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

by Alice Simpson

  When I arrived home, I found my father waiting up for me. He had attended a meeting of the Camp Fund board that evening, and upon returning at eleven-thirty, was disturbed to find me still out.

  I greeted him before he could speak. “I know you must have been worried, but I can explain everything.”

  “You’re always able to explain—too well,” Dad responded dryly. “Mrs. Timms expected that you would be home not later than eleven o’clock.”

  “Well, one thing just seemed to lead to another, Dad. Florence and I saw a wonderful show, I obtained a copy of Seth Burrows’ signature, and then to top it off, the Moresby clock struck thirteen again.”

  “Which in your estimation explains everything?”

  “I wish it did,” I said, neatly changing the subject. “Dad, Florence and I saw a number of men going into the tower tonight. They were summoned there by the striking of the clock.”

  “Tommyrot.”

  “Oh, Dad, you haven’t a scrap of imagination,” I said. “Has it never occurred to you that Clarence Fitzpatrick may be connected with the Hoodlums?”

  “Never, and, if I were you, I shouldn’t go around making such wild suggestions. You might find yourself involved in serious trouble.”

  “You’re the only one to whom I’ve confided my theory, Dad. In fact, it only this minute occurred to me.”

  “So, I thought, Jane. If I were you, I would forget the Moresby clock. Why not devote yourself to something worthwhile?”

  “For instance?”

  “I’ll provide an interesting job. I’ve been asked to select play equipment for the new orphans’ camp. I’ll be happy to turn the task over to you. You can learn from the matron of the home what is needed, and then make your selection.”

  “I’ll be glad to do it, Dad. When is the camp to open?”

  “The actual date hasn’t been set, but it will be soon. That is, unless a serious disagreement arises about the campsite.”

  “A disagreement?”

  “Yes, Mr. Bronson is trying to influence the board to buy a tract of land which he controls.”

  “At a very high price?”

  “No, the price seems to be fair enough. I personally don’t care for the site, however. It’s located on the river, but too close to the swamp.”

  “Then why does the board consider it?”

  “Mr. Bronson gave a very generous donation, you remember. I figured at the time he would expect something in return.”

  “He’ll profit by the sale?”

  “I don’t know who owns the land, but Bronson will receive a commission on the sale. The board also is considering a wooded property closer to Greenville, and I favor that site.”

  “Will the board listen to you, Dad?”

  “I rather doubt it. My objections weren’t especially vigorous. Either property will be satisfactory, and Bronson’s price is a trifle more attractive.”

  My father yawned, then got up and locked the front door.

  “It’s after one,” he said. “Let’s get to bed.”

  I started up the stairway, only to pause as the telephone rang. While my father answered it, I waited, curious to learn who would be calling at such a late hour. In a moment he replaced the receiver on its hook.

  “That was the night editor of the Examiner,” he explained briefly.

  “Has a big story broken, Dad?”

  “Another storage barn was burned to the ground about ten minutes ago. The night editor called to ask how I wanted the story handled.”

  “It was done by the Hoodlums!”

  “It looks that way.”

  I came slowly down the stairway to face my father.

  “Dad, if the fire was set only a few minutes ago, doesn’t that support my theory?”

  “Which theory? You have so many.”

  “I mean about the Moresby Tower,” I said soberly. “The clock struck thirteen on the night the Franklin barn was destroyed. Don’t you see, Dad? The Hoodlums hold their meetings and then ride forth to accomplish their underhanded work.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Jane, let’s postpone this animated discussion until morning,” my father said wearily, reaching to switch out the light.

  “Then you don’t agree with me that the caretaker of the tower may have some connection with the Hoodlums, Dad?”

  “I certainly do not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to bed.”

  I followed my father upstairs. For several minutes I stood by the window in my bedroom, looking toward the Moresby Tower. Then, with a shrug, I too dismissed the subject from my mind and gave myself over to slumber.

  My father had gone to the office by the time I got up the next morning. I eagerly scanned the newspaper he’d left by his plate for an account of the midnight fire. To my disappointment, only a brief item appeared on the front page. The story merely said that the barn of Thomas Hancock, truck farmer, had been destroyed by a blaze of unknown origin. In the right-hand column was another news item to the effect that Sheriff Daniels had made no progress in tracing the missing Sidney Dorner.

  I tossed aside the paper and helped Mrs. Timms with the breakfast dishes.

  “I’m expected outfit the playground for the Greenville Orphans’ new camp,” I told our housekeeper. “I’ll be making another trip to Clackston today to look at equipment.”

  My next move was to induce Florence to accompany me on the excursion.

  “I can come with you,” Flo agreed, “but only if I’m home by nine. Mrs. Pruitt has set in motion a whisper campaign that Mother is suffering from a difficult ‘time of life’ and isn’t the woman she once was. After the Ladies’ Aid Society Meeting Mother is sure to be in quite a state. I’ll need to be on hand to talk her down from throwing in the towel and resigning all her positions just to prove how indispensable she is to the life of the community.”

  “Is your mother suffering from a difficult ‘time of life’?” I asked.

  “Every time of life with my mother has been difficult. The main thing is that she must not be allowed to resign her positions.”

  “Why not?”

  “I fear the community might find they can do perfectly fine without her.”

  “Would that really be so bad?”

  “If Mother no longer expends all her considerable energy on keeping the community organized, she’ll have nothing to do but keep Father and me toeing the mark and up to scratch.” Flo shuddered a little at the thought. “I can cope,” she continued. “Mother’s been organizing me since birth, but Father—he’s the sort who only thrives in an atmosphere of benign neglect. I fear having Mother home all day long hovering over him would send him to an early grave.”

  Before heading to Clackston, Flo and I called at the Greenville Orphans’ Home to talk with the matron. There I obtained a list of playground equipment to be purchased, with suggested prices for each item.

  As we were leaving the institution, we met Miss Crismond, and I paused to inquire after Amelia.

  “The child seems to be nervous and unhappy,” Miss Crismond told us. “Especially so since she ran away. We sincerely hope she will presently become adjusted.”

  I asked if there was any prospect the little girl would be adopted.

  “Not very soon,” Miss Crismond answered. “In fact, her name is not on the list of eligibles. We never allow a child to leave the Home until we feel that he or she is capable of adapting to new conditions.”

  The drive to Clackston was an enjoyable one, and by eleven o’clock, we had purchased many of the items on our list. To the amusement of the department store salesman, Flo and I insisted upon personally testing the teeter-totters, swings, and even the slides.

  “All this equipment is for the Greenville Orphans’ Home—not for ourselves,” I explained. “The committee will pay for it.”

  “Very well, we’ll send the merchandise just as soon as a check is received,” the salesman promised as he handed me the itemized bill.

  I felt very well satisfie
d with our purchases. Florence and I wandered into another department of the store. The delightful aroma of food drew us to a lunch counter, and from there we went to the main floor.

  The store was very crowded. As I was inspecting a pair of gloves—a possible birthday gift for Mrs. Timms—on a counter, a man pushed past me and ran toward the nearest exit. I turned around to watch him, unintentionally blocking the way of a store detective. The store detective shoved past me in pursuit of the man, only to lose him in the milling crowd near the front door.

  “That fellow must have been a shoplifter,” I said to Florence. “I think he got away, too.”

  The unexpected commotion had drawn a great deal of attention. I heard a woman tell her companion that the man who had escaped was wanted for attempting to pass a forged check.

  A moment later the store detective came striding down the aisle. He paused at the jewelry counter as he spoke to the floorman.

  “Well, the fellow escaped,” the detective said. “He tried to pass a bum check for fifty dollars.”

  “What name did he use?” the floorman inquired.

  “Seth Burrows. It will be something else next time.”

  I scurried to the detective’s side.

  “Excuse me,” I addressed him, “did I understand you to say that a man by the name of Seth Burrows forged a check?”

  “That’s correct, ma’am,” the detective answered. “Know anything about the man?”

  “I think I may. Would it be possible for me to see the check?”

  The detective removed it from his vest pocket, offering the signature for inspection. One glance satisfied me that the check was signed by the same man who had been sending my father crank messages.

  “At home, I have a telegram which I’m sure bears this identical signature,” I told the detective. “I’ve never seen the man though—except as he ran through the store.”

  The store detective questioned me at length about my knowledge of Burrows. Then he showed me a photograph of the man in question.

  “This is Seth Burrows. He’s an expert forger and uses a great many aliases. Think you can remember his face?”

  “I’ll try to,” I said. “He doesn’t seem to have any distinguishing features, though.”

  “His angular jaw is rather noticeable,” the detective pointed out. “Brown eyes are set fairly close together. He’s about six feet two and dresses well.”

  I was highly elated to have gained a description of Burrows and especially pleased that the man had been traced to Clackston. The fact that he was a known forger encouraged me to hope that police soon would apprehend him.

  “That one hundred dollars Dad offered for Burrows’ capture is as good as mine already,” I boasted gleefully to Florence as we left the store. “All I need to do is wait.”

  “No doubt you’ll collect,” Florence said. “I never met anyone with your brand of luck.”

  “I feel especially lucky today, too. Let’s make another tour of the vegetable markets.”

  “It will make us late in getting home. The time is sure to be wasted, too.”

  “Oh, come along,” I urged, seizing her by the arm. “I promise to have you in Greenville no later than three o’clock, in plenty of time to steel yourself to the task of talking your mother out of depriving the clubs of Greenville of her considerable drive and determination.”

  While driving into Clackston that morning I had noticed a large outdoor market near the outskirts of the city. Returning to it, I parked Bouncing Betsy and wandered about stalls with Flo.

  “A nice fat chicken?” a farm woman asked persuasively, holding up an uninviting specimen. “Fresh eggs?”

  “We’re looking for melons,” I told her.

  “Mr. Throckmorton has some nice cantaloupes,” the woman said. “He got a truckload of ’em in from Greenville just the other day.”

  We found Mr. Throckmorton’s stall easily, and Florence and I began to inspect the melons offered for sale. Almost at once, we came upon a basket of cantaloupes which bore a blurred stamp.

  “Florence, these look like the Dorner crop,” I said quietly to Flo. “Wouldn’t you say someone deliberately had blocked out the old marking?”

  “It does appear that way.”

  “Maybe we can find just one melon with the original stamp.”

  I dug into the basket with both hands, tossing up cantaloupes for Florence to place on the ground. This immediately drew the attention and displeasure of Mr. Throckmorton.

  “If you’re looking for a good melon, let me help you,” he said, hurrying toward us.

  I straightened, holding up a cantaloupe for him to see.

  “I don’t need any help,” I said. “I’ve found the melon I want. It bears the Dorner stamp.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “The melon you have selected is a very good one,” Mr. Throckmorton said, oblivious to the significance of my remark. “Shall I put it in a sack for you?”

  “I’m not interested in the melon—only in the stamp,” I replied. “Do you realize that you may be liable to arrest?”

  “What d’you mean, liable to arrest?” the man demanded. “I’m an honest dealer, and I have a license.”

  “Look at these melons.” I held up one which bore the blurred stamp. “The trade name has been altered.”

  Mr. Throckmorton took the cantaloupe from my hands and examined it. I then offered him the single melon bearing the Dorner stamp.

  “Well, what about it?” he asked.

  “A few nights ago, a truckload of melons like these was stolen from the Dorner farm near Greenville. The thief was trailed right to this city,” I told him.

  “You’re trying to say that I sell stolen melons?”

  “I’m not making any direct accusations. No doubt you can explain where you got the melons.”

  “Certainly, I can. I bought a truckload of them from a farmer named Thomas Tripp. The melons were good, the price cheap, and I didn’t pay any attention to the stamp.”

  “Is Mr. Tripp a regular dealer?”

  “I buy from him now and again, when his prices are right. I never bothered to ask any questions.”

  “Where does the man live?”

  “I don’t know. He’s a large, heavyset fellow with brown hair and eyes.”

  The description was too meager to be of value to me.

  “Does Mr. Tripp drive a red truck?” I asked.

  “He did this last time.”

  “It was a red truck which was stolen from the Dorner farm,” I said. “I’m sure these melons came from there, too.”

  “I paid good money for them,” Mr. Throckmorton insisted. “So far as I knew, those melons belonged to this fellow Tripp. I can’t investigate every farmer who offers me produce just in case he might be trying to pass off stolen goods.”

  “All the same, you could get into serious trouble for selling stolen produce. Of course, I have no intention of going to the police, providing you are willing to cooperate.”

  “What d’you mean, cooperate?”

  “When will you see Thomas Tripp again?”

  “That’s hard to tell. He said he might bring in another load of melons within the next few days.”

  “When you receive the next shipment, will you notify me?”

  “Yes, I’m willing to do that,” the dealer promised. “If Tripp is crooked, I want to know it myself.”

  I gave the man my name, address, and telephone number. I instructed him to inform me a quickly as possible and to detain the farmer by force if necessary.

  “If I can’t get in touch with you, I may have the fellow questioned by police,” Mr. Throckmorton said. “I don’t want to put myself into a hole.”

  I was not entirely satisfied that the market man would keep his promise. However, I hesitated to make a report to the police prematurely. Everything considered it seemed best to let the situation work out as it would.

  “Well, your luck is still running true to form,” Florence said, as we drove tow
ard Greenville. “Do you have any idea who Thomas Tripp may be?”

  “Not the slightest,” I confessed. “The description would fit Harold Browning, or for that matter, any one of a dozen men I know.”

  We arrived in Greenville by mid-afternoon after an uneventful trip. I dropped Florence at the Radcliff home and then went to the Examiner office to talk with my father. My father was absent from his desk, but his secretary, who was typing letters, explained that he would return at any moment.

  I sat down in my father’s chair to wait. A bulky, unsealed envelope lay on the desk.

  “Property Deed: Lots 456, 457, and 458,” I read aloud. “What’s this? Is Dad buying property?”

  “Oh, no,” the secretary replied, glancing up from her typewriter. “That is the deed and abstract for the orphans’ campsite.”

  “I wonder which property it is?”

  “The land Mr. Bronson controls, I believe. At least he brought the papers into the office this morning for your father’s inspection. I heard him say that if the forms are satisfactory, the deal will be completed at once.”

  I unfolded one of the lengthy documents and scanned the legal terms.

  “I don’t see how Dad makes anything of this,” I said. “Such a mess of words and names.”

  “I imagine your father intends to turn it over to his lawyer.”

  Dad entered the office at that moment.

  “Dad, is it all settled that the camp board will purchase Mr. Bronson’s land?”

  “Practically so, if my lawyer, Mr. Adams, approves the abstract, the deal will be completed. Against my advice, Mrs. Vanhee has given Bronson five hundred dollars to hold an option.”

  “Why did she do that, Dad?”

  “Well, Bronson convinced her he had another buyer for the property. It’s the old story. Competition stimulates interest.”

  “Do the papers seem to be all right?”

  “Oh, I’ve not looked at them,” my father replied. “Bronson is a good real estate man though, so there’s not likely to be any flaw.”

  “Who actually owns the property, Dad?”

  “It’s there on the abstract,” he answered. “Why not look it up for yourself?”