“Everything seems to have turned out rather well,” Florence said. “Mr. Bronson may not be such a bad sort, after all.”
Jack, who stood behind me, his hand cupping my elbow, tightened his grip and harrumphed under his breath.
“Don’t you believe it,” I said to Flo. “Bronson is just clever enough never to put himself in a bad light if he can help it. I only hope Mrs. Vanhee didn’t give in to him and sign another check.”
Following the dedication exercises, a portion of the crowd dispersed, but many persons remained to enjoy picnic lunches. Flo, Jack and I were joined by Shep, and we ate our sandwiches in near-silence while we watched the orphans at play.
“The new camp director seems very efficient,” Florence said as she watched the young man who supervised the children.
The camp supervisor announced that he would take several boys and girls for a sail on the river. The boat, a twelve-foot dinghy, was the gift of a well-to-do Greenville department store owner.
Immediately there was a great clamor from the children, everyone wanting to take the first ride.
“Only six may go,” the director said and called off the names.
Jack went off with Shep on some newspaper business, and Flo and I wandered down to the water’s edge to watch the loading of the boat. Amelia was one of the orphans chosen, and we waved reassuringly to her.
The camp director shoved off, and quickly raised the sail. There were squeals of delight from the children as the canvas sail billowed out, causing the craft to heel over slightly.
“It’s quite gusty today,” I said to Flo. “I hope that young man knows what he is doing.”
The boat sailed a diagonal course across the river, turned, and came back on another tack. Then, as the breeze died, it seemed to make no progress at all. Losing interest, Flo and I started to walk on down the shore.
Scarcely had we turned away than we were startled to hear screams from the river. Whirling around, we saw that the camp director was in serious trouble. A sudden puff of wind had caught the boat when it did not have steerage way. Unable to drive ahead, it slowly tilted sideways.
“It’s going over!” Florence screamed.
I had kicked off my shoes. Without waiting for the inevitable capsizing of the craft, I plunged into the river. When my head emerged from the water, I saw the boat on its side. Two children were clinging to it, the camp director was frantically trying to support two others, while another girl and boy struggled wildly to keep from sinking.
When I reached the overturned boat, my first act was to help the camp director who was being strangled by the two children who clung to him. I then seized a struggling boy by the hair and pulled him to safety.
“Amelia,” the camp director gasped. “Get her!”
Amelia had drifted a considerable distance from the boat. I started to swim toward her, but I saw that it would not be necessary. An unshaven man in rough, soiled clothing had emerged from the wooded bank. He dove into the water, seized Amelia, and swam her to shore.
I did not return to the overturned boat, for several men, including Jack and Shep, had waded out to tow it to land. I swam toward Amelia and her rescuer.
The man bore the orphan in his arms to a grassy spot on shore. Stretching her out there, he hesitated an instant, and then before the crowd could surround him, darted quickly away toward the woods.
“Wait!” I shouted, wading through the shallow water.
The man heard me but did not turn back. He entered the forest and disappeared in the underbrush. The man was Sidney Dorner. I was sure of it.
Before I could reach Amelia, other persons had gathered around the child. Clark Bronson pushed through the crowd.
“What is this?” Mr. Bronson demanded. “What has happened?”
As the man knelt over Amelia, the little girl opened her eyes, gazing directly into his face. For a moment she stared at him in a bewildered way. Then, struggling to a sitting position, she pointed an accusing finger.
“You’re the one,” she whispered shakily. “You’re the man whose car killed my Mother and Daddy.”
Chapter Nineteen
Amelia’s accusation brought a murmur of consternation from the crowd. Mr. Bronson, however, seemed undisturbed. Dropping on his knees, he supported Amelia and wrapped his coat about her trembling shoulders.
“There, there, my poor child,” he said soothingly. “You are quite upset, and for good reason.”
“Don’t touch me,” Amelia shivered, cringing away. “You’re mean and cruel!”
By this time, Miss Crismond and other officials of the Greenville Home had reached the scene.
“She doesn’t know what she is saying,” Miss Crismond apologized to Mr. Bronson. “Amelia has been very nervous since she was in an automobile accident.”
“I quite understand,” the real estate man responded. “The child must have a change of clothing, and no doubt, medical care. May I send her to the home in my car?”
“That is very kind of you, I am sure,” Miss Crismond said.
With every appearance of concern, Mr. Bronson picked Amelia up in his arms and carried her away. I was apprehensive about leaving Amelia in Mr. Bronson’s care, but there was nothing I could do to stop him without creating my second scene of the day and besides, I was kept busy helping bundle up the other children who had been rescued from the water. None the worse for the misadventure, they too were taken to Mr. Bronson’s car.
“Here, put on my coat before you freeze,” Florence said anxiously to me after the all the bedraggled children were loaded into Mr. Bronson’s automobile. “We must start home at once.”
“I don’t want to go now!” I protested. “Did you notice that man who pulled Amelia from the water?”
“He looked like a tramp. I wonder what made him run away?”
“Flo, I think that man was Sidney Dorner. I should tell the sheriff, but I can’t bring myself to do it—not after the way he saved Amelia.”
“Never mind all that now,” Jack said, appearing at my side and steering me toward the press car. “You must go home and change your wet clothes.”
“But I want to find Sidney Dorner and talk with him.”
“That will have to wait. You’re going home,” taking me firmly each by an arm, Florence and Jack pushed me into Bouncing Betsy.
“Wait,” I said. “I’ll go home, but only if someone follows Bronson back to the Orphan’s Home and sees that Amelia and the others get safely inside. I don’t trust the man. I know Amelia was overwrought, but—”
“I’ll follow them,” Flo promised. “I won’t let that fancy blue automobile out of my sight. Cross my heart and hope to turn into a bearded lady. Now, let Jack take you home and get you out of those wet clothes.”
Jack was smirking.
“On second thought,” I said, climbing back out of the press car. “I’d rather Flo took me home. Jack, hurry up and follow Mr. Bronson’s car before you lose him.”
At home, I changed my clothes, discussing the day’s events with Flo as I dried my hair.
“Perhaps that child knew what she was talking about,” I said to Florence. “Bronson’s car may have been the one which killed her parents.”
“Oh, Jane, you’re so hopelessly prejudiced against the man.”
“Maybe I am, but Amelia is the only person who can identify the hit-run motorist.”
“Even so, you know she probably is not a reliable witness.”
“I’ll grant that nearly drowning today may have upset her to the point of irrationality,” I conceded. “After she recovers, I’m curious to learn what she’ll have to say.”
The hour was so late that we did not return to the campsite. Florence soon went to her own home, and I was left alone. I restlessly wandered about the house, went out the garage and polished Bouncing Betsy, and fretted because neither my father nor Mrs. Timms came home. At length, for want of another occupation, I motored out to the Greenville Home on the pretext of inquiring about the conditio
n of the children rescued from the water.
“We’re doing just fine,” Miss Crismond assured her. “That is all except Amelia. The child is distraught.”
“Has she said anything more about Mr. Bronson?” I inquired.
“She doesn’t know his name, but she keeps insisting he was the man whose car killed her parents. I never was so mortified in my life as when she made the accusation. Fortunately, Mr. Bronson did not take offense.”
I was eager to talk with Amelia, and Miss Crismond said that I might do so for a few minutes. The little girl was confined to bed but seemed quite content as she played with a new doll.
“Mr. McKee sent me this,” she said, holding it up for me to see. “I’ve named her Imogene.”
Miss Crismond was called to the telephone. During the young woman’s absence, I discreetly questioned Amelia about the motor accident in which her parents had lost their lives. I was worried lest my questions might make the child upset again, but to my relief, Amelia answered matter-of-factly.
“No one will believe me,” the little girl said. “Just the same, that man I saw today was the one who ran into my Daddy’s car. He had a big, gray automobile with a horn on it that played a tune.”
“A gray car? I’m quite sure Mr. Bronson’s sedan is dark blue. You were taken home in his automobile this afternoon, Amelia.”
“It wasn’t that car,” the child answered. “He must have another one.”
Miss Crismond came back in, so I asked no more questions. After leaving the Home, I motored back toward the campsite by the river. A conviction was growing upon me that Clark Bronson could have been the hit-and-run driver. Even if he wasn’t presently in possession of a gray car, that proved nothing. He easily could have changed it during the past year.
I thought I might find Dad or some of the camp board officials still at the river. However, the grounds appeared deserted. Paper plates, napkins and newspapers were blown helter-skelter by the wind. Picnic tables still held the unsightly remains of lunches. The speakers’ platform was torn down, and even the tents were gone. It was not planned to make practical use of the grounds until more work was done.
I was about to leave when I noticed a lone man near one of the picnic tables. He was dressed in rough, wrinkled clothing, and seemed to be scavenging the leftovers from the picnic. It must be the same man who pulled Amelia from the water.
I moved toward him, but hearing footsteps, the man turned and saw me. He started for the woods.
“Wait!” I shouted. “I won’t turn you over to the police. Please wait.”
The man hesitated and then deciding that he had nothing to fear from me, paused.
“I want to thank you for saving Amelia,” I said. “Why did you run away like that?”
“Well, I don’t know,” the man answered, avoiding my eyes. “I never much liked crowds.”
I decided to risk a direct accusation. “You’re Sidney Dorner,” I said.
“That’s a laugh,” the man said, edging away. “My name is Thomas Ryan.”
“Please don’t run away again,” I pleaded. “If you are Sidney Dorner, and I’m sure you are, I want to help you.”
“How could you help me?”
“By exposing the men who framed you. I never believed that you set fire to the Franklin barn.”
“I never did.”
“Please tell me about it,” I said and sat down at one of the picnic tables.
“Who are you, anyhow?” the man asked. “Why should you be so willing to help me, as you say?”
“I’m Jane Carter, Anthony Fielding’s daughter. My father publishes the Greenville Examiner.”
“Oh, I see, you’re after a story.”
“No, that part is only incidental,” I said. “What my father really wants to do is to expose the Black-Hooded Hoodlums and drive them out of existence. You’re the one person who might be able to provide evidence which would convict the guilty parties.”
“I could tell plenty if I was a mind to do it. No one would believe me though.”
“I will, Mr. Dorner.”
“I was in the notion of going to the Grand Jury at one time,” the man said slowly. “That’s what brought on all my trouble. If I’d had sense enough to have kept my mouth shut, I wouldn’t be a fugitive now.”
“What connection did you have with the Hoodlums? Were you a member of the organization?”
“Yes, I was,” the man admitted reluctantly. “I didn’t know much about the Hoodlums when I joined ’em. Then I tried to drop out, and that’s what turned ’em against me.”
“Suppose you tell me all about it. What is the real purpose of the organization?”
“Well, it started out as just a bunch of the boys getting together to drink bootleg liquor and tell bawdy stories. You know, get away from all the womenfolk for a while. But then things changed. Right now, the Hoodlums are trying to force every truck farmer in this district to join the County Cooperative.”
“Then Harold Browning must be the ringleader.”
“No, Harold Browning is not at the head of the Hoodlums,” Sidney Dorner said.
“Who is the man?”
Sidney Dorner started to speak, then hesitated. An automobile had driven into the parking area only a few rods away. Several workmen who were assigned to clean up the grounds got out.
“They’re coming this way,” Sidney Dorner said uneasily. “I can’t risk being seen.”
He started toward the sheltering trees.
“Wait,” I pleaded, pursuing him. “You haven’t told me half enough. Please wait!”
“I’m not going to risk arrest.”
“At least meet me here again.”
“Okay, I’ll do that,” Sidney Dorner agreed.
“Tomorrow night just at dusk,” I said quickly. “And please don’t fail me. I promise. I’ll help you.”
Chapter Twenty
After Sidney Dorner had disappeared into the woods, I wasted no more time at the campgrounds. I drove home in a daze of excitement, to tell my father the amazing story.
“Meeting that man was wonderful luck!” I told Dad. “If only he reveals what he knows, we will get an exclusive story for the Examiner. We’ll expose the Hoodlums and put an end to the organization.”
“As easy as that?” my father laughed. “Seriously though, I think we are on the verge of cracking the story. In going over the books of the County Cooperative, Jack has discovered any number of discrepancies.”
“I’ve always thought that Harold Browning might be connected with the Hoodlums, Dad. I believe he was the night rider who made off with Mrs. Dorner’ melons.”
“Any idea who the other members of the outfit may be?”
“Not yet, but I expect to find out when I meet Sidney Dorner tomorrow.”
“I’ll go with you,” my father said. “Maybe I should take Sheriff Daniels along, too.”
“Oh, Dad,” I protested. “I promised to help Sidney, not turn him over to an officer. I am afraid that unless I go alone, he’ll not even show himself.”
“At least take Jack along, then,” my father insisted.
“A reporter? Not on your life, Dad.”
“I wasn’t thinking of sending Jack in the capacity of a reporter,” my father said. “I was thinking of dispatching my daughter’s fella to keep watch over her as she meets with a strange man in a deserted location.”
“Is Jack my fella?” I asked.
“If he’s not your fella,” Dad persisted like a dog with a bone, “then he must be your fiancé.”
“Jack is most certainly not my fiancé,” I insisted. “Not by a mile.”
Dad just looked at me speculatively and let it go. The truth is that Jack could propose any day now. He’s a proposing, happily-ever-after, let’s grow old together kind of man. I’m terribly fond of Old Jack. I’ll even admit to finding him terrific at kissing (and austensibly terrific at whatever traditionally follows on the heels of kissing, although I’ve been vigilant not to let anythi
ng in the nature of hanky-panky get too far out of hand). The problem is that I’m not entirely confident that I’m a happily-ever-after, let’s grow old together kind of woman.
The problem with the whole let’s-grow-old-together plan is that sometimes, through no fault of their own, one of the parties who signed on to the contract breeches it by shuffling off this mortal coil far before the growing old together state.
That’s what happened to my first husband, Thomas, who was also a reporter. While in hot pursuit of a scoop, Thomas got in between a mafia hitman’s bullet and it’s intended target and left me a widow at the ripe old age of twenty-one. I’m not saying that Jack would do the same, but journalism isn’t the safest of professions.
“Perhaps, it would be best for you to go by yourself,” Dad relented. “Sidney Dorner hardly strikes me as the violent type. I did a bit of checking around on him, and the unanimous opinion of everyone who knows him is that he’s a kind and honest man. A bit gruff and taciturn, but generous to a fault. Learn what you can from Dorner and make an appointment for him to see me.”
Another matter weighed heavily on my mind. I had acted in an impulsive and high-handed manner that morning, and sooner or later my father must hear about the check episode. Better from me than someone else.
“Dad, I have a confession to make,” I began awkwardly. “When I reached the camp this morning I found that Mr. Bronson had induced the board members to buy the property—”
“Never mind,” My father interrupted. “I’ve already heard the details of your disgraceful actions from Mrs. Vanhee.”
“I’m thoroughly ashamed of myself,” I said contritely. “I tore up the check on the spur of the moment.”
“It was a foolish, rather dramatic thing to do. However, I must acknowledge the result was highly pleasing to everyone save Clark Bronson.”
“What does he have to say, Dad?”
Jane Carter Historical Cozies: Omnibus Edition (Six Mystery Novels) Page 68
