Hooded Hoodlums.”

  “Sheriff Daniels claims he has documentary proof,” Jack admitted. “He won’t produce it though, and I have a sneaking suspicion that he may be bluffing.”

  “Then you think he wants to convict Sidney Dorner whether or not he’s guilty?”

  “He wants to end the case just as quickly as he can, Jane. The November elections aren’t that far away. If this night rider story gets a start, the dear public might turn on him, demanding action or his job.”

  “Do you think there actually is such an organization as the Black-Hooded Hoodlums, Jack?”

  “I do. After talking with the Franklins and Mrs. Dorner, I’m convinced they could tell quite a bit about it.”

  It pleased me that Jack’s opinion so neatly coincided with my own. I told him of my own talk with Mrs. Dorner and my belief that someone had been hiding in the cornfield near the cabin.

  “What time was that?” Jack asked, stopping the car at a traffic light.

  “Shortly after twelve o’clock.”

  “Then it couldn’t have been Sheriff Daniels or his any of his deputies,” Jack said. “I was at the county office talking to them about that same time.”

  “It might have been Sidney Dorner,” I suggested. “I’m sure his wife knows where he is hiding.”

  As the car sped over the country road, I told Jack about the watch charm which I had picked up at the Dorner’s barn. Jack had not seen the picture of the little boy but promised to inspect it just as soon as he returned to the Examiner offices.

  “Sidney Dorner has no children,” he told me, “so it’s unlikely the charm ever belonged to him. You may have found an important clue.”

  We approached the Greenville Orphans’ Home, a large brick building set back some distance from the road. Children in drab blue uniforms played in the front yard, supervised by a woman official.

  “Poor kids,” Jack said, “you can’t help feeling sorry for ’em. We deserve the best summer camp this town can provide.”

  “The project is certain to be possible now,” I replied. “Mr. Bronson’s check put the campaign over the top.”

  Jack turned the car into the private road.

  “Don’t tell me that old bird actually parted with any money. He’s famous for being a skinflint.”

  “Oh, he did, Jack. He donated a check for a hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “And no strings attached?”

  “Well, he hinted that he wanted a nice write-up about himself. I was strong-armed into taking him down to the photographer’s lair to be captured on film—although, in the end, he browbeat Shep into destroying the film.”

  “It’s mighty strange,” Jack said. “Leopards don’t change their spots. Bronson must expect something more tangible than publicity out of the deal.”

  Jack gave no thought to his driving. He whirled the car into the play area of the institution, drawing up with a loud screeching of brakes. He was going far too fast and the children scattered in all directions, all except one little girl who remained squarely in front of the car. She covered her face with her hands and began to scream.

  “Gosh all fish hooks! I didn’t mean to frighten the kid.”

  We jumped out and ran to the child.

  “You’re all right,” Jack said, stooping beside the little girl. “The car didn’t come within a mile of you. I’m mighty sorry I frightened you.”

  Nothing that either he nor I could say seemed to comfort the child. Her screams did not subside until a matron appeared and took her by the hand.

  “Come, Amelia,” she said gently. “We’ll go into the house.”

  “I’m as sorry as I can be,” Jack apologized, doffing his hat. “I didn’t intend to drive into the yard so fast. It’s all my fault.”

  The attendant smiled to set him at ease. “Don’t worry yourself over it,” she said. “Amelia is very easily upset. I’ll explain to you later.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Maybe I can send the kid a box of candy or make it up to her in some way,” Jack said.

  We talked to the matron watching the children, then roved the yard and talked to many of the orphans. Nearly all the children answered questions self-consciously and had little to say.

  “We’ll not get much of a story here,” Jack said. “These youngsters are as much alike as if they had been cut from one pattern.”

  “Amelia was different,” I said. “Almost too much so.”

  Miss Crismond, the young woman who had taken Amelia away, returned to the play yard. Jack and I immediately inquired about the little girl.

  “Oh, she is quite herself again,” the young woman said. “The upset was only a temporary one.”

  “Is Amelia easily frightened?” I said.

  “Unfortunately, she is terrified of automobiles. I am afraid it is becoming a complex. About a year ago, both of her parents were killed in a motor accident, and ever since she’s become very fearful of cars.”

  “How dreadful,” I said.

  “Amelia was in the car but escaped with a broken leg,” Miss Crismond said. “The incident made a profound impression upon her.”

  “I should think so,” said Jack. “How did the accident occur?”

  “We don’t know. Amelia was the only witness. According to her story, the Hanover automobile was crowded off the road by another motorist who drove at a reckless speed, without lights. The car Amelia’s family was traveling in flipped over, pinning the occupants beneath it.”

  “It seems to me I remember that story,” Jack said. “The hit-skip driver never was caught.”

  “No, according to Amelia he stopped, only to drive on again when he saw that her parents were beyond help.”

  “The man must have been heartless,” I said. “How could he run away?”

  “Because he feared the consequences,” Miss Crismond answered. “Had he been apprehended he would have faced charges for manslaughter, and undoubtedly would have been assessed heavy damages.”

  “I take it the child has no property or family, or she wouldn’t be at this institution,” Jack said.

  “Amelia is penniless. Her parents were her only relatives, so she was brought to us.”

  “It’s a shame,” I said. “Wasn’t there any clue as to the identity of the man who caused the fatal accident?”

  “No worthwhile ones. Amelia insists that she saw the driver’s face plainly and could recognize him again. However, she never was able to give a very good description, nor to make an identification.”

  “Miss Crismond, isn’t there something I can do to make amends for frightening her?” Jack asked. “What would a little girl like? Candy, toys?”

  “It isn’t necessary that you give her anything.”

  “I want to do it,” Jack insisted.

  “In that case, why not make some small bequest to the institution, or send something which may be enjoyed by all the children.”

  “Jack, I have an idea,” I said impulsively. “Why not give a party? Would that be permissible, Miss Crismond?”

  “Indeed, yes. The children love them, and outings away from the institution are their special delight.”

  “Let’s give a watermelon party,” I proposed. “We could take the children to a nearby farm and let them gorge themselves.”

  “The children would enjoy it, I’m sure,” Miss Crismond said. “But can transportation be arranged? We have sixty boys and girls.”

  “I’ll take care of everything,” Jack promised. “Suppose we set tomorrow afternoon as the date.”

  “Oh, can’t we have the party at night?” I said. “There will be a full moon. A watermelon feast wouldn’t be as much fun by daylight.”

  Miss Crismond said that she thought the children might be allowed to attend such a party, providing it was held early enough in the evening. Jack and I talked with her about various details of the plan and then drove away from the orphanage.

  “Well, you certainly got me into something,” Jack sai
d as the car turned into the main road. “Where are we going to throw this party?”

  “Oh, any melon farmer will be glad to let the children invade his patch, providing we pay for the privilege. You might turn in at the next farm.”

  My confidence proved to be ill-founded, for Mr. Rhimes, the farmer whom we accosted, would not consider the proposition.

  “The children will trample the vines, and do a lot of damage,” he declined. “Why don’t you try the Wentworth place?”

  At the Wentworth farm, Jack and I likewise were turned down.

  “No one wants sixty orphans running rampant over his place,” Jack said. “We may as well give up the idea.”

  “It’s possible Mrs. Dorner would allow us to hold a muskmelon party at her farm,” I said. “Now that her husband has skipped, she must be in need of money.”

  The chance of success seemed unlikely. However, to please me, Jack drove to the Dorner property. To my surprise, we found the place humming with activity. Professional melon pickers were at work in the patch, and Mrs. Dorner, dressed in overalls, was personally supervising the laborers.

  “I have no time to answer questions,” she announced to Jack before he could speak. “Please go away and leave me alone.”

  “Oh, I’m not here in an official capacity this time,” Jack grinned. “We want to make you a business proposition.”

  He then explained what he had in mind. Mrs. Dorner listened attentively but with suspicion.

  “It’s likely some trick,” she declared. “I’ll have nothing to do with it.”

  “Mrs. Dorner, we’re not trying to deceive you,” I said. “We’ve tried several other farms before we came here. No one is willing to let the children trample the vines.”

  “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt mine,” the woman admitted. “By tomorrow night we’ll have all the best melons picked and sorted. I reckon the youngsters can have what’s left in the patch.”

  “We’ll pay you well for the privilege,” Jack promised, taking out his wallet.

  “I don’t want your money,” the woman answered shortly. “Just see to it that the youngsters don’t tear up the place.”