“That’s exactly what I shall do, unless you come with me.”
“It’s a waste of time! You know these kids. Tommy read the story, and it fired his imagination.”
“Maybe so,” admitted Penny, unmoved. “All the same, I’m going there to make certain. How about you?”
Jerry looked longingly at the restaurant and drew a deep sigh.
“Okay,” he gave in, “I learned years ago that it’s no use arguing with a gal. Lead on, but don’t say I didn’t warn you!”
CHAPTER 10
CHEAP LODGING
Street lights blinked on as Penny and Jerry reached the corner of Fulton and Cherry Streets, in the poorer section of Riverview.
“That must be the building,” the reporter said, indicating an old, discolored brick building with a faded sign which proclaimed it a cheap rooming house of the type patronized by those who could afford only a few cents for a bed.
They crossed the street. Penny’s courage faltered as she saw that they must climb a long, dark stairway. Dust was very thick; the air inside was stuffy.
“You still can change your mind, you know,” said Jerry. “Why not wait outside, while I go up?”
Penny shook her head.
Climbing the stairs, they entered an open space from which branched narrow corridors. The landing was even dirtier and darker than the stairway, with a huge pasteboard carton standing in a corner filled with empty bottles.
In a little office room, behind a cage window, sat a plump middle-aged woman with reddish frizzled hair. She eyed the pair suspiciously. To her experienced eye, their manner and clothing immediately stamped them as “outsiders,” perhaps investigators. She smiled ingratiatingly at Jerry.
“We’re looking for a man,” he said briefly.
“You’re from the police, ain’t you?” she demanded. “We got nothin’ to hide. My husband and me run a respectable place for poor workin’ men.”
“May we see your room register?”
“Sure. Ever since that last copper was here I been keepin’ it just like he told me I had to do.”
Through the wooden slats of the cage, the woman thrust a grimy notebook which had been ruled off to provide spaces for names, addresses and date of registry.
Rapidly Jerry scanned the entries for several days back. No one by the name of Rhett had registered, but neither he nor Penny had expected the banker would be stupid enough to use his real name, if indeed he had come to such a place.
As Penny glanced about the dingy, smoke-stained room, it seemed impossible to her that Mr. Rhett, a man of culture and wealth, would voluntarily seek such quarters.
“The man we’re looking for is middle-aged,”Penny explained. “He wore glasses and may have been well dressed. We were told he was seen here earlier tonight.”
“They all look alike to me,” the woman said wearily. “Most of my rooms are empty now. We don’t fill up until the coppers start runnin’ loiterers off Cherry Street around ten o’clock. It’s still warm enough outside so’s a lot o’ the cheap skates can sleep out on the river bank.”
“Isn’t anyone here?” inquired Jerry.
“Maybe one or two men. A fella name of Ben Smith came in about an hour or two ago. He signed up for one of the flops. Come to think of it, maybe he’s the one you’re after. He acted nervous like and I figured maybe he was dodgin’ the police. Another thing, he acted like he was used to havin’ money.”
“Did he have much on him?”
“I couldn’t see, but he paid me with a five dollar bill. And why would a fella with even that much dough sleep in a flop if he wasn’t tryin’ to dodge the cops?”
“Suppose you describe the man.”
“He was about average height and middle-aged. No glasses, though. He couldn’t have been down and out very long, because he still wore a ring.”
“Describe it, please,” requested Penny.
“It was a gold ring with a picture of a snake on it—some sort of order probably.”
“The plumed serpent!” exclaimed Penny. “Jerry, perhaps Tommy was right!”
“Take us to this man,” the reporter directed the landlady.
“How do I know if he’s still here? The men come and go and so long as they’re paid up, I don’t pay no attention. What’s he done anyhow?”
“Nothing very serious,” Jerry replied. “Anyway, we’re not from the police station.”
The woman’s pretended friendliness vanished. “Then what you pryin’ around here for?” she demanded. “Who are you anyhow?”
“We’re newspaper reporters.”
“I don’t want my name in the paper, and we don’t want nothing written about this place!”
“Take it easy,” Jerry advised. “Your name won’t be in the paper. We’re only looking for a man. Now lead us to him.”
“When people take rooms or a bed in this place they got a right to privacy,” the woman argued unpleasantly. “It ain’t none o’ my business what folks have done that come here.”
“We want to talk to this man who registered as Smith. Either take us to him, or we’ll have to call in the police. I’m a personal friend of Joe Grabey, the patrolman on this beat.”
“I was only kiddin’,” the woman said hastily. “You can talk to him if he’s here.”
Locking the office door behind her, the woman led the pair down a narrow corridor with rooms on either side. A door stood open. Penny caught a glimpse of a cell-like chamber, furnished only with a sagging bed, soiled blankets, and a rickety dresser. The dingy walls were lined with pegs.
“Those nails are for hanging up clothes, and symbolize a man’s rise in the world,” Jerry pointed out to her. “Men who patronize the flops usually have only the suit on their backs. But when they make a little money and get two suits, they need a safe place to keep the extra clothes during the day. So they rent one of these tiny rooms which can be locked.”
Leading the way down a dark hall to the very end, the landlady opened a door. This room with paper-thin walls, sheltered perhaps twenty men, each cot jammed close to its neighbor. The air was disagreeable with the odor of strong disinfectant which had been used on the bare wood floor.
The room now was deserted save for a man in baggy black trousers who sat on one of the cots, reading a comic magazine. Other beds were made up, but empty.
“Is that man Ben Smith?” Penny asked in disappointment, for he bore not the slightest resemblance to the picture of Mr. Rhett.
“No, I don’t know what became of Smith, if he ain’t here,” the landlady answered. She called to the man on the cot. “Jake, seen anyone in here during the last hour?”
He shook his head, staring curiously at the intruders.
To Jerry the woman said: “You’ll have to come back later if you want to see Smith. Maybe after ten o’clock.”
Jerry scribbled his name and telephone number on a sheet of notebook paper.
“If he does show up, will you telephone me?” he requested.
“Oh, sure,” the woman replied, her careless tone making it clear she would never put herself to so much trouble.
Jerry gave her a five dollar bill. “This should make it worth your while,” he said. “You’ll earn another five if we find the man.”
“I’ll call you the minute he comes in,” the woman promised with more enthusiasm.
Penny drew a deep breath as she and Jerry left the building, stepping out into the cool, sweet air of the street.
“I still doubt we’re trailing the right man,” remarked Jerry. “Why would Hamilton Rhett hole in at a place like this?”
“It does seem out of the picture. However, we know he wore a serpent ring at the time of his disappearance.”
“The ring may not be the same. Also, if Rhett had been the victim of violence, a bum might have stolen it from him.”
“I never thought of that. Should we report what we’ve learned to the police?”
“Not yet,” advised Jerry. “Our clue is pretty flimsy. Let’s watch and wait.
The landlady may call us, and in any case I’ll keep my eye on this place.”
It now was so late that Penny decided to return home immediately. Bidding Jerry goodbye at the next corner, she boarded a bus and presently was slipping quietly into her own home.
If she had hoped to elude the watchful eye of Mrs. Maud Weems, the housekeeper, she was doomed to disappointment.
The plump, kindly lady who had looked after Penny since the death of Mrs. Parker many years before, had finished the dishes and was sweeping the kitchen. Fixing the girl with a stern eye, she observed:
“You’re later than ever tonight, Penny. When your father came home nearly two hours ago, he had no idea what had become of you.”
“Then Dad isn’t keeping tab on his employes,” chuckled Penny. “I’ve been working on a special story for the Star.”
“I’ve heard that one before,” sighed the housekeeper. “In fact, I suspect you charge a great many of your escapades to your work! If I had my wayyou would give it up.”
“Oh, Mrs. Weems, don’t be cross,” Penny pleaded, giving her a squeeze. “Newspaper work is wonderful! Next time I’ll telephone you if I know I’ll be late.”
“Have you had anything to eat?” the housekeeper asked in a softened tone. “Dinner was over an hour ago.”
“I’ll dig up something for myself from the refrigerator. Where’s Dad?”
Even as Penny asked the question, Anthony Parker, a tall, lean man with graying hair, came to the arched doorway of the kitchen. “Now what’s all this?” he inquired. “Penny off the reservation again?”
Mrs. Weems made no reply, knowing only too well that in almost any argument the publisher would support his daughter. Many times, and without success, she had told him she disapproved of his system of granting Penny almost unrestricted freedom.
No one doubted that Mr. Parker was an over-indulgent father, but the publisher had raised his daughter according to a strict code. He knew that she had writing talent and a flair for tracking down a story. Only because she had demonstrated that she could look after herself and think clearly in an emergency, did he allow her to make most of her own decisions.
Now, Penny eagerly poured out an account of her experiences in trying to get the Rhett story for the Star. Mr. Parker, who had read most of it in the Green Streak edition, listened attentively, offering little comment other than to say:
“I met Rhett once at a Chamber of Commerce luncheon. Not a bad fellow.”
“What was he like?” Penny inquired eagerly.
“Quiet and rather bored by the meeting. I don’t recall that he said a dozen words during the luncheon.”
“Did he look like a man who would walk off with $250,000 in bonds?”
“Not that I noticed,” commented the publisher dryly. “But then, nobody can judge character by external appearances.”
Hat in hand, Mr. Parker moved toward the kitchen exit.
“Are you going back to the Star office?” his daughter asked with alert interest.
“No.” Mr. Parker edged nearer the door, but Penny blocked the way.
“Then where are you going, Dad? You’re holding out!”
“Must I give you a schedule of my life?”
“You’re slipping off somewhere, and you don’t want me to go!”
“If you must know, I thought I would drop in at the Gay Nineties, a new night club that is opening tonight. The proprietor is one of our best advertisers and he extended a special invitation to attend.”
“Fine!” chuckled Penny. “I’ll be with you in five minutes. Just give me time to wash my face and pull the snarls out of my hair.”
“I was afraid of it,” groaned the publisher. “Haven’t you any school work to do?”
“Nary a bit. Besides, it’s Saturday night and I haven’t had any dinner. You can buy me a great big steak with all the trimmings. And perhaps you will dance with me.”
Mr. Parker gazed helplessly at Mrs. Weems, but the housekeeper did not come to his rescue. Her shrug indicated that the problem was entirely his.
“Well, all right,” he gave in. “But I’ll warn you now, this is no party. We’ll drop in for an hour or so, then come straight home.”
Penny was off like a shot, bounding upstairs to her room. There was no time to change her dress, but she freshened up, and was ready by the time her father had backed the car from the garage.
The Gay Nineties on Euclid Avenue twinkled with lights, and many persons in evening dress were entering beneath the bright red street canopy.
“Looks like all the socialites of the city are here,”Penny observed. “Maybe I should have worn my pearls.”
“Or washed behind your ears,” Mr. Parker chuckled, escorting her inside.
Penny and her father were given one of the best tables in the night club. Studying the menu, the girl was a trifle alarmed to note the prices.
“I’m dreadfully hungry too,” she declared. “Dad, I hope you’re not intending to charge this outing against my allowance.”
“I know I’d have no chance to collect,” he teased. “Just relax and select whatever you want. I can stand it this time.”
After the order had been given, Penny glanced about the dimly lighted room. The floor show had not yet started. Everywhere she saw well-to-do and prominent persons who had turned out for the gala opening.
Suddenly her attention centered upon a couple who had just entered the door. The woman wore an obviously new white evening gown, and behind her came a short, stubby little man.
“Dad!” she whispered, giving him a kick with the toe of her slipper. “See that man who just came in?”
“Where?” he asked, turning his head.
“He’s with the middle-aged woman in white.”
“Oh, yes, who are they?” Mr. Parker commented, only mildly interested. “No one I know.”
“The man is Albert Potts, secretary to Mr. Rhett at the First National Bank,” Penny replied impressively. “How do you suppose he can afford to come to such an expensive night club? If you ask me, Dad, it looks odd!”
CHAPTER 11
THE WOODEN DOLL
Mr. Parker studied the bank secretary and his wife with more interest. But he said mildly:
“I see nothing especially significant in Potts coming here, Penny. The club is public.”
“It’s expensive too. The cover charge is two dollars, and you can’t touch a dinner for less than another four! How can Potts afford to pay such prices?”
“He may earn a good salary working for Mr. Rhett—probably does. Anyway, folks don’t always spend their money wisely, even if they have very little of it.”
Potts and his wife swept past the Parker table without noticing Penny or her father. A trifle self-consciously, as if unaccustomed to appearing in such places, they sat down and studied the menu with concentrated interest.
Penny tried but could not keep her eyes from the pair.
“Dad, I wonder if Potts has any more information about Mr. Rhett’s disappearance,” she presently remarked. “I have a notion to go over there and ask him.”
Mr. Parker nodded absently, so Penny started across the room. She was only midway to Potts’ table, when the bank secretary raised his eyes and saw her approaching.
A startled, almost dismayed expression came upon his face. He spoke hurriedly to his wife. She looked puzzled, but both arose and walked quickly toward the exit.
Penny started to follow, then thought better of it.
“Mr. Potts knows I’m a reporter,” she reflected. “Probably he doesn’t care to be annoyed by having to answer questions. On the other hand, is it possible he doesn’t want to be recognized in this night club?”
Mr. and Mrs. Potts obtained their wraps at the checkroom and left the building. Somewhat crestfallen, Penny returned to her own table to find her father chatting with acquaintances.
Under the circumstance, she had no opportunity to speak of Mr. Potts’ queer behavior. Soon, dinners were brought and after that the
floor show began.
Not wishing to keep his daughter out late, Mr. Parker insisted that they leave in the middle of the entertainment. However, the drive home gave Penny time to tell him about the bank secretary. The incident did not seem to impress her father greatly.
“If I were you I wouldn’t pester Potts too much,” he advised. “He probably doesn’t enjoy being the center of public attention.”
Penny slept late the next morning, and because it was Sunday, did not visit the Star office. The paper that day was voluminous. But in going through it she could find no new facts about the Rhett case. No word had been received from the missing banker; there had been no ransom demand received; and neither had Albert Potts nor Mrs. Rhett shed the slightest light on what might have become of him.
After breakfast, Penny telephoned Jerry Livingston to inquire if he had heard from the Cherry Street landlady.
“Not a word,” he reported. “I dropped back there late last night, but the man we’re looking for apparently never returned.”
Disappointed that the case had reached a dead end, Penny next telephoned the Rhett home. No one answered.
“I’m certain someone is there,” she thought. “Mrs. Rhett probably has given orders not to answer the phone.”
At a loss to know what to do, Penny spent the morning at home, had dinner, then went down the street to see Louise Sidell. However, her chum had gone to visit an aunt for the day.
“What miserable luck!” Penny muttered. “No one with whom I can talk over the Rhett case! Nothing to do!”
Suddenly it dawned upon her, that she might call on Albert Potts at his home, and perhaps induce him to reveal a few helpful facts about the missing banker.
From a telephone book she obtained the secretary’s address. Thirty minutes later found her standing before a modest cottage on Berdan Avenue. In response to her knock, the same woman Penny had seen the previous night at the Gay Nineties, came to the door. Now she looked very plain and frowsy in a messy housedress, and her hair hung in untidy streamers.
The woman stared at Penny without recognition.
“Is Mr. Potts here?” the girl inquired.
“No, he’s not,” Mrs. Potts answered without cordiality, her voice coarse and unattractive. “Anything I can do?”
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