The Penny Parker Megapack: 15 Complete Novels

by Mildred Benson

  “I guess I can handle her,” Salt said, winking at Penny.

  “And now, where is Jerry?” the publisher asked. “Has anyone seen him?”

  “Relax, Dad,” said Penny. “He’s right here.”

  “I am jumpy tonight,” Mr. Parker admitted, “but I have a lot on my mind. That stunt we’ve planned for the entertainment of our out-of-town men—is everything set?”

  “Sure,” DeWitt assured him. “There’ll be no hitch. As the mayor winds up his address of welcome, the stage electrician turns off the stage lights. Jerry, in view of the audience, orders him to turn ’em on again. He refuses an’ they argue over union rules. The fight gets hotter until finally the workman pulls a revolver and lets him have it full blast. Jerry falls, clutching his chest. Our newsboys gallop down the aisles with copies of the Riverview Star and screaming headlines telling all about the big murder. Everyone gets a swell laugh, figuring it’s pretty snappy coverage.”

  “You certainly make it sound corny the way you tell it,” Mr. Parker sighed. “Who thought up the idea anyhow?”

  “Why, you did, Chief,” grinned Salt. “Remember?”

  “It was a poor idea. Maybe we ought to call it off.”

  “After we got the extras all printed an’ everything?”Mr. DeWitt asked, looking injured. “The boys went to a lot of trouble.”

  “All right, we’ll go ahead just as we planned, but I hope there is no slip-up. How about the revolver?”

  “Right here,” said Salt, whipping it from an inside pocket. “Loaded with blanks.” He pointed it at a neon light, pulled the trigger and a loud bang resulted.

  Jerry Livingston sauntered over. “So that’s the lethal weapon,” he observed. “Can I trust you guys not to slip a real bullet in when I’m not looking?”

  “I’ve got to go,” cut in Mr. Parker, looking again at the clock. “The program starts as soon as I get to the theater. Speeches should take about an hour. Then the stunt. And don’t be late!”

  “We’ll be there,” Salt promised. “Jerry, you riding with Penny and me?”

  “I’ll come later in my own car. Have a story to write first.”

  Going back to his typewriter, the reporter slipped carbons and paper into the machine and began pecking the keys.

  At that moment a Western Union boy came through the newsroom. Catching Penny’s eye, he pushed a telegram toward her and asked her to sign.

  She wrote her name automatically, before noticing that the envelope bore Jerry’s name.

  “For you,” she said, tossing it onto the roller of his typewriter. “More fan mail.”

  “It’s probably a threat to bring suit if I don’t pay my dry cleaning bill,” Jerry chuckled.

  He glanced at the envelope briefly, then slit it up the side. As he read the wire, his face became a study. His jaw tightened. Then he relaxed and laughed.

  “This is a threat all right,” he commented, “but not from the dry cleaners!”

  Jerry reread the telegram, snorted with disgust, and then handed it to Penny.

  In amazement she read: “ARRIVED IN TOWN TODAY TO TAKE CARE OF A LITTLE UNFINISHED BUSINESS. WILL BE SEEING YOU.”

  The telegram bore the signature, Danny Deevers.

  CHAPTER 4

  A TRAFFIC ACCIDENT

  As word spread through the office that Jerry had received a threat from the escaped convict, reporters gathered to read the telegram and comment upon it.

  “Great stuff!” exclaimed Editor DeWitt, thinking in terms of headlines. “Riverview Star reporter threatened by Danny Deevers! We’ll build it up—post a reward for his capture—provide you with a bodyguard.”

  “But I don’t want a bodyguard,” Jerry retorted. “Build up the story if you want to, but skip the kindergarten trimmings.”

  “You ought to have a bodyguard,” DeWitt insisted seriously. “Danny Deevers is nobody’s playboy. He may mean business. Reporters are hard to get these days. We can’t risk having you bumped off.”

  “Oh, this telegram is pure bluff,” Jerry replied, scrambling up the yellow sheet and hurling it into a tall metal scrap can. “I’ll not be nursemaided by any bodyguard, and that’s final!”

  “Okay,” DeWitt gave in, “but if you get bumped off, don’t come crying to me!”

  Jerry took a long drink at the fountain and then said thoughtfully: “You know, I have a hunch about Danny.”

  “Spill it,” invited DeWitt.

  “He didn’t come back here to get even with me for those articles I wrote—or at least it’s a secondary purpose.”

  “Then why did he head for Riverview?”

  “I have an idea he may have come back to get $50,000.”

  “The money he stole from the Third Federal Bank?”

  “Sure. The money disappeared, and when Danny took the rap, he refused to tell where he had hidden it. I’ll bet the money is in a safe place somewhere in Riverview.”

  “You may be right at that,” DeWitt agreed. “Anyway, it’s a good story. Better write a couple pages before you go over to the theater—let that other stuff go.”

  Jerry nodded and with a quick glance at the clock, sat down at his typewriter.

  “Ready, Penny?” called Salt, picking up his camera and heading for the door.

  “In a minute.”

  Penny hesitated and then walked over to Jerry’s desk.

  “Jerry, you’ll be careful, won’t you?” she asked anxiously.

  “Oh, sure,” he agreed. “If I see Danny first, I’ll start running.”

  “Do be serious, Jerry! You know, there’s a chance Danny may be hiding in the swamp.”

  The carriage of Jerry’s typewriter stopped with a jerk. He now gave Penny his full attention.

  “What’s that about Danny being in the swamp?”

  “I didn’t say he is for sure, but today when Louise and I were out there, we heard a very strange conversation.”

  Penny swiftly related everything that had occurred on the tiny island near the swamp entrance. She also described the bearded stranger who had ordered her away.

  “That couldn’t have been Danny,” Jerry decided. “Not unless he’s disguised his appearance.”

  “There was another man,” Penny reminded him. “Louise and I never saw his face.”

  “Well, the swamp angle is worth investigating,” the reporter assured her. “Personally, I doubt Danny would ever try living in the swamp—he’s a city, slum-bred man—but I’ll tell the police about it.”

  “Do be careful,” Penny urged again, turning away.

  Salt was waiting in the press car when she reached the street. Quickly transferring the flowers from her own automobile to his, she climbed in beside him.

  “The Hillcrest?” he inquired, shifting gears.

  “Yes, I’ll decorate the tables. Then we’ll drive to the theater.”

  With a complete disregard for speed laws, safety stops, and red lights, Salt toured the ten blocks to the hotel in record time. Pulling up at the entrance, he said:

  “While you’re in there, I’ll amble across the street. Want to do a little inquiring at the Western Union office.”

  “About the telegram Danny Deevers sent Jerry?”

  “Figured we might find from where it was sent.”

  “I should have thought of that myself! Do see what you can learn, Salt. It won’t take me long to fix those tables.”

  Penny disappeared into the hotel but was back in fifteen minutes. A moment later, Salt sauntered across the street from the Western Union office.

  “Learn anything?” Penny asked.

  “A little. The manager told me a boy picked up the message from a rooming house on Clayton street. That’s all they know about it.”

  “Did you get the address?”

  “Sure—1497 Clayton Street—an apartment building. The clue may be a dud one though. Danny wouldn’t likely be dumb enough to leave a wide open trail.”

  “All the same, oughtn’t we to check into it?”

  �
��We?”

  “Naturally I’m included,” grinned Penny. “By the way, aren’t we near Clayton street now?”

  “It’s only a couple of blocks away.”

  “Then what’s delaying us?”

  “My conscience for one thing,” Salt said, climbing into the car beside Penny. “Your father’s expecting us at the theater. I’m supposed to take pictures of the visiting big-boys.”

  “We’ll get there in time. This may be our only chance to trace Danny.”

  “You’re a glutton for adventure,” Salt said dubiously, studying his wristwatch. “Me—I’m not so sure.”

  “Danny probably won’t be hiding out at the rooming house,” Penny argued. “But someone may be able to tell us where he went.”

  “Okay,” the photographer agreed, jamming his foot on the starter. “We got to make it snappy though.”

  The dingy old brick apartment house at 1497 Clayton Street stood jammed against other low-rent buildings in the downtown business section.

  “You wait here,” Salt advised as he pulled up near the dwelling. “If I don’t come back in ten minutes, put in a call to the police. And arrange to give me a decent burial!”

  The photographer disappeared into the building.

  He was back almost at once. “It was a dud,” he said in disgust. “The telegram was sent from here all right, but Danny’s skipped.”

  “You talked to the building manager?”

  Salt nodded. “A fellow that must have been Danny rented a room last night, but he pulled out early this morning.”

  “Why, the telegram didn’t come until a few minutes ago!”

  “Danny took care of that by having the janitor send it for him. He evidently escaped from the pen late yesterday, but authorities didn’t give out the story until today.”

  Disappointed over their failure, Penny and Salt drove on toward the theater in glum silence.

  Suddenly at the intersection of Jefferson and Huron Streets, a long black sedan driven by a woman, failed to observe a stop sign. Barging into a line of traffic, it spun unsteadily on two wheels and crashed into an ancient car in which two men were riding.

  “Just another dumb woman driver,” observed Salt. He brought up at the curb and reached for his camera.

  “Nobody’s hurt so it’s hardly worth a picture. But if I don’t grab it, DeWitt’ll be asking me why I didn’t.”

  Balancing the camera on the sill of the open car window, he snapped the shutter just as the two men climbed out of their ancient vehicle.

  “Looks as if they’re going to put up a big squawk,”Salt observed with interest. “What they beefin’about? That old wreck isn’t worth anything, and anyhow, the lady only bashed in a couple of fenders.”

  The driver of the black sedan took a quick glance at the two men and said hastily:

  “Please don’t call a policeman. I’ll gladly pay for all the damage. I’m covered by insurance. Just give me your names and where you live. Or, if you prefer, I’ll go with you now to a garage where your car can be repaired.”

  The two men paid her no heed. In fact, they appeared not to be listening. Instead, they were gazing across the street at Salt and his camera.

  “Button up your lip, lady!” said one of the men rudely.

  He was a heavy-set man, dressed in a new dark blue serge suit. His face was coarse, slightly pale, and his steel-blue eyes had a hard, calculating glint.

  His companion, much younger, might have been a country boy for he wore a lumber jacket, corduroy pants, and heavy shoes caked with mud.

  The older man crossed the street to Salt’s car. He glanced at the “press” placard in the windshield and said curtly:

  “Okay, buddy! I saw you take that picture! Hand over the plate!”

  CHAPTER 5

  THE RED STAIN

  “Hand over the plate, buddy!” the motorist repeated as Salt gave no hint that he had heard. “You’re from a newspaper, and we don’t want our pictures printed—see?”

  “Sure, I see,” retorted Salt. “I’m not turning over any pictures.”

  The man took a wallet from his suit pocket. “Here’s a five spot to make it worth your while.”

  “No, thanks. Anyway, what’s your kick? Your car didn’t cause the accident. You’re in the clear.”

  “Maybe we’ll use the picture to collect damages,” the man said. “Here, I’ll give you ten.”

  “Nothing doing.”

  To put an end to the argument, Salt drove on.

  “Wonder who those birds were?” he speculated.

  Penny craned her neck to look back through the rear car window.

  “Salt!” she exclaimed. “That man who argued with us is writing down our license plate number!”

  “Let him!”

  “He intends to find out who you are, Salt! He must want that picture badly.”

  “He’ll get it all right—on the front page of the Star tomorrow! Maybe he’s a police character and doesn’t want any publicity. He looked like a bad egg.”

  “I wish we’d taken down his license number.”

  “We’ve got it,” replied Salt. “It’ll show up in the picture.”

  Penny settled back in the seat, paying no more attention to the traffic behind them. Neither she nor Salt noticed that they were being followed by the car with battered fenders.

  At the theater, Salt parked in the alleyway.

  “Go on in,” he told Penny, opening the car door for her. “I want to collect some of my stuff and then I’ll be along.”

  At the stagedoor, Penny was stopped by Old Jim, the doorman.

  “You can’t go in here without a pass, Miss,” he said. “There’s a newspaper convention on. My orders are not to let anyone in without a pass.”

  Penny flashed her press card.

  “My mistake,” the doorman mumbled.

  Once inside, Penny wandered backstage in search of her father or Jerry. The program had started, but after listening a moment to a singer, she moved out of range of his voice.

  Now and then, from the audience of newspapermen out front, came an occasional ripple of laughter or clapping of hands as they applauded a speaker.

  “Sounds pretty dull,” thought Penny. “Guess it’s lucky Dad cooked up the shooting stunt. If everything goes off right, it should liven things up a bit.”

  Wandering on down a hall, she came to one of the dressing rooms. Stacked against the outside wall were hundreds of freshly printed newspapers ready for distribution.

  Penny flipped one from the pile and read the headline:“REPORTER SHOT IN ARGUMENT WITH ELECTRICIAN!”

  Beneath the banner followed a story of the staged stunt to take place. So convincingly was it written, Penny had to think twice to realize not a word was true. Other columns of the paper contained regular wire news stories and telephoto pictures. Much of the front page also was given over to an account of the convention itself.

  “This will make a nice souvenir edition,” Penny thought. “Wonder where Jerry is? The stunt will be ruined if he doesn’t get here.”

  Salt came down the corridor, loaded heavily with his camera, a tripod, a reflector, and other photographic equipment.

  “Jerry here yet?” he inquired.

  “I haven’t seen him. It’s getting late too.”

  “He’ll be here,” Salt said confidently. “Wonder where I’d better leave this revolver?”

  Setting the photographic equipment on the floor, he took the revolver from his coat pocket, offering it to Penny.

  “Don’t give it to me,” she protested.

  “Put it in the dressing room,” he advised. “I can’t keep it, because I’ve got to go out front and shoot some pictures.”

  “Is the revolver loaded?” Penny asked, taking it unwillingly.

  “Sure, with blanks. It’s ready for the stunt.”

  Penny carried the weapon into the dressing room and deposited it on one of the tables. When she returned to the corridor, Salt had gathered up his equipment an
d was starting away.

  However, before he could leave, an outside door slammed. Jim, the doorman, burst in upon them.

  “Young feller, is that your car parked in the alley?”

  “Yeah!” exclaimed Salt, startled. “Don’t tell me the cops are handing me a ticket!”

  “Some feller’s out there, riflin’ through your things!”

  Salt dropped his camera and equipment, racing for the door. Penny was close behind.

  Reaching the alley, they were just in time to see a man in a dark suit ducking around the corner of the building.

  “Hey, you!” shouted Salt angrily.

  The man turned slightly and vanished from view.

  “Wasn’t that the same fellow who was in the auto accident?” Penny demanded.

  “Looked like him! Wonder if he got away with anything?”

  “Didn’t you lock the car, Salt?”

  “Only the rear trunk compartment. Should have done it but I was in a hurry.”

  “Shall I call the police, Salt?”

  “Why bother? That bird’s gone now. Let’s see if he stole anything first.”

  Salt muttered in disgust as he saw the interior of the car. A box of photographic equipment had been scattered over the back seat. The door of the glove compartment was open, its contents also helter-skelter.

  “Anything missing?” Penny asked.

  “Not that I can tell. Yes, there is! Some of the photographic plates!”

  “Oh, Salt, I was afraid of it! The thief must have been one of those two men who were in the auto accident! You wouldn’t sell them the picture they wanted so they followed you here and stole it!”

  “They may have tried,” the photographer corrected.

  “You mean you still have it?”

  “The plates that are missing are old ones, extras I exposed at a society tea and never bothered to develop.”

  “Then you have the one of the auto accident?”

  “Right here in my pocket.”

  “Oh, Salt, how brilliant of you!” Penny laughed.

  “It wasn’t brilliancy on my part—just habit,” Salt returned. “I wonder why that bird set such great store by the picture? Maybe for some reason he’s afraid to have it come out in the paper.”

  “I can hardly wait to see it developed!”