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Published by
Purple House Press, PO Box 787, Cynthiana, KY 41031
All rights reserved.
Time at the Top copyright © 1963 by Edward Ormondroyd
Copyright © renewed 1991 by Edward Ormondroyd
All in Good Time copyright © 1975 by Edward Ormondroyd
Copyright © renewed 2003 by Edward Ormondroyd
Illustrations copyright 2003 and 2011 by Purple House Press
Foreword copyright © 2011 by Edward Ormondroyd
Cover illustration copyright © 2011 by Purple House Press
Summary: A spunky but lonely girl finds herself transported back in time to 1881, courtesy of her apartment building’s elevator.
Read more about our classic books for children at www.PurpleHousePress.com
First Electronic Edition
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v3.1
For my daughters Beth and Kitt
Author’s Foreword
Like Susan, the heroine of this book, Jill Morgan of Purple House is a time traveller. She ventures into the past to rescue books that are stranded there, and brings them back to the present, and gives them new life. Now she has rescued and revived Time at the Top. I can’t say how grateful I am, and how pleased; because, of all my books, this one is closest to my heart.
The writing of it was the most enjoyable experience I’ve ever had as an author. Not that it wasn’t a struggle! Working out the story involved a great deal of mental turmoil, and setting it down was slow and frequently laborious. Writing never comes easily for me: I stare out the window a lot, and throw away half a dozen pages for every one I keep—and in the end, like as not, I’ll throw that one away too. But in spite of that, or maybe because of it, the making of this book was a joy from beginning to end.
The greater part of the pleasure came from creating, or in some cases merely finding, my characters. I fell in love with them all. I loved quick-witted Susan and slow-witted Mr. Bodoni; Victoria the romantic and Robert the commonsensical; Mr. Sweeney, the smooth talker and Mrs. Clutchett, the chatterbox. I loved my bag lady witch and her driver, Nicky—who most likely (this just occurred to me now!) was really a black cat inside that smart motorcyclist’s outfit. I had a special affection for my other black cat, the undisguised Toby, having borrowed him from my little daughters, Beth and Kitt, whose pet he was. And the elevator, of course—how could I not love the conveyance that takes my unsuspecting heroine back in time? I gave it as much personality as I could, and convinced myself to the extent that when, in the sequel to this book (All In Good Time) the elevator dies of its exertions, I felt that I was saying goodbye to a beloved and eccentric friend.
When I reread Time at the Top now, the memory of that pleasure comes rushing back. What a gift and a blessing it was! The exuberance I felt seems to me to radiate from the pages still. It is my hope that you, my new readers, will feel the glow of it too. May my pleasure become yours as you read!
Edward Ormondroyd
2003
Contents
Cover
More books by Edward Ormondroyd
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Author’s Foreword
Chapter 1. What Became of Susan?
Chapter 2. Hubbub in the Hallway
Chapter 3. A Day Awry
Chapter 4. Gift of Three
Chapter 5. The Elevator Misbehaves
Chapter 6. The Meaning of Three
Chapter 7. Hatching the Plot
Chapter 8. Susan’s Greatest Role
Chapter 9. Mrs. Walker Confesses
Chapter 10. Quest for a Map
Chapter 11. Susan Despairs
Chapter 12. Changing History
Chapter 13. Night Alarms, Morning Thoughts
Chapter 14. Mr. Shaw Humors his Daughter
Chapter 15. An Old Photograph
Preview of All in Good Time
About the Author
1. What Became of Susan?
One Wednesday in March, late in the afternoon, Susan Shaw vanished from the Ward Street apartment house in which she lived with her father.
The last person to see her was Mrs. Clutchett, a lady of uncertain age but reliable habits, who was employed as a cleaning woman by various residents of the building, and also by Mr. Shaw as a cook. Wednesday was her day to clean as well as cook for the Shaws, so she had been in the apartment when Susan arrived home from school — an arrival, she thought, that was a little later than usual. She reported that Susan had behaved in a moody and restless manner, as if the weather, which was certainly unpleasant enough, had gotten into her bones. The girl fidgeted about the apartment for a while “without a word to say for herself,” suddenly muttered something about “going to the top,” and went out. According to Mrs. Clutchett, that took place some time after five o’clock, although she wouldn’t swear to the exact moment. “The top,” no doubt, was the seventh floor, the topmost one of the apartment building, where Susan sometimes went to look out of a window at the end of the hallway.
Mrs. Clutchett had, however, just glanced at the clock when Mr. Shaw walked in, so she could state with authority that his arrival took place at fourteen minutes to six. He was carrying a beautifully wrapped box, and called out as he entered, “Here you are, chick — the loudest one in the whole store!” Mrs. Clutchett gave a small shriek at this announcement, having immediately concluded that the box contained something explosive. Mr. Shaw assured her that it was only an alarm clock for Susan, and asked where she was. He was told of Susan’s presumable whereabouts, and sat down to read the paper. Dinner was ready at six-ten. At six-thirty, Mr. Shaw, more irritated than alarmed, took the elevator to the seventh floor to fetch Susan down. She was nowhere to be found.
I first heard of the disappearance around eight o’clock that night, when Mrs. Clutchett breathlessly telephoned me to ask if I’d seen Susan.
“Susan who?” I asked.
“Susan — Shaw — on — the — third — floor. You know, the little girl of that nice Mr. Shaw, with the braids and brown eyes?”
“Oh, yes,” I said. I didn’t really know Susan, but we had ridden the elevator together once or twice. “What’s the trouble?”
“She’s gone, poor motherless lamb! She’s just disappeared into thin air!”
“Oh, she’s probably at a movie. I always watched movies two times through when I was her age, to make sure I got my money’s worth.”
“No sir! That child never goes out without leaving a note or saying what she’s up to. I wish I could think it was just a movie, but I can’t. There’s something going on here, Mr. Ormondroyd. You just mark my words. There’s something behind all this.”
I had to smile. Mrs. Clutchett cleaned my apartment every other Thursday, and I had come to know her as a curious compound of sentimentality and devotion to mystery. She loved to see in almost everything that happened a huge and sinister plot, suspected by no one but herself. Nearly anyone you could name was probably “up to something” that would astonish the world “if only truth were told.” I could see her now at the other end of the line, pursing her lips and nodding with that air she had of ominous satisfaction.
“Oh, nonsense,” I said. “She’s probably visiting one of her friends.”
“Well! I just wish I could think so. I just hope to goodnes
s it’s that simple. Poor Mr. Shaw’s telephoning all her friends now, and I’m calling all the people in the building — but it won’t do any good. We’ll have to bring in the police, I can just feel it in my bones. Poor child! It’s just those kind that have something awful happen to them.”
“Well, I’ll have a look around up here,” I said. “If I see her I’ll send her right home.”
“That’s awfully nice of you, Mr. Ormondroyd. But I’ve got a hunch it won’t do any good. There’s more than meets the eye here, you mark my words.” And with that dark utterance she hung up.
I did take a look up and down the hallway of the fifth floor, where I live; but Mrs. Clutchett was right to this extent, that it didn’t do any good. There was no Susan in sight.
Next afternoon, Thursday, Mrs. Clutchett boarded the elevator as I was going down.
“Did it turn out all right?” I asked.
“No sir!” she said in sorrowful triumph. “What did I tell you! Didn’t I say there was something behind all this? That poor child has vanished without a trace!”
“Oh oh!”
“Yes indeed, you may well say ‘oh oh!’ You’d probably have cause to say more than that if truth were told. Now, I’ll tell you what,” she said, lowering her voice dramatically and fixing me with her eye. “This whole thing could’ve been prevented, if you ask me. Nipped right in the bud.”
“Really? How?”
“Well, now! It’s not that he isn’t a good father to her — maybe too good, trying to make it up for her, you know. Lucky for him she’s so stage-struck that she doesn’t think to plague him for things like most girls plague their fathers, because I know he couldn’t deny her anything. But if I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a hundred times, ‘Mr. Shaw,’ I’ve said, ‘you ought to marry again. A good-looking, steady man like you. It’s not right for the poor child not to have a mother, girls need the influence of a good woman,’ I said. Not that I don’t respect his feelings. I know what it’s like, believe you me. Why, when poor Mr. Clutchett was taken to Heaven I made a vow right then and there never to look at another man again, to keep his dear memory ever green, so to speak, and I’ve kept that vow through thick and thin, believe me, not but what there weren’t strong temptations to break it. But I didn’t have chick nor child like Mr. Shaw has, and that makes a difference, you can’t deny it, feelings or not.”
“So you think she ran away because of not having a mother?”
“Well, now,” she said, changing her tack as if suddenly realizing that such a simple reason didn’t have many possibilities for mystification. “I just hope to goodness that it’s nothing worse. Not that I’m reproaching him with it now, you understand. Poor man, he’s half frantic with worry. I’m staying by his side through thick and thin. I’m just going out now to get some coffee, he’s drinking it by the gallon, won’t eat a bite. No, I won’t say another word about it now, but just you wait till that child comes back, if she comes back, won’t I just lay into him then, night and day, until he finds a good respectable woman to marry and give that poor child a home!”
I went with her to buy the coffee. She talked nonstop all the way to the store and all the way back, veering between real concern and delighted foreboding. The police had been notified and were working on the case under the direction of a certain Detective Haugen. They had searched the building from basement to roof, and had gone over the elevator with magnifying glasses and finger-print equipment, without result. Susan’s picture and description had been sent out through the city and to other cities nearby: Missing, Susan Shaw; age, height, weight, etcetera etcetera; wearing a dark coat, grey and red pleated wool tartan skirt, grey pullover sweater, white socks, saddle shoes; reward for information leading to recovery. There were several theories to account for what had happened. She might have run away, she might have amnesia, she might have been kidnapped. Poor Mr. Shaw was still arguing hopefully against all three possibilities. There was no reason, he said, for Susie to run away—she was doing well in school, he had never quarreled with her, she seemed happy enough for a motherless girl. Amnesia wasn’t likely; you had to suffer severe strain or shock to lose your memory, and although the death of Mrs. Shaw two years ago had been a terrible blow, nevertheless Susan had come through it very well. And as for kidnapping, what could kidnappers hope to gain by taking such a risk? He was not rich; he was only an accountant with a very small company, and his savings amounted to nothing that the most desperate of abductors would consider worth while.
It was simply a scandal, Mrs. Clutchett went on, the way the tenants were behaving. Well, some of them, anyhow — pretending they had business on the third floor just so’s they could walk by the Shaws’ apartment and stare in the door. Still, it had to be admitted that most of the people in the building were being just as kind as they could be, offering to cook or run errands, or bringing sandwiches to try to tempt poor Mr. Shaw into eating something to keep his spirits up. Even Mr. Bodoni, the janitor, had come up and had actually (for the first time in his life, probably) taken that horrible dead cigar out of his mouth and put it in his pocket as a sign of respect. He had patted Mr. Shaw on the shoulder, steered him into the kitchen, and whispered solemnly, “You show me anyting here it’s outa repair, anyting, I fix it right now. No questions asked. Right now—everyting else can wait.” Later he came in again with an enormous bunch of daffodils, and, removing his cigar once more, expanded his offer: “You show me anyting here, it don’t even have to be outa repair, I fix it. All brand-new parts.”
“Now wasn’t that real sweet?” Mrs. Clutchett said moistly. “It just goes to show you, doesn’t it? I’d never have thought it of him in a hundred years — him being foreign-born and usually so mysterious in his ways and all.”
“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.
“Well, Mr. Ormondroyd, if you’re a praying man as I sincerely hope you are, most writers I fear being the contrary, then I guess you better get down on your knees. Police and detectives and all irregardless, I’ve got a hunch we’ll never see that poor child again without Heaven’s help. You just mark my words.”
2. Hubbub in the Hallway
The mystery unexpectedly deepened late Thursday night.
Detective Haugen, who suspected that they were dealing with a kidnapping, had stationed a policeman in the Shaws’ apartment in case an attempt should be made during the night to deliver a ransom note. At about one-twenty-five A.M. the policeman heard what he thought was a child crying in the hallway. He rushed out to investigate, and found a large black tomcat nervously sniffing the carpet and yowling. On the floor lay a scrap of newspaper with writing on it. ‘Ransom note!’ he thought; ‘Haugen was right!’ He wrapped a handkerchief around his fingers, and was stooping to pick up the note when he noticed that the elevator was ascending. (The elevator was on the opposite side of the hallway from the Shaws’ apartment, and one door down.) The indicator arrow above the elevator door was steadily creeping around the dial. It had just reached 4 when he looked. He raced into the Shaws’ apartment and telephoned the precinct station. “Get hold of Haugen!” he shouted. “I think we’ve got ’em. They may be going up the elevator right now. —That’s right, I said up. — That’s what the arrow said. — Look, don’t argue, get Haugen and some of the boys here, quick. We’ve got to cut ’em off!”
The building was quickly encircled and all exits covered by armed policemen. Searching parties swept through the building, working their way upward floor by floor — one group up the inside stairs, two up the outside fire escapes.
Nothing. The elevator stood empty on the seventh floor.
“Up to the roof, boys,” Detective Haugen ordered. “Don’t fire unless they do first. Keep your eye on the hallway here, Murphy.”
Nothing!
It suddenly occurred to Detective Haugen as he huddled against the wind on the roof that perhaps the elevator business had been a ruse. You didn’t have to be in an elevator to send it anywhere. You could press the button from o
utside. Perhaps the kidnappers had sent the elevator up to divert attention, while they walked or ran downstairs. They might have been able to leave the building before the police arrived to surround it — or they might have gone on to the basement to hide out until the excitement blew over …
“Come on, boys!”
No one was in the basement.
However, on a dusty part of the floor they found a cat’s pawmark. And behind the row of washing machines, by a puddle that had formed there from a leak in one of the hose connections, were several muddy footprints.
“Those weren’t here last time we searched,” Detective Haugen said. “Look, not even dry yet. Go up and get one of the girl’s shoes, Murphy.”
The footprints were slightly larger than Susan’s shoe. Nevertheless, they were much too small to have been made by an adult.
Since the basement was Mr. Bodoni’s particular province, he was seized for questioning as he entered the building a few minutes later. Had he been down in the basement recently?
“Yeah,” said Mr. Bodoni.
When?
“Bout half an hour ago, three-quarters of an hour, along in there, I guess.”
Had he seen or heard anything out of the ordinary?
Mr. Bodoni looked at the ground and shifted his cigar evasively.
Well?
“Don’t tell the tenants, willya?” Mr. Bodoni muttered. “Everyting’s under control. I only seen one.”
“One what?” Detective Haugen shouted. “Out with it, man!”
Mr. Bodoni leaned forward and hoarsely whispered, “Mice!”
Coming home from a late movie, he had entered the elevator and found a mouse in it. He had been fighting mice for three years, and had finally reached the point where he could look any tenant in the eye and say there wasn’t a mouse in the house. And now this! He put his foot on the creature, descended to the basement, where he had seen and heard nothing unusual, and collected his mousetraps. Needing bait, he had gone out to an all-night delicatessen for some cheese, and had been grabbed by two policemen on his return. “Whatsa matter?” he demanded. “A man can’t buy cheese any more? It’s against the law to buy cheese? Buyin’ cheese, ’at’s all I was —”
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