The Oblivious Heiress: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Four) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 4)

by Alice Simpson

  Driving mechanically, I weaved through downtown traffic, now and then halting for a red light. As I was accelerating from an intersection, a man suddenly stepped from the curb. He was staring down at the pavement and did not see Bouncing Betsy approaching.

  I swerved and slammed on the foot brake. The edge of Betsy’s fender brushed the man’s overcoat. He gasped in astonishment and staggered backward.

  I brought the car to a standstill at the curb.

  “I hope you’re not hurt,” I said to the man, who had managed to keep his footing.

  “No—no,” the man murmured in a bewildered manner.

  As he turned his face toward me, I recognized Marcus Roberts, the former publisher of the Morning Press.

  “Let me take you home, or wherever you are going,” I urged. “You don’t look well, Mr. Roberts. I’m afraid I gave you a ghastly fright. I am very sorry.”

  “It was my fault,” admitted the old gentleman. “I was preoccupied with a distressing matter when I stepped from the curb.”

  “This is a dangerous intersection. Please, Mr. Roberts, can’t I take you home?”

  “If you insist,” he murmured, climbing aboard Bouncing Betsy. “You seem to know my name, but I haven’t the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

  “I’m Jane Carter. My father publishes the Examiner.”

  “Oh, yes.” Mr. Roberts replied mechanically.

  “Your home is on Drexel Boulevard, I believe?”

  Marcus Roberts nodded and in the same dull, lifeless voice supplied the address. He made no attempt at conversation. Mr. Roberts face bore lines of mental fatigue and discouragement. He stared straight ahead with glazed, unseeing eyes.

  Hoping to start a conversation, I remarked that I was the managing editor of Carter’s All-Story Weekly. For the first time, Marcus Roberts displayed interest.

  “Oh, are you the young lady who has taken over my building?” he asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Vaughn allows me the use of it rent-free. I hope you don’t mind?”

  “Mind?” repeated Mr. Roberts, laughing mirthlessly. “Why should I mind?”

  “Well, I thought—that is—”

  “You thought that because I gave up my own paper I might not wish to see the building used by another?”

  “Something like that,” I admitted.

  “I try not to think about the past,” said Mr. Roberts quietly. “Long ago, I made my decision, and now I must abide by it. I realize that I never can publish the Morning Press again. I’m broken, beaten!”

  “Surely one can’t be defeated so long as one is willing to keep up the fight,” I said. “If you chose to make a come-back, I’m certain you would succeed.”

  Mr. Roberts shook his head impatiently. “You don’t understand. I am through—finished. All I can hope to do is to hold fast to what little I have and try to protect Henrietta.”

  “Henrietta is your wife?”

  “My daughter. If it weren’t for her—” Mr. Roberts hesitated, then finished in a voice deliberately casual: “If it weren’t for her, I probably would end it all.”

  “Why, Mr. Roberts!” I protested. “You can’t mean that.”

  “Don’t be alarmed,” he said, smiling faintly. “I have no intention of taking the easy way out.”

  A dozen questions flashed through my mind, but I was afraid to ask any of them. From Mr. Roberts’ remarks, it was evident that he had not relinquished the Press of his own free will. But could financial difficulties alone account for his state of mental depression?

  In the darkening twilight, we approached a huge white-painted brick house, set back some distance from the boulevard. It had once been an elegant, palatial dwelling, but now peeling paint had made it unsightly. Roof shingles were curling, and the expansive front veranda sagged. An iron fence failed to hide a swath of overgrown gardens and untended lawn.

  “This is my home,” said Mr. Roberts. “Turn into the driveway, if you wish.”

  I stopped Bouncing Betsy just inside the iron gate.

  As Mr. Roberts got out, a girl who appeared to be in her early twenties, arose from a bench on the veranda. She came toward the car, a white collie trotting at her side. Midway across the lawn, she paused, then half turned as if to retreat.

  “Henrietta,” called Mr. Roberts. “Will you come here, please?”

  Reluctantly, the girl approached the car, her gaze meeting mine defiantly. Henrietta was a beautiful girl with bright brilliant red hair and steel-blue eyes.

  “Henrietta, this is Mrs. Carter,” said her father.

  “How do you do,” the girl responded coldly.

  I recognized her instantly. Mr. Roberts’ daughter, Henrietta, was the girl who had tossed the wig and clothing into the river after disembarking from the Flamingo.

  “How do you do, Miss Roberts,” I said. “Haven’t we met before?”

  Henrietta kept her face averted from her father. She met my gaze with a bold stare.

  “I think not,” she said evenly. “No, Mrs. Carter, you are mistaken.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Won’t you stay for a few minutes?” Mr. Roberts said to me. “Henrietta, why not show Mrs. Carter our rose garden?”

  “It’s rather dark,” his daughter replied. “Anyway, she wouldn’t care to see it.”

  “On the contrary, I should enjoy it immensely,” I said and switched off Bouncing Betsy’s ignition.

  Henrietta glared at me but dared make no protest in her father’s presence. With a shrug, she led me along a gravel path to the rear of the house. Mr. Roberts remained behind.

  As soon as they were beyond hearing, I said quietly: “Need we pretend? I am sure you recall that we met aboard the Flamingo.”

  “Yes, I remember now,” Henrietta admitted. “You were with another girl.”

  “And you were accompanied by a young man.”

  “A friend of mine.”

  “This may be something of a shock,” I said, “but my friend and I saw you drop a bundle containing a wig into the river.”

  “Oh!”

  “The bundle caught fast, and I fished it out.”

  “You have no proof it was mine! You—you won’t tell Father?”

  “Not if you can offer a good reason why I shouldn’t.”

  “There are any number of them. You mustn’t tell my father! That’s why I pretended not to know you.”

  “I certainly wish you would explain. Rosie Larkin was robbed that night.”

  “Who is Rosie Larkin?”

  “One of the passengers on the Flamingo that evening. Her pocketbook was taken shortly before the boat docked.”

  “You can’t believe I had anything to do with it!”

  “I don’t wish to think so, but your actions were very strange.”

  “I can explain everything,” Henrietta said. “My reason for wearing a disguise was a simple one. I didn’t care to have anyone on the boat recognize me.”

  “Why, may I ask?”

  Before Henrietta could answer, Mr. Roberts came around the corner of the house.

  “Please say nothing about it to Father,” the young woman pleaded in a whisper. “I’ll explain everything later.”

  I nodded, and, for Mr. Roberts’ benefit, said how well the roses were looking.

  “We once had a beautiful garden,” Henrietta said. “Now it’s in ruin, the same as the yard. Father doesn’t look after the place as he should.”

  “The grounds are very large,” replied Mr. Roberts mildly.

  “You shouldn’t try to do the work yourself,” Henrietta protested. “It was foolish of you to let the gardener go.”

  I felt increasingly ill at ease. As we wandered about the grounds, Henrietta kept making disparaging remarks, thoughtless comments which must have wounded her father. However, he offered no rebuttal, nor did he reprove his daughter for complaining.

  “I really must be going,” I said at last. “It’s getting very dark.”

  Mr. Roberts walked with me back to Bouncin
g Betsy, closing the gate behind me after I had reversed out into the street.

  I looked back over my shoulder. He stood there a moment, the wind rumpling his gray hair. Then he raised his hand in friendly salute and turned toward the house.

  When I arrived home, the house was dark. I let myself in. Father had not expected me home so early and, disliking an empty house, had remained at the Examiner office. There was no telling when he would return. Mrs. Timms was still at the cottage, caring for the injured Anchor Jim.

  After preparing a belated dinner for myself, I spent an hour working on the next installment of “The Mystery of the Octopus Tattoo.” However, my mind kept reverting to the events of the day. A great deal had happened. My meeting with Paul Firth had been interesting. Anchor Jim’s mishap worried me, and I remained disturbed by the threatening message left on my desk. Could it have been written by a prowler in the building? Ever since we’d started the paper, I’d felt that someone was hiding there. Before dropping off to sleep, I made up my mind that the following night I would set a trap for the intruder.

  The next day I took Florence into my confidence, and we made a plan, but we waited until the evening to carry it out. We prepared a tasty box supper, wrapped it up as usual and laid it conspicuously on the counter of the downstairs advertising room.

  “Now the stage is set,” I said in a low voice. “Florence, you go upstairs to my office and tap on the typewriter. I’ll hide here and see what happens.”

  After Florence had gone, I switched off the light and secreted myself in a storage closet not far from the counter. By leaving the door open, I could see fairly well into the darkened reception room for street lights cast a reflection through the plate glass windows.

  The minutes stretched into a half hour. Florence’s typewriting, at first very energetic, began to slacken in speed. I moved restlessly in my cramped quarters. I had not anticipated that waiting would be so tedious.

  An hour elapsed. Far down the street, a clock struck ten times. I got up from the floor. I could no longer endure sitting and waiting. As I emerged from my hiding place, intending to call Florence, a door opened at the west end of the room. I froze against the wall.

  A flashlight beam played across the floor, missing me by a scant two feet.

  I remained motionless, my heart beating at a furious rate. A shadowy figure of a man moved toward me. Boards squeaked beneath his weight.

  Midway across the room, the man paused, evidently listening to the steady clatter of Florence’s typewriter. Satisfied, he went to the window where he stood for several minutes watching street traffic.

  As he turned again, the beam of his flashlight swept across the front counter, focusing upon the package of food. The man gave a low exclamation of pleasure. With the swiftness of a cat, he darted to it and tore off the paper wrapping.

  I waited until he was eating greedily. Then stealing along the wall, I groped for the electric light switch. As I pressed it, the room was brilliantly illuminated. Then I gave a shrill whistle, a signal to Florence that the culprit had been trapped.

  The man at the counter whirled around, facing me. He was a gaunt, unshaven fellow in his late fifties with shaggy hair, and soiled, wrinkled clothing.

  Before he could retreat, Florence came down the stairway, blocking the exit.

  “What are you doing here?” I questioned him. “Why did you steal my supper?”

  The man’s lips moved nervously, but no sound came from them.

  “Shall I call the police?” I asked.

  “No, don’t do that,” the man pleaded, finding his voice. “Don’t call the police. I’ll go. I won’t bother you anymore.”

  “Why have you been hiding in the building?”

  “Because I have no other place to sleep, Ma’am. The cops chase you off the park benches.”

  “You’ve been living in this building a long while?” I asked.

  “Maybe six months. I sleep down in the furnace room. I didn’t do any harm, except to steal—” The man motioned to the box lunch.

  “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am, Ma’am. Lately, I haven’t been eating any too often.”

  “You may finish the lunch,” I said. “And there’s a thermos bottle of coffee under the counter.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am, thank you. I surely am obliged.”

  His hand trembled as he poured himself a cup of the steaming coffee.

  “You haven’t told me your name,” I said after the man had drained the cup.

  “Folks just call me Harry.”

  “What is your real name?”

  “Harold Horner,” the man answered reluctantly.

  “I’m curious to learn how you’ve been getting in and out of the building.”

  “With a key.” Harry devoured the last bite of sandwich and poured himself a second cup of coffee.

  “A skeleton key, you mean?”

  “No, Miss. I have my own key. In the old days, I used to work here.”

  “You’re a former Press employee?”

  “Sure, I know it’s hard to believe, but when a fellow’s out of a job and money, it doesn’t take long to go to seed. I lost my place when Roberts closed down.”

  “And you’ve been unable to find other work?”

  “In the past nine months. I’ve worked exactly six days. No one hires an old fellow any more. If I could have kept on with Roberts three more years I’d have been due for my pension.”

  “What work did you do on the paper?” I asked.

  “I was a pressman.”

  “Mr. Horner,” I said, “it’s possible I may be able to find some sort of work for you, later on. Do you mind writing your name on this paper?”

  The man took the sheet I handed him, without hesitation scrawling his name, Harold Horner.

  I studied the writing a moment. To my relief, it bore not the slightest resemblance to the warning message left on my desk the previous night.

  “Harry,” I asked, “did you ever try to frighten me away from this building?”

  “Oh, no, Ma’am,” he replied. “Once I tiptoed up to your office. When I saw you were working there, I slipped down to the basement again.”

  “Did you ever place a note on my desk?”

  “I never did.”

  I was satisfied that Harry had told the truth. Yet, if he was not the culprit, I was unable to guess who had warned me to abandon the plant.

  “Mr. Horner, I’ve decided that we need a watchman around this place,” I said abruptly. “If you want the job, it’s yours.”

  “You’re not turning me out?”

  “No, you may stay. I can’t promise much of a salary, but at least you’ll have a place to sleep and enough food.”

  “You’re mighty kind,” Harry said. “Mighty kind.” He hesitated and then added: “I promise you won’t be sorry you did it, Ma’am. Maybe you’ll find I can be of some real use around this plant. I’m at your service and what’s more, I’m for you one hundred percent.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next morning Flo and I arrived at the Times building to find that the entire lower floor had been cleaned and swept. Harry was in the composing room, stirring up a great cloud of dust with a stub of a broom.

  “I was just cleaning the place up a bit,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Mind?” I said. “I’m delighted.”

  “I set a little type for you last night, too.”

  “Why, Mr. Horner, I didn’t know you were a linotype operator.”

  “I’m not,” said the man, “but I can learn most anything if I set my mind to it. If you have any jobs you want done just turn them over to me.”

  “Mr. Horner,” I said, “more than anything else I would like to publish Carter’s All-Story Weekly in my own plant. The obstacles seem almost too great to overcome; do you think it could be accomplished?”

  “Why, sure,” said Harry. “If I had some tools and a little to do with I could get the presses ready
in a day.”

  “What about the stereotyping work?”

  “I could master the trick of it,” declared Harry confidently.

  “You’re a jewel!” I said. “I’ll place you in charge of my production department, but I fear I can’t give you a salary in proportion to your duties.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Ma’am. I would rather be working than sitting around with nothing to do.”

  “Then look over the plant and make up a list of the things you must have. I’ll go over to the Examiner this minute and arrange for printing paper.”

  I left Flo in charge of the office and set out for my father’s plant. Now that Harry had been added to the staff of the Weekly, problems which previously had seemed insurmountable suddenly had become easily solved.

  When I got to the Examiner building I went directly to the stockroom, wandering about until I found Mr. Curry, the foreman.

  “Here’s something for you,” I said, offering a slip of paper.

  “What’s this?” Mr. Curry asked. “An order for a roll of paper?”

  “Yes, Mr. Curry,” I explained. “At last I am going to publish my own sheet over in the old Press building. I’ll square the bill with my father.”

  “One of these big rolls would print more copies of your paper than you could sell in six months! And paper is expensive. How about a half-roll or even a quarter? It would be a lot easier to handle.”

  “Oh, all right,” I said. “Just so I get enough to print my next issue.”

  Mr. Curry led the way to one of the presses, pointing to a roll of paper mounted on a feeding rack.

  “That one is about half used up,” he said. “Will it do?”

  “Yes, I guess so,” I agreed. “May I have it right away?”

  Mr. Curry replied by pushing a tram along a miniature railway which ran under the press. He maneuvered the roll into position on the carrier, then he pushed the tram to the elevator, moved the portable paper lift over the roll, and up it went to the platform. The elevator grounded at the first floor where the paper was rolled to the loading dock with pry bars.

  “There you are,” said the foreman.

  “All I need now is a truck. Thanks, Mr. Curry!”