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

by Alice Simpson

  “What you propose is out of the question,” Dad said. “Even so, I’ll admit that I find your idea rather intriguing.”

  “This is no time for being conservative, Dad. The Black-Hooded Hoodlums must know you are out to break up their organization. Every day you wait lessens your chance of getting the story.”

  “I realize that only too well, I. I pinned quite a bit of hope on Sidney Dorner. His failure to appear puts everything in a different light.”

  “Why not test what he told us?” I argued. “It will be easy to learn if the striking of the clock is a signal to call the Hoodlums meeting. If the men should come, we’ll have them arrested, and run a big story tomorrow morning.”

  “Coming from your lips, it sounds so very simple. Has it occurred to you that if we fail, we’ll probably breakfast at the city jail?”

  My father sat for several minutes lost in thought.

  “You know, I’ve always been lucky,” I coaxed. “I feel a double dose of it coming on tonight.”

  “I believe in hunches myself. No doubt I’m making the biggest mistake of my life, but I’m going to try your wild scheme. Crazy as it is, it may just work.”

  At the Examiner office, my father hastily summoned a special staff meeting, warning a select group of reporters to hold themselves in readiness to get out a special edition on short notice. From this group, he chose Shep Murphy, Jack Bancroft, and two other reporters known for their pugilistic prowess.

  “Now this is the lineup, boys,” my father said. “We’re going to have to lure Clarence Fitzpatrick from the tower.”

  Shep asked just how Dad intended to accomplish that difficult task.

  “Jane has that end of things under control,” my father said. “However, even once Fitzpatrick is out of the way, it’s risky business unless things break right for us, so if any of you want to drop out now, this is your chance.”

  It was well after eleven o’clock by the time the overloaded press car drew up not far from the Moresby Tower. I parked Bouncing Betsy on a dark side street, and Jack was sent to look over the situation. Soon he returned with his report.

  “Clarence Fitzpatrick is alone in the tower,” he assured me.

  I tightened my grip on the carpet bag which contained my cosh, a small hammer, and a whiskey bottle—recently drained of its contents by the now temporarily teetotal Reverend Sidney Radcliff—which I’d refilled with a cup or so of water. I was counting on enough of the whiskey residue remaining to make my ruse believable. Judging by the aroma emanating from my carpet bag, the bottle still smelled of convincingly of whiskey.

  I had already pulled the top of my dress askew, mussed my hair—even beyond its usual disreputable state—and rouged my face to a realistically inebriated glow.

  Dorner had intimated that Clarence Fitzpatrick had a weakness for bootleg liqueur and bawdy jokes. The punchline on this particular joke was going to be a real letdown for Mr. Fitzpatrick, but at least the first few lines would contain his favorite elements.

  I slipped the small hammer and my cosh into the pockets of my light coat, uncapped the whiskey bottle and gripped it by the neck. I then lurched from the shadows singing, “Bye, Bye Blackbird” at the top of my lungs.

  When I reached the door of the tower, instead of knocking, I simply fell against the door with a thud.

  I then hastily righted myself and continued singing.

  “Want a wee tipple?” I said, slurring my words together, as soon as Mr. Fitzpatrick opened the door.

  Clarence Fitzpatrick looked at me wide-eyed.

  “I’ll share,” I said. “But you’ll have to catch me first.”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, young lady,” said the suddenly virtuous Mr. Fitzpatrick.

  “Should I? Why?”

  “You’re sozzled.”

  “Am I?”

  I giggled. The clock-keeper goggled.

  “I hate to drink alone,” I slurred, and lurched past Mr. Fitzpatrick and into his living room.

  “Listen!” I said.

  The clock had begun to strike the hour of midnight.

  “I want to see the big bell go ding-dong, ding-dong.” It was laying the Dumb Dora act on a bit thick, but Mr. Fitzpatrick seemed to be falling for it.

  “Come on, Fitzy,” I giggled again and stumbled a bit for effect, then lurched up the stairs to the top of the bell tower as fast as my simulated sozzledness would allow.

  When I reached the top, the bell was striking ten. I was running out of time. Fitzpatrick was on my heels, three steps below me.

  “Catch!” I said, tossing the open whiskey bottle at the pursuing man.

  I had counted on him being loath to let good liquor go to waste, and I had been accurate in my prediction.

  As he fumbled to catch the bottle and the clock struck eleven, I took both the hammer and the cosh out of my pockets and held them behind my back, prepared to either strike the bell the thirteenth time with a hammer, or Mr. Clarence Fitzpatrick’s bald pate with my cosh, whichever became necessary first.

  It was just as the clock struck the twelfth and final time, that the door at the bottom of the stairs clanged shut.

  “What was that?” Fitzy asked.

  It was Jack if things were going according to plan, but I giggled and said, “Probably a ghost.”

  Clarence started down the stairs to investigate, and I raised my hammer and brought it down with all my strength on the big brass bell, making the final and thirteenth strike.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  To my sensitive ears, the sound which resulted from my blow to the bell seemed weak and lacked resonance. I sagged back against the iron railing, feeling that I had failed.

  “That was a pippin,” a low voice said in my ear. “A perfect thirteenth stroke.”

  Turning around, I saw that Jack Bancroft had followed me into the belfry. He must have sneaked up when Fitzpatrick went down to investigate the source of the closing door.

  “Did it really sound all right?” I asked him.

  “It was good enough to fool anyone. But the question is, will it bring the Black-Hooded Hoodlums out in force?”

  Jack and I crept back down the circular stairway. The room below was empty, the front door stood ajar. We left it that way.

  Jack went and pulled down the blinds at the large circular window almost all the way down, but leaving a sliver uncovered at the bottom so that anyone without could peer in without being easily detected.

  “How about the lights?” I asked.

  “Leave them on,” Jack said. “Now that everything’s set let’s get back up on the stairs.”

  “Are you sure old Fitzy fell for it?” I whispered to Jack. “We can’t have him coming back and finding us both here.”

  I reached up to smooth my hair and straightened my clothing.

  “I’m confident that Mr. Fitzpatrick is now safely locked in the tool shed at the edge of the property. Shep rattled some old buckets and such from behind the shed, I’m sure Mr. Fitzpatrick was sure he was being burgled. Then when old Fitzy went in to investigate what was going on in the shed, I imagine that there was an unfortunate gust of wind.”

  “It’s very still this evening,” I pointed out.

  “Still, I’m sure there was a freak gust at the very moment that Mr. Fitzpatrick stepped inside the toolshed.”

  “And this freak gust of wind closed the door?” I asked.

  “Undoubtedly. Locked it from the outside, as well.”

  “That is mighty unfortunate,” I said. “First, Mr. Fitzpatrick must deal with a drunk and disorderly, and then he is assailed by burglars. He really is finding himself beset by criminal types.”

  “Let’s hope the trend continues,” Jack said. “Your father and the others are stationed around the tower behind various bushes and things, but all this cloak and dagger stuff will be wasted effort if the boys in black hoods don’t show up.”

  We waited for twenty minutes in virtual silence. It would have been an ideal time for
a little canoodling, but we were both too on edge to even entertain the thought.

  We finally went back up to the belfry for a better vantage point.

  “See anyone?” I whispered, scanning the street below.

  “No sign of anyone yet.”

  Several automobiles had driven past the tower, but presently one drew up not far from the building. The driver got out of the car and walked toward the Moresby Tower.

  “Who is he?” Jack whispered. “Can you tell?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said uncertainly. “It may be Harold Browning.”

  As the man stepped into the light that illuminated the entrance to the tower, it became certain that my identification was correct. The man rapped on the door several times. When he received no answer, he went in anyway.

  “Clarence! Where are you?” I heard him call out from the room below.

  After that there was silence, but no one exited the tower, so I presumed that Mr. Browning had decided to wait.

  Soon, two other men approached the tower. I recognized one of them as a workman who had sorted melons at the Dorner farm, but his companion was unknown to me. They entered the building without bothering to knock.

  “Where’s Clarence?” I heard one of the men ask.

  “That’s what I was wondering,” Harold Browning replied. “For that matter, I can’t figure out why this special meeting was called. Something important must have come up.”

  Within ten minutes, three other men arrived. Jack was able to identify two of them by name, but we had no way of relaying the information to Dad, who remained somewhere outside the tower, waiting for the critical moment to summon the police, should the Hoodlums make a move to do anything more sinister than swig bootleg liqueur and tell bawdy stories.

  I wondered how Mr. Fitzpatrick was getting on in the tool shed with nothing but a whiskey bottle full of water for company.

  “What’s to keep Mr. Fitzpatrick from raising a hue and cry from the toolshed?” I whispered to Jack.

  “We’re counting on it being far enough from both the street and the tower that any shouts he makes from there won’t be heard,” Jack whispered back. Besides, that shed is built from the same stone as the tower, and the wooden door must be at least six inches thick.”

  The men downstairs had resumed talking.

  “There’s something mighty strange about this meeting,” Harold Browning growled. “Where is the Master? And what’s become of Clarence?”

  I heard footsteps in the room below and the squeak of poorly maintained hinges as the massive front door swung open again. At the same time, I saw a dark figure move swiftly along the hedge, crouching low.

  “Who’s there?” Harold called out.

  “Quiet, you fool.”

  The man wearing a dark robe and a black hood which completely hid his face brushed past Browning and entered the tower.

  “Close the door,” I heard him order.

  I heard the door swing shut again and then a tense silence had fallen upon the men gathered in the room.

  “Now what is the meaning of this? Who called this meeting?”

  “Didn’t you?” I heard Browning answer.

  “I did not.”

  “All I know is that I heard the clock strike an extra stroke,” Browning explained. “I thought it was strange to be having another meeting so soon. Then I found Clarence wasn’t here—”

  “Clarence not here?”

  “He must have stepped out somewhere. The lights were on, and the door partly open.”

  “I don’t like this,” the Master said. “Clarence has no right to call a meeting without a special order from me. It is becoming increasingly dangerous for us to gather here.”

  The Master’s voice sounded very familiar, but I couldn’t yet place who it belonged to.

  “Now you’re talking,” another voice said. “Anthony Fielding of the Greenville Examiner is on the warpath again. One of his reporters has been prying into the books of the County Cooperative.”

  “He’ll learn nothing from that source, I trust.”

  “Not enough to do any harm.”

  “You act as though you had a grievance, Browning. Any complaints?”

  “No, the Cooperative has made a lot of money since you’ve taken over. We want to go along with you if your flair for the dramatic doesn’t get us in too deep.”

  “What do you mean by that, Browning?”

  “This night riding business is getting risky. If Sidney Dorner should talk—”

  “We’re not through with him yet. He won’t dare breath a word when we’re done with him. Neither will that meddling wife of his.”

  “Another thing, most of us never did approve of holding meetings here at the tower,” Harold Browning went on. “It’s too public a place, and sooner or later someone will start asking questions about what goes on here.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, we think you ought to show yourself—let us know who you are. We’re all in this together, and we ought to take the same risks. I’ve been carrying the heavy end.”

  “That settles it!” said the voice I presumed belonged to the hooded man. “We’re through.”

  “How do you mean?” Browning asked.

  “We’re breaking up the organization—now—tonight.”

  “There’s no call to do that.”

  “Browning, you do a lot of talking and not much thinking,” the other snapped. “This will be our last meeting. We’ll divide the profits, and for a time at least, remain inactive.”

  “That’s all very well for you,” Browning complained. “You step out of it without anyone even knowing who you are. But some of us are tied up with the County Cooperative. If there’s any investigation, we’ll take the rap.”

  “There will be no investigation.”

  “That’s easy to say,” Browning argued. “I don’t like the way things have been going lately. If we’re breaking up, we have a right to know who you are.”

  “Sure,” chimed in another here-to-fore silent voice. “Remove your mask, and let’s have a look. We think we have your number, but we ain’t positive.”

  During this exchange, the voices had been rising, and under the cover of the argument, Jack and I had crept down the stairs until we were overlooking the room below while huddled in the concealing shadows.

  “You never will be sure of my identity.” The hooded man was backing toward the door. “And now, goodnight.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Browning cried, trying to head him off.

  “Stand back!” ordered the Master as he whipped out a revolver from beneath his robes.

  “All right,” Browning sneered. “I never argue when I’m looking into a muzzle.”

  During this dramatic scene, I’d been battling a tickle in my nose, and it was during this decisive moment that I lost the war.

  “ACHOO!”

  “Someone is hiding up the stairs!” Browning exclaimed.

  Startled, the Master postponed his flight. Still holding the revolver, he started to ascend the stairs.

  “Come on, Chief!” whispered Jack. “Now would be the ideal time to send in the boys in blue.”

  We didn’t get the boys in blue, but just when I was considering hurling my cosh at Browning in an attempt to knock the revolver out of his hand, my father, Shep and the two other reporters burst in the entrance door to the tower. They must have been listening at the window and concluded that there was no time to wait for the police. I couldn’t have agreed more heartily.

  The four of them, joined by Jack, hurled themselves on Browning and the masked man. Catching the latter unaware, Jack knocked the revolver from his hand, and it went spinning over the floor.

  I darted down the stairs and picked up the revolver.

  “Stay where you are!” I shouted, clutching the revolver in my hand, but no one was listening.

  We outnumbered our opponents by one man, but the Hoodlums were all strong, powerful fellows who fought desperately. A ch
air crashed against the lamp, shattering it. In the resulting darkness, I no longer could see what was happening. I felt my way to the door and stood just inside pressed against the wall, still clutching the revolver.

  Suddenly a figure broke away from the general tangle of bodies and darted toward the doorway. For a moment I believed that he must be one of the newspaper boys, but then I saw that the man wore a hood over his face.

  Chills raced up my spine. He was trying to get away, and I was the only one who could stop him.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  As the black-robed man started through the door, I attempted to block his path. Failing to trip him, I seized his arms and thrust the point of the revolver into his side.

  He became instantly still, and I thought I had succeeded in frightening him sufficiently to arrest his flight, then he abruptly gave me a hard push.

  The hooded man easily outweighed me by a hundred pounds. The revolver, which fortunately did not discharge, fell to the floor with a clatter.

  I clung tightly to the man and struggled to reach the hood which covered his face.

  The man jerked free and darted down the stone steps. Pursuing him, I was able to seize the long flowing black robe, only to have it tear loose in my hands.

  It was time for desperate measures, I decided. I abhor violence in all its forms, but there is a time and a season for everything in this life, and, at this particular moment, it was time to put the cosh in my pocket to work.

  I gripped the cosh firmly in my right hand, leaped forward and caught the man in the jaw with a sharp upward swing.

  The man fell in a heap at the base of the steps. For a few seconds he remained motionless, but as I watched, he slowly stumbled to his feet and staggered off.

  Before the man ducked behind the high hedge surrounding the tower, I saw him plainly silhouetted in the moonlight. Although his black hood remained in place, his body no longer was covered by the dark robe.

  Even with his mask on, I was sure who the man was.

  I raised a hue and cry, shouting that the Master of the Hoodlums had escaped. By this time, my father’s crew of reporters had gained the upper hand of the remaining members of the organization.