“A child, but not two cars. If you decide to take the case to court, I think any reasonable judge will understand my viewpoint. I repeat, the debt is yours, not mine.”
“How will I pay?” asked Penny gloomily. “I’ve already borrowed on my allowance for a month ahead.”
“I know,” said her father. “However, with your ingenuity I am sure you can manage.”
Penny drew a deep breath. Argument, she realized, would be utterly useless. While her father might be mildly amused by her predicament, he never would change his decision.
“Since you won’t pay for Lena, I suppose it’s useless to mention Mr. Kohl’s fender,” she said despairingly.
“Does he have one?”
“Please don’t try to be funny, Dad. This is tragic. While I was towing Lena, the rope broke and smash went the fender of Mr. Kohl’s slinky black limousine.”
“Interesting.”
“I had to promise to pay for it to keep from being arrested. Oh, yes, and before that I acquired this little thing.”
Penny tossed the yellow card across the desk.
“A parking ticket! Penny, how many times—” Mr. Parker checked himself, finishing in a calm voice:“This, too, is your debt. It may cost you five dollars.”
“Dad, you know I can’t pay. Think how your reputation will be tarnished if I am sent to jail.”
Mr. Parker smiled and reached as if to take money from his pocket. Reconsidering, he shook his head.
“I know the warden well,” he said. “I’ll arrange for you to be assigned to one of the better cells.”
“Is there nothing which will move you to generosity?” pleaded Penny.
“Nothing.”
Retrieving the parking ticket, Penny jammed it into her pocket. Before she could leave there came a rap on the door. In response to Mr. Parker’s “Come in,” Mr. DeWitt, the city editor, entered.
“Sorry to bother you, Chief.”
“What’s wrong now, DeWitt?” the publisher inquired.
“Miss Hilderman was taken sick a few minutes ago. We had to send her home in a cab.”
“It’s nothing serious I hope,” said Mr. Parker with concern.
“A mild heart attack. She’ll be out a week, if not longer.”
“I see. Be sure to have the treasurer give her full pay. You have someone to take her place?”
“That’s the problem,” moaned DeWitt. “Her assistant is on vacation. I don’t know where we can get a trained society editor on short notice.”
“Well, do the best you can.”
DeWitt lingered, fingering a paper weight.
“The society page for the Sunday paper is only half finished,” he explained. “Deadline’s in less than an hour. Not a chance we can pick up anyone in time to meet it.”
Penny spoke unexpectedly. “Mr. DeWitt, perhaps I can help you. I’m a whiz when it comes to writing society. Remember the Kippenberg wedding I covered?”
“Do I?” DeWitt’s face relaxed into a broad grin. “That was a real write-up. Say, maybe you could take over Miss Hilderman’s job until we can replace her.”
“Service is my motto.” Penny eyed her father questioningly. “It might save the Star from going to press minus a society page. How about it, Dad?”
“It certainly would solve our problem,” contributed DeWitt. “Of course the undertaking might be too great a one for your daughter.” He winked at Penny.
“She’ll have no difficulty in taking over,” said Mr. Parker stiffly. “None whatsoever.”
“Then I’ll start her in at once,” DeWitt replied. “Come with me, Miss Parker.”
At the door Penny paused and discreetly allowed the city editor to get beyond hearing. Then, turning to her father she remarked innocently:
“Oh, by the way, we overlooked one trifling detail. The salary!”
The editor made a grimace. “I might have expected this. Very well, I’ll pay you the same as I do Miss Hilderman. Twenty-five a week.”
“Why, that would just take care of my debt to Jake Harriman,” protested Penny. “I simply can’t do high pressure work without high pay. Shall we make it fifty a week?”
“So you’re holding me up?”
“Certainly not,” chuckled Penny. “Merely using my ingenuity. Am I hired?”
“Yes, you win,” answered Mr. Parker grimly. “But see to it that you turn out good work. Otherwise, you soon may find yourself on the Star’s inactive list.”
CHAPTER 3
SOCIETY ROUTINE
Penny followed City Editor DeWitt to a small, glass-enclosed office along the left hand wall of the newsroom. Miss Hilderman’s desk was cluttered with sheets of copy paper which bore scribbled notations, items telephoned to the Star but not yet type-written.
“There should be a date book around here somewhere,”DeWitt remarked.
Finally he found it in one of the desk drawers. Penny drew a deep breath as she scanned the long list of social events which must be covered for the Sunday page.
“Do the best you can,” DeWitt said encouragingly. “Work fast, but be careful of names.”
The telephone bell rang. As Penny reached for the receiver, DeWitt retreated to his own domain.
“Hello, Miss Hilderman?” a feminine voice cooed,“I wish to report a meeting, please.”
“Miss Hilderman isn’t here this afternoon,” replied Penny politely. “I will take the item.”
Gathering up paper and pencil, she slid into the revolving chair behind the telephone, poised for action.
“Yes,” she urged, “I am ready.”
There was a lengthy pause, and then the woman at the other end of the line recited as if she were reading from a paper:
“‘A meeting of the Mystical Society of Celestial Thought, Order of Amar, 67, will be held Tuesday night at eight o’clock in the Temple, 426 Butternut Lane. The public is cordially invited.’”
“What sort of society is the Order of Amar?”Penny inquired curiously, taking notes. “I never heard of it before.”
“Why, my dear, the society is very well known,” the woman replied. “We hold our meetings regularly, communing with the spirits. I do hope that the item appears in print. So often Miss Hilderman has been careless about it.”
“I’ll see that the item is printed under club notices,”Penny promised. “Your name, please?”
The woman had hung up the receiver, so with a shrug, Penny typed the item and speared it on a wire spindle. For the next hour she was kept busy with other telephone calls and the more important stories which had to be rushed through. Copy flowed steadily from her office by way of the pneumatic tube to the composing room.
Shortly after five o’clock, DeWitt dropped in for a moment to praise her for her speed and accuracy.
“You’re doing all right,” he said. “So far I’ve only caught you in one mistake. Mignonette is spelled with a double t.”
“This job wouldn’t be half bad if only brides could learn to carry flowers with easy names,” laughed Penny. “When I get married I’ll have violets and sweet peas!”
DeWitt reached for the copy on the spindle. “What’s this?” he asked. “More to go?”
“Club notices.”
The editor tore the sheet from the wire, reading it as he walked toward the door. Abruptly, he paused and turned toward her.
“Miss Parker, this can’t go through.”
“Why, what is wrong?” Penny asked in surprise. “Have I made another error in spelling?”
DeWitt tore off the lead item and tossed it on her desk.
“It’s this meeting of the so-called Mystical Society of Celestial Thought. The Star never runs stuff like that, not even as a paid advertisement.”
“I thought it was a regular lodge meeting, Mr. DeWitt.”
“Nothing of the sort. Merely a free advertisement for a group of mediums and charlatans.”
“Oh, I didn’t know,” murmured Penny.
“These meetings have only one purpose,” Mr
. DeWitt resumed. “To lure victims who later may be fleeced of their money.”
“But if that is so, why don’t police close up the place?” Penny demanded. “Why doesn’t the Star run an exposé story?”
“Because evidence isn’t easy to get. The meetings usually are well within the law. Whenever a police detective or a reporter attends, the services are decorous. But they provide the mediums with a list of suckers.”
Penny would have asked DeWitt for additional information had not the city editor walked hurriedly away. Scrambling the item into a ball, she tossed it into the waste paper basket. Then upon second thought she retrieved it and carefully smoothed the paper.
“Perhaps, I’ll drop around at the Temple sometime just to see what it is like,” she decided, placing the item in her pocket. “It would be interesting to learn what is going on there.”
For the next half hour Penny had no time to think of the Celestial Temple. However, at twenty minutes before six, when her father came into the office, she was well ahead of her work.
“Hello, Penny,” he greeted her. “How do you like your new job?”
“Fine and dandy. Only routine items rather cramp one’s style. Now if I were a regular reporter instead of a society editor, I know several stories which would be my dish!”
“For instance?” inquired Mr. Parker, smiling.
“First, there’s an Oriental Shop on Dorr Street that I should investigate. The Japanese owner acted very mysteriously today when I went there. Louise and I saw him making a silk ladder, and he refused to reveal its purpose.”
“A silk ladder?” repeated Mr. Parker. “Odd perhaps, but hardly worthy of a news story.”
“Dad, I only wish you had seen that old Japanese—the sinister way he looked at me. Oh, he’s guilty of some crime. I feel it.”
“The Star requires facts, not fancy or emotion,”Mr. Parker rejoined. “Better devote your talents to routine society items if you expect to remain on my payroll.”
Penny took the announcement of the Celestial Thought meeting from her pocket and offered it to the publisher.
“Here’s one which might be interesting,” she said. “How about assigning me to it after I get this society job in hand?”
Mr. Parker read the item and his eyes blazed with anger.
“Do you know what this means, Penny?”
“Mr. DeWitt told me a little about the Celestial Temple society. He said the paper never ran such items.”
“Certainly not! Why, I should like nothing better than to see the entire outfit driven out of town! Riverview is honeycombed with mediums, fortune tellers and faith healers!”
“Perhaps they mean no harm, Dad.”
“I’ll grant there may be a small number of persons who honestly try to communicate with the spirit world,” Mr. Parker replied. “My concern is not with them, but with a group of professional mediums who lately have invaded the city. Charlatans, crooks—the entire lot!”
“Why don’t you write an editorial about it?” Penny suggested.
“An editorial! I am seriously tempted to start a vigorous campaign, but the trouble is, the police cannot be depended upon to cooperate actively.”
“Why, Dad?”
“Because experience has proven that such campaigns are not often successful. Evidence is hard to gain. If one place is closed up, others open in different sections of the city. The mediums and seers operate from dozens of private homes. When the police stage raids they acquire no evidence, and only succeed in making the department look ridiculous.”
“Yet the mediums continue to fleece the public?”
“The more gullible strata of it. Until recent months the situation here has been no worse than in other cities of comparable size. Lately an increasing number of charlatans has moved in on us.”
“Why don’t you start a campaign, Dad?” Penny urged. “You would be doing the public a worthwhile service.”
“Well, I hesitate to start something which I may be unable to finish.”
“At least the public deserves to be warned.”
“Unfortunately, Penny, many persons would take the attitude that the Star was persecuting sincere spiritualists. A campaign must be based on absolute evidence.”
“Can’t it be obtained?”
“Not without great difficulty. These mediums are a clever lot, Penny. They prey upon the superstitions of their intended victims.”
“I wish you would let me work on the story, Dad.”
“No, Penny,” responded her father. “You attend to your society and allow DeWitt to worry about the Celestial Temple crowd. Even if I should launch a campaign, I couldn’t allow you to become mixed up in the affair.”
The telephone bell jingled. With a tired sigh, Penny reached for the receiver.
“Society desk,” she said mechanically.
“I am trying to trace Mr. Parker,” informed the office exchange operator. “Is he with you, Miss Parker?”
“Telephone, Dad,” said Penny, offering him the receiver.
Mr. Parker waited a moment for another connection to be made. Then Penny heard him say:
“Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Weems? What’s that? Repeat it, please.”
From her father’s tone, Penny felt certain that something had gone wrong at home. She arose, waiting anxiously.
Mr. Parker clicked the receiver several times. “Apparently, Mrs. Weems hung up,” he commented.
“Is anything the matter, Dad?”
“I don’t know,” Mr. Parker admitted, his face troubled. “Mrs. Weems seemed very excited. She requested me to come home as soon as possible. Then the connection was broken.”
“Why don’t you try to reach her again?”
Mr. Parker placed an out-going call, but after ten minutes the operator reported that she was unable to contact the housekeeper.
“Mrs. Weems never would have telephoned if something unusual hadn’t happened,” Penny declared uneasily. “Perhaps, she’s injured herself.”
“You think of such unpleasant things.”
“Something dreadful must have happened,” Penny insisted. “Otherwise, why doesn’t she answer?”
“We’re only wasting time in idle speculation,” Mr. Parker said crisply. “Get your things, Penny. We’ll start home at once!”
CHAPTER 4
A TURN OF FORTUNE
Penny immediately locked her desk and gathered up hat and gloves. She was hard pressed to keep pace with her father as they hastened to the elevator.
“By the way, you have your car downstairs?” the publisher inquired absently. He seldom drove his own automobile to the office.
“What a memory you have, Dad!” chuckled Penny. “Yes, I have all two of them! Parked in the loading dock for convenience.”
“Penny, haven’t I told you a dozen times—” Mr. Parker began, only to check himself. “Well, it will save us time now. However, we may discuss a few matters when we get home.”
The elevator shot them down to the first floor. Leaping Lena and the maroon sedan remained in the loading dock with a string of Star paper trucks blocking a portion of the street.
“Hey, sister,” a trucker called angrily to Penny. “It’s time you’re getting these cars out of here.” He broke off as he recognized Mr. Parker and faded behind one of the trucks.
“Dad, do you mind steering Lena?” Penny asked demurely. “We can’t leave her here. You can see for yourself that she seems to be blocking traffic.”
“Yes, I see,” Mr. Parker responded grimly.
“Of course, if you would feel more dignified driving the sedan—”
“Let me have the keys,” the publisher interrupted. “The important thing is to get home without delay.”
Penny became sober, and slid into her place at the wheel of Leaping Lena. Amid the smiles of the truckers, Mr. Parker drove the two cars out of the dock.
Once underway, the caravan made reckless progress through rush-hour traffic. More than once Penny whispered a prayer as Lena
swayed around a corner, missing other cars by scant inches.
Presently the two automobiles drew up before a pleasant, tree-shaded home built upon a high terrace overlooking a winding river. Penny and her father alighted, walking hurriedly toward the front porch.
The door stood open and from within came the reassuring howl of a radio turned too high.
“Nothing so very serious can have happened,” remarked Penny. “Otherwise, Mrs. Weems wouldn’t have that thing going full blast.”
At the sound of footsteps, the housekeeper herself came into the living room from the kitchen. Her plump face was unusually animated.
“I hope you didn’t mind because I telephoned the office, Mr. Parker,” she began apologetically. “I was so excited, I just did it before I stopped to think.”
“Penny and I were nearly ready to start home in any case, Mrs. Weems. Has anything gone wrong here?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Parker. It was the telegram.”
“Telegram? One for me, you mean?”
“No, my own.” The housekeeper drew a yellow paper from the pocket of her apron, offering it to the publisher. “My Cousin David died out in Montana,” she explained. “The funeral was last Saturday.”
“That’s too bad,” remarked Penny sympathetically. And then she added: “Only you don’t look particularly sad, Mrs. Weems. How much did he leave you?”
“Penny! You say such shocking things! I never met Cousin David but once in my life. He was a kind, good man and I only wish I had written to him more often. I never dreamed he would remember me in his will.”
“Then he did leave you money!” exclaimed Penny triumphantly. “How much does the telegram say, Dad?”
“You may as well tell her, Mr. Parker,” sighed the housekeeper. “She’ll give me no peace until she learns every detail.”
“This message which is from a Montana lawyer mentions six thousand dollars,” returned the publisher. “Apparently, the money is to be turned over without legal delay.”
“Why, Mrs. Weems, you’re an heiress!” cried Penny admiringly.
“I can’t believe it’s true,” murmured Mrs. Weems. “You don’t think there’s any mistake, Mr. Parker? It would be too cruel if someone had sent the message as a joke.”
Before returning the telegram to the housekeeper, Mr. Parker switched off the radio.
The Penny Parker Megapack: 15 Complete Novels Page 30
