“Maybe I can overtake that fellow,” Jack called to Mrs. Dorner. “Ride herd on these kids until I get back.”
As he ran toward his own car, I was close at his heels. I slid into the seat beside him, and we raced down the lane.
“Which way did the truck go?” Jack asked. “I was so excited I forgot to notice.”
“It turned right. No sign of it now, though.”
“The fellow is running without lights to make it harder for us to follow him.”
Jack and I were hopeful that we could overtake the truck, which carried a heavy load. However, we were delayed several minutes in getting started, and as the miles fell away behind us, we saw no more of the melon truck.
“He must have turned off on that little side road we passed a quarter of a mile back,” I said. “Switch off the engine a minute.”
Jack brought the car to a standstill. We listened intently. From far over the hills we thought we could hear the muffled roar of a powerful motor.
“You’re right, Jane. He turned off at that side road,” Jack said, backing the coupe around. “We’ll get him yet.”
We retraced our route down the narrow rutty road. Five minutes later, rounding a sharp bend, we caught our first glimpse of the truck, a dark object silhouetted in the moonlight. It remained visible only for a moment, and then, descending a hill, was lost to view.
“We’re gaining fast,” Jack said. “It won’t be long now.”
The coupe rattled over a bridge. For no reason at all, it began to bump, a loud pounding noise coming from the rear of the car.
“A flat,” Jack said. “Just our luck.”
Jacked pulled up at the side of the road, and we jumped out to look at the tires. Just as he had feared, the left rear one was down.
“We’ll probably lose that fellow now,” he said.
I held the flashlight while Jack worked as fast as he could to change the tire. However, nearly fifteen minutes elapsed before we were ready to take to the road again.
“We may as well turn back,” Jack said, tossing the tools into the back of the car. “How about it?”
“Oh, let’s keep on a little farther,” I pleaded. “If we drive fast we might still overtake him.”
Without much hope, we resumed pursuit. Tires whined a protest as we swung around sharp corners, and the motor began to overheat.
“This old bus can’t take it anymore,” Jack said, slowing down again. “No sense in ruining the car.”
I was watching the road carefully. We had passed no bisecting highways, so I felt certain that the truck could not have turned off. On either side of the unpaved thoroughfare were lonely stretches of swamp and woods.
“Let’s not turn back yet,” I pleaded. “We still have a chance.”
“Okay, but don’t forget we have six orphans waiting for us at the Dorner place.”
We drove on for another eight miles until we reached a welcome stretch of pavement.
“We must be getting near the state line,” Jack said.
Directly ahead was a tiny brick building with an official waiting inside to inspect cars which passed through. A series of markers warned us to halt.
As Jack drew up, a man came from the little building.
“Carrying any shrubs, plants or fruit?” he began, but Jack cut him short.
“We’re following a stolen truck. Has a red truck loaded with cantaloupes gone through here tonight?”
“I checked one through about fifteen minutes ago.”
“Fifteen minutes!” Jack groaned. “That finishes us.”
“The trucker could have reached Clackston by this time,” the inspector said. “Once in the city, you wouldn’t have much chance to pick him up. I have the truck license number, though. If you’ll give me all the facts, I’ll make a report to Clackston police.”
There was no point in pursuing the thief any farther. Jack and I provided the requested information and then drove to the Dorner farm. We told Mrs. Dorner of our failure to overtake the melon thief.
“I’ve lost my crop, the truck—everything,” she said. “What’s the use trying, anyhow? A body would be smarter to go along with ’em than to try to fight.”
“I take it you have a pretty fair idea who it was that came here tonight? Who are these hoodlums?” Jack asked.
“I don’t dare tell you,” the woman said. “You saw what they did tonight. They threw the blame of the Franklin fire on Sidney. They’ll do even worse things if I don’t keep mum.”
“You want to help your husband, don’t you?” I asked.
“Of course, I do, but I know better than to talk.”
“You’ve been warned to keep quiet?” Jack asked.
“Yes, I have. Now don’t ask me any more questions. I’ve told you too much already.”
“I just want to know one thing,” Jack said. “Did your trouble start because you and your husband refused to join the Browning Cooperative?”
“Maybe it did,” the woman answered, her voice barely above a whisper. “I ain’t saying.”
“Well, we thank you for hosting the party for the orphans,” I said. “I’m sorry the evening turned out so badly for you.”
We rounded up the six reluctant orphans from the hayloft where a boisterous game of hide and seek was in progress.
“I can jam four into my coupe if you can handle the other two in your car,” Jack told me. “If they give you any trouble, just toot the horn twice, and I’ll come back and settle with ’em!”
“Oh, we’ll get along fine,” I said. “Come along, boys.”
“Here’s a souvenir to remember the night by,” Jack said. From the ground, he picked up two melons which he handed to the orphans. “Just don’t sock the matron with them when you get back to the home.”
“Jack, let me see one of those melons,” I said. “They fell from the truck, didn’t they?”
“I guess so. What about ’em?”
“I’ll show you.”
I turned on the dash light of the car and held the melon in its warm glow. I turned it over in my hands.
“There,” I said, pointing to a tiny triangle shaped marking on the cantaloupes. “This may prove a clue which will lead to the capture of the thief.”
“I don’t get it. What clue?”
“There’s stamping on the melon. The hoodlums must intend to sell that load of cantaloupes. If they do, we should be able to trace the shipment.”
Chapter Twelve
Jack took the melon from my hand to examine it.
“This stamp may be helpful,” he said, “but I doubt it. The hoodlums never would be so stupid as to sell melons which could be traced. No, I think our investigation will have to center close at home.”
“You’re referring to the Browning Cooperative, Jack?”
“That outfit certainly merits an investigation. In the morning I’ll jog out to their packing plant and talk to the manager, Harold Browning.”
“What time will you be going, Jack?”
“About nine o’clock, probably.”
“Perhaps, I’ll meet you there,” I said. “That is if you don’t mind.”
“Glad to have you,” Jack said, giving me a wink. “If we work really efficiently, we might have an opportunity to steal a moment or two on the shoulder of a country lane for a bit of canood—”
I cut Jack off. “Little Pitchers,” I said.
“Have big ears,” Jack finished, looking over at the boys who were too busy roughhousing in the back seats of our respective vehicles to pay any attention to lose talk of canoodling.
We drove to the Greenville Orphans’ Home without mishap. After unloading the boys entrusted to our care, Jack and I then went on to our respective homes.
“I’m glad you came at last,” Mrs. Timms said as I came in the back door. “You’re to telephone Miss Crismond at the Greenville Orphans’ Home.”
“But I just left there. When did the call come?”
“About fifteen minutes ago.”
When I rang through to the Orphans’ Home, Miss Crismond told me that following the night’s outing, an orphan was discovered missing.
“One of those six boys?”
“No, the missing child is a little girl who was not permitted to attend the party because of a severe cold. You may remember her—Amelia.”
“Indeed, I do, Miss Crismond. Tell me how I may help.”
“We’ve already organized searching parties,” Miss Crismond told me. “Amelia surely will be found within a few hours. However, if the story gets out, it will do the institution no good—particularly at this time when our drive for funds is on.”
“I see,” I murmured, “you would like the news kept out of the Greenville Examiner?”
“Can it be arranged?” Miss Crismond asked eagerly. “If you will talk to your father about it we’ll be very grateful.”
“I’ll ask him not to print the story,” I promised, none too pleased by the request. “I do hope Amelia is found soon.”
I could not help feeling that the institution officials seemed far more worried about the prospect of unfavorable publicity than over the missing child’s welfare. I said goodbye to Miss Crismond and went to find my father who was reading in the library.
“Jane, you know I don’t like to grant such favors,” my father said after I told him of my conversation with Miss Crismond. “As a matter of principle, it never pays to withhold information unless the telling will harm innocent persons.”
“In this case, it will damage the institution,” I said. “Besides, I feel more or less responsible. What started out as a nice little party for the orphans, ended in a regular brawl. It was planned primarily for Amelia, and then she ran away because she wasn’t permitted to attend.”
Starting at the very beginning, I told my father everything that had happened during the night. When I had finished, he said:
“I am as interested in the Greenville Camp fund as you are. We’ll give the institution no unfavorable publicity.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “You’re the bee’s knees!”
“Weak as water, you mean. By the way, I suppose you know that your friend Bronson has been named to the Camp Fund board.”
“No! How did that happen?”
“He hinted to Mrs. Vanhee that he would like to serve. Naturally, after his handsome donation, she couldn’t refuse.”
“Why do you suppose Mr. Bronson has taken such a sudden interest in the home?”
“I can’t help wondering that myself. I’ve thought from the first that he’s up to something. So far, I’ve not been able to figure out his little game.”
“Well, you’re on the board, too,” I said. “If he starts any monkey business you can put a quick stop to it.”
“I fear you overestimate my talents,” my father said. “However, I do intend to see that Bronson doesn’t profit too much by his donation.”
The hour was late. I went to bed. I was so disturbed by Amelia’s disappearance that I did not sleep well. I woke early and telephoned the Orphans’ Home, hoping to learn that the child was found, but no such good news awaited me.
“Searchers have looked everywhere between here and the Dorner farm,” Miss Crismond said. “Unless the child is found by noon, it will be necessary to broadcast a general alarm. And that’s certain to bring unfavorable attention to the home.”
“Is there any chance she could have been kidnaped?” I asked.
“Not the slightest. Amelia took most of her belongings with her. It’s a plain case of a runaway, but most annoying at this time.”
I ate a hasty breakfast. I had not forgotten my appointment with Jack.
I drove Bouncing Betsy to the Browning Cooperative, located three and a half miles from Greenville in the heart of the truck farming district.
Jack had not yet arrived, so I waited in the car. Soon his coupe swung into the drive and pulled up alongside Bouncing Betsy.
“Sorry to be late,” he apologized. “I was held up at the office.”
“My father told you about Amelia’s disappearance?”
“Yes, but so far there’s not a trace of the child,” Jack answered. “Your father’s sore at himself for promising not to carry the story. It may develop into something big.”
I walked beside Jack to the entrance of the cooperative plant.
“No one seems to worry much about Amelia,” I said. “The institution people are afraid of unfavorable publicity, Dad’s alarmed about his story, while you and I are just plain indifferent.”
“I’m not indifferent,” Jack said. “In a way, I feel responsible for that kid, but what can we do?”
“Nothing, I guess,” I acknowledged unwillingly. “Miss Crismond said they had enough searchers.”
Jack opened the door of the building, and we stepped into a huge room which hummed with activity. Girls in uniforms stood at long tables inspecting melons which moved on an endless belt arrangement before them. The girls then sorted the melons by quality and size. Finally, each cantaloupe was stamped and packed in a crate which was then borne away on the conveyer belt.
“Harold Browning around here?” Jack asked one of the workers.
“Over there,” the girl said, pointing to a burly, red-faced man who stood at the opposite end of the room.
Jack and I approached the manager of the cooperative.
“Good morning,” the man said, inspecting us. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re from the Examiner,” Jack said. “Do you mind answering a few questions?”
“I’m pretty busy. What do you want to know?”
“There’s a rumor going the rounds that this cooperative has been forcing farmers to market their melons through your organization.”
“It’s a lie!” the manager’s face flushed a deeper red. “They come here begging us to take their stuff. We get better prices than anyone in this section of the state, and we pass the profit right back to the farmers.”
“How do you account for the depredation that’s been going on around here lately? Who would you say is behind it?”
“What d’you mean, depredation?” Harold Browning demanded.
“The destruction of the Franklin barn just as their melons were ready for market. Then last night a truck loaded with cantaloupes was stolen from the Dorner place.”
“That so?” the manager asked. “Hadn’t heard about it. Sidney Dorner always was a worthless no-good. It wouldn’t surprise me that he covered his harvest with plenty of insurance, and then arranged the snatch so he could collect.”
“That hardly seems likely,” Jack said.
“You asked for my opinion, and I’m giving it to you. The Dorner melons are so inferior we wouldn’t handle them at the cooperative, anyway.”
“I thought their cantaloupes were particularly fine ones,” I protested.
“I don’t know what you two are trying to get at,” Harold Browning said. “The Cooperative does business in a fair and square way. Our books are open for inspection at any time. Now you’ll have to excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”
With a curt nod, he turned on his heel and walked away.
Jack and I lingered for a few minutes, watching the packers. I could not much blame Harold Browning for being angry. Jack’s questions were very pointed, and the man had immediately guessed that his purpose was to uncover facts detrimental to the Cooperative.
“We learned about as much as I expected to,” Jack said with a shrug, as we left the building. “Naturally, one couldn’t hope he’d break down and confess all.”
“What did you really think of him, Jack?”
“Hard to say,” Jack answered. “He’s a rough and ready sort, but that’s not against him. There’s no real reason to believe he’s crooked—just a hunch of mine.”
Jack was assigned to cover a board meeting, so he hurriedly said goodbye to me and gave me a perfunctory peck on the check by way of farewell. So much for a quick canoodle on a country lane.
Left to myself, I dro
ve back toward Greenville. Since I was so near Sam McKee’s place, I decided that I might as well stop for a minute or two.
I had not lost interest in the Moresby clock. Although it seemed reasonable that a faulty mechanism had caused it to strike thirteen, such an explanation did not completely satisfy me. I was eager to learn from the former caretaker if the difficulty was corrected.
I left Bouncing Betsy parked by the main road. The door to the shop was closed and locked. As I raised my fist to pound on the door, I heard a voice inside the building. Although I could not make out the words, I was certain that it was the voice of a child.
“Who is it?” I shouted, then placed my ear against the door.
“Help! Let me out!” came the plaintive cry from inside the shop.
I ran to the window and peered into the dark interior. A little girl, her face streaked with tears and dirt, pounded fiercely on the heavy door. It was Amelia. I could not fathom how she’d come to be locked in Mr. McKee’s shop.
Chapter Thirteen
All the windows and the door of the shop locked, and I did not know how to free the imprisoned child. However, as I considered the problem, Sam McKee appeared on the porch of the cottage.
“Good morning,” he greeted me pleasantly.
“Oh, Mr. McKee,” I said. “Did you know there is a child locked inside your shop?”
“A child? Bless me! How can that be?”
“I don’t understand how she got inside, but she’s there. Officials of the Greenville Orphans’ Home have been searching for Amelia Hanover since last night.”
“Wait until I get my key. I hope you don’t think I locked the child inside the shop intentionally.”
Knowing Mr. McKee as I did, I entertained no such thought. I waved encouragingly to Amelia through the window while I waited for the old man to return.
“I locked the door about eleven o’clock last night,” he explained, fumbling nervously with the key. “The little girl must have stolen in there sometime between six o’clock and that hour.”
The old man’s hand shook so that he could not unlock the door. Taking the key, I did it for him. Amelia, her hair flying wildly about her face, stumbled out of the shop.
Jane Carter Historical Cozies: Omnibus Edition (Six Mystery Novels) Page 64
