A Country Catastrophe: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Five) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 5)

by Alice Simpson

  “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 condition 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 anything 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?”

  “He claims that he acted in good faith for Seth Burrows. Likewise, that he had no suspicion the title was faulty.”

  “Naturally, he would take such an attitude.”

  “I’ve asked Bronson to produce Seth Burrows,” my father said. “Unless he can do so and prove that the property is owned by him, the deal is off.”

  “Do you think Bronson will bring the man to Greenville?”

  “I doubt it very much,” Dad said. “I suspect he’ll bluff, and finally let the deal go by default. It will be an easy way out for him.”

  “Bronson always seems to escape his misdeeds. I wish we could find Seth Burrows ourselves and bring the two men together. That would be interesting.”

  “Finding Seth Burrows would serve many useful purposes,” Dad said grimly. “But now that I would welcome a communication from him, he no longer pesters me.”

  I eagerly awaited the hour appointed for my meeting with Sidney Dorner. I spent considerable time the next afternoon preparing a lunch basket of substantial food to take with me.

  When I arrived at the campsite, it was deserted. I waited for nearly a half hour. Finally, just as I was convinced that Sidney Dorner was either unable or unwilling to come, he appeared.

  “I’ve brought you some hot coffee,” I said, taking the plug from a thermos bottle. “A little food, too.”

  “I sure do appreciate it. My wife slips me a handout whenever she can, but lately, the house has been watched so closely, she can’t get away.”

  Sidney Dorner sat down at a picnic table and drained the cup of coffee in a few swallows, then greedily devoured a sandwich.

  “Now what do you want to know?” he asked.

  My father had told me exactly what questions to ask. I began with the most important one.

  “Mr. Dorner, tell me, who is the head man of the Hoodlums?”

  “I don’t know myself. At the meetings, the Master always wore a robe and a black hood. None of the members ever were permitted to see his face.”

  “You have no idea who the man may be?”

  Sidney Dorner shook his head as he bit into another sandwich.

  “I doubt there are more than one or two members of the order who know his identity. Harold Browning might, or maybe Clarence Fitzpatrick.”

  “Is Fitzpatrick a member?”

  “One of the chief ones. Most of the meetings are held at his place.”

  “You don’t mean at the Moresby Tower?”

  “The Hoodlums meet at the tower about once a month. Usually, they got together on the thirteenth, but sometimes they’d have extra meetings. When special meetings are called, a green light burns on the tower or the clock strikes thirteen times just at midnight.”

  “I thought so,” I was elated. “Tell me, why did you decide to break your connection with the Hoodlums?”

  “I joined the organization before I knew what I was letting myself in for. It started out well enough. We’d just get together in our black robes and get three sheets to the wind and swap dirty jokes. Sort of playacting like we was big shots, but then things took a bad turn when we were roped into forcing farmers to become members of the County Cooperative. When plans were made to burn the Franklin’s barn, I tried to get out. The others threatened me, and then, when I still fought back against the plan, they planted evidence that made it look as if I had set the fire myself. I really don’t know how far they might take things, but I’m nearly as afeared for my life as I’m afeared of getting hauled in by the Sheriff.”

  I was inclined to believe that Sidney Dorner had told a straight story for it matched with my own theories. The evidence pointing to his guilt was entirely too plain. To corroborate my conclusions, I had brought from home the watch fob I had found at the Dorner’s stable, hoping that he might identify it.

  “That’s not mine,” he said when I showed the fob to him. “I never saw it before.”

  I opened the tiny case, displaying the child’s picture, but Mr. Dorner had no idea who the little boy might be.

  “Mr. Dorner,” I said as I replaced the watch fob in my pocket, “I believe in your innocence, and I want to help you. I am sure I can, providing you are willing to cooperate.”

  “I’ve already told you about everything I know.”

  “You’ve given me splendid information,” I said. “What I want you to do is to talk with my father. He’ll probably ask you to repeat your story to the Grand Jury.”

  “I’d be a fool to do that,” Sidney Dorner said. “I can’t prove any of my statements. The Franklin fire would be pinned on me, and the Hoodlums might try to harm my wife. They already ran off with a truckload of our m
elons the other night.”

  “I know. But unless someone dares to speak out against the Hoodlums, they’ll become bolder and do even more harm. Supposing you were promised absolute protection. Then would you go before the Grand Jury?”

  “Nothing would give me more pleasure, but who can make that kind of guarantee.”

  “I think my father can. Will you meet him here tomorrow night at this same hour?”

  “Okay,” the man agreed, getting up from the table. “You seem to be on the level.”

  “I’ll bring more food tomorrow,” I said. “You must have had a hard time since you’ve been hiding out in the woods.”

  “Oh, it’s not so bad once you get used to it. I’ve got a pretty good place to sleep now.”

  “Inside a building?”

  “An automobile.” Sidney Dorner grinned. “Someone abandoned it in the swamp, and I’ve taken possession.”

  “An old one, I suppose.”

  “Not so old. Funny thing, it’s a 1921 Deluxe model with good upholstery. The only thing I can see wrong with it is that the front grill and fenders have been smashed.”

  “The car isn’t by chance a gray one?”

  “Yes, it is. How did you guess?”

  “I didn’t guess. I have a suspicion that car is the one which killed two people about a year ago. Mr. Dorner, you must take me to it at once.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “You want me to take you to the abandoned car now?” Sidney Dorner echoed in surprise. “It’s located deep in the swamp, just off a side road.”

  “Would it require long to get there?” I asked thoughtfully.

  “A half hour at least. With night coming on you wouldn’t be able to see a thing.”

  “It is getting dark,” I admitted. “Everything considered, I guess it would be better to wait until tomorrow. But in the meantime, I wish you would search the car carefully. Get the engine number—anything which might help to identify the owner.”

  “The engine number has been filed off,” Sidney answered. “I already looked, but I’ll give the car a good going over to see what I can learn. Thanks for the food.”