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

by Alice Simpson

  I stood guard by my roll of paper and waited until one of the Examiner drivers had finished unloading his cargo and was ready to pull from the dock.

  “How’s chances fer a ride, buddy?” I said, jerking my thumb in the manner of a hitch-hiker. “Me and my paper to the old Press building?”

  “Okay,” laughed the trucker.

  He rolled the paper onto the truck, and I climbed into the cab beside him. At the Press building, I had the roll set off at the rear entrance where Harry easily could get it to the press room.

  I mounted the steps two at a time, bursting in upon Florence who was busy proof-reading Mrs. Pruitt’s latest offering,

  “Got it!” I announced. “About six hundred pounds of paper. That should keep the Weekly going for a while.”

  “Here’s something to dampen your enthusiasm.” Florence thrust a letter toward me. “Another kick on that octopus tattoo story you wrote. A Mrs. Clarence Brown says she heartily disapproves of such outlandish tales and that she’ll never buy another copy of Carter’s All-Story Weekly.”

  “At least it proves my story attracted attention,” I said. “Anything else while I was gone?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Timms telephoned to ask that you come to the cottage as soon as possible. And that reminds me—the telephone bill. The company requires a month’s advance—”

  “Never mind the bills,” I said. “Did Mrs. Timms say anything about Anchor Jim?”

  “He appears to be much better.”

  “I’m glad of that. I suppose I should drive out to the cottage before it gets dark.”

  “Run along. I’ll look after everything here.”

  I swept my desk clear of papers and locked the drawers. I told Florence goodbye and left the office. On the stairway, I met Harry.

  “I’ve made my list,” he said. “I figure we can’t get out the next issue with less than this.”

  I glanced at the paper and slipped it into my purse.

  “I’ll get the things somehow,” I promised. “By the way, there’s a roll of paper on the loading dock.”

  “I’ve already hauled ’er in. Any other jobs for me?”

  “No, you seem to be one jump ahead.”

  We descended the stairway together, the steps creaking beneath our weight. Harry looked different. His hair had been cut and his face was clean-shaven.

  “I suppose you knew Marcus Roberts rather well?” I asked him.

  “Oh, sure.”

  “What was he like?”

  “Well—” Harry hesitated, at a loss for words. “Roberts was odd, sort of cold and unfriendly except to those who knew him best, but he was a straight-shooter.”

  “The employees liked him?”

  “Everyone did except a few chronic sore-heads.”

  “Is it true that the Press was making money at the time it closed down?”

  “That’s what everyone on the paper thought. It was a shock to us all when Roberts closed up shop. I’ll never forget the day he told us he was giving up the plant. The old man looked like death had struck him, and he cried when he said goodbye to the boys.”

  “I wonder why he closed the plant?”

  “Some say it was because he had lost a pile of money speculating on the stock market, but I never believed it. Roberts wasn’t the gambling type.”

  “Why do you think he gave up the paper?”

  “I’ve done a lot of speculating on it,” the Harry admitted. “This is just my own idea, but I figure Roberts may have been blackmailed.”

  “Blackmailed! By whom?”

  “I can’t tell you—it’s only my guess.”

  “You have no evidence to support such a theory?”

  “Nothing you could call evidence, but the day before Roberts quit he was in the pressroom. He was sort of thinking out loud, I guess. Anyhow, he said to me, ‘Harry, the dirty blackmailer couldn’t do this to me if it weren’t for my daughter. If it didn’t mean smearing her name, I’d fight!’”

  “Did you ask him what he meant?”

  “I made some reply, and then he closed up like a clam. I figure he hadn’t realized what he was saying.”

  “You haven’t any idea as to whom he meant?”

  “I couldn’t make a guess.”

  “No matter what the reason, it was a pity the Press had to close,” I said. “I feel very sorry for Mr. Roberts.”

  I told Harry goodbye and climbed aboard Bouncing Betsy. As I drove toward the river cottage I couldn’t stop thinking about what the old pressman had told me. It was possible that Harry was right, but why should Mr. Roberts submit to blackmail even for his daughter’s sake? Somehow the pieces of the puzzle refused to fit together.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was close to dusk when I drew up at the end of the road. I parked Bouncing Betsy between a pair of scraggly box-elders and walked swiftly along the river trail, soon approaching within view of Dad’s new cottage.

  The fallen tree had been sawed into cordwood, the yard cleaned of sticks and debris, and only the damaged porch remained to remind one of the severe storm.

  As I opened the screen door, Mrs. Timms came out from the kitchen.

  “Jim is asleep,” she warned in a whisper. “Perhaps we should talk outside.”

  I nodded and followed the housekeeper to the porch swing.

  “How is he doing?” I asked.

  “Oh, much better,” replied Mrs. Timms. “The doctor was here an hour ago. Jim is out of danger but must remain in bed for at least another day.”

  “I was afraid when you telephoned that something had gone wrong here.”

  “No,” confessed the housekeeper, “I was merely lonesome for news. Is everything going well at home?”

  “Oh, yes, we’re getting along fine. Dad misses you terribly, of course.”

  Mrs. Timms blushed a faint shade of rose. I pretended not to notice.

  “I hope you remembered to bring in the milk. And you didn’t neglect the dusting?”

  I smiled ruefully.

  “I might have known you would let everything go,” sighed Mrs. Timms. “No doubt it’s my duty to remain here, but I feel I should be at home.”

  “Anchor Jim needs you, Mrs. Timms. Has he talked very much?”

  “Not a great deal. He ate a hearty lunch and seems in no pain.”

  “Did you see his back, Mrs. Timms?”

  “Yes, the cut was an ugly one. The doctor changed the dressing while he was here.”

  “I meant the tattoo,” I said. “Didn’t you notice it?”

  “I saw that he had one if that’s what you mean.”

  “You didn’t question him about it?”

  “Certainly not, Jane. Why should I?”

  “Didn’t you read ‘The Mystery of the Octopus Tattoo’ in the first issue of Carter’s All-story Weekly? Anchor Jim’s tattoo is a dead ringer for the one Richard Hamsted had on his back, albeit the names were changed in my fictionalized version of the tale. Jim’s already admitted that he knows Hamsted. For all we know they may be bitter enemies. Perhaps it was Anchor Jim who pushed Hamsted off the bridge!”

  “Jane, your ideas grow wilder each day,” protested Mrs. Timms. “I hope you don’t talk such nonsense to other people.”

  “All the same, Anchor Jim bears someone a grudge,” I insisted. “He mentioned a person who had ratted. Didn’t you learn a single fact about him, Mrs. Timms?”

  “His last name is Loewen, and he came to Greenville three weeks ago. He has no family.”

  “I think I’ll question him myself when he awakens.”

  “No, I can’t allow that,” said Mrs. Timms sternly. “The doctor would never approve.”

  “I promise not to excite him.”

  “The answer is no! Now, if you wish to make yourself useful, you could help me by bringing in the washing. I must start supper.”

  I took the basket and unpinned sheets and pillowcases from the line. I had just finished when I noticed a tall, well-built young man with military stride approaching
through the trees. He tipped his hat politely.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, “I am trying to find the Fielding cottage.”

  “Your search is at an end. You’ve come to the right place.”

  “Do you have a man working here named Jim Loewen?”

  “Yes, we have.”

  “Where may I find him, please?”

  “Mr. Loewen is confined to his bed,” I explained. “There was an unfortunate incident involving a falling tree. He’s quite smashed up, I’m afraid. Unless it is very important, I fear we can’t allow you to talk with him today.”

  “It is very important,” said the stranger. “I am Clark Mortimer, from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “A G-man?”

  “I am an investigator for the government,” he replied, smiling.

  “And you’re after Anchor Jim?”

  “I am here to question him.”

  “What has he done, Mr. Mortimer?”

  “I am not permitted to discuss the case,” he said, looking maddingly amused. “It’s quite possible that Loewen is not the man I seek. How long has he worked here?”

  “Only a few days. He—he hasn’t killed anyone, has he?”

  “No, it’s not that serious. The man I am after is short and wiry, with sandy hair and blue eyes. He has a tattooed anchor on his right arm.”

  “And one on his back?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t know about that. Does my description fit the man who has been working here?”

  “Yes, it does! Almost exactly.”

  “Then I’d like to talk with him.”

  “Come into the cottage. I’ll call Mrs. Timms.”

  The housekeeper listened to Mr. Mortimer’s request that he be permitted to see the injured man and examined his identification. He appeared to be a genuine representative of the FBI.

  “If you are a government investigator, I suppose it will be all right,” Mrs. Timms said reluctantly, “but the doctor’s orders were that he was to be kept absolutely quiet and not be upset in any way.”

  “I’ll only ask a question or two,” Mr. Mortimer promised.

  “Is Jim wanted on a criminal charge?” Mrs. Timms asked.

  “I was sent to check up on a man who calls himself Jim Loewen. That’s all I can tell you.”

  An unmistakable odor of kidney bean masala stew boiling over onto a hot cast iron stovetop came from the kitchen. Mrs. Timms ran to jerk the pan from the stove.

  “Jane, you see if Jim is awake, yet,” she called over her shoulder.

  “I’ll go with you,” said Mr. Mortimer quickly. “If I have made a mistake, it may not be necessary to disturb the man.”

  “This way,” I said.

  I led the government man down the hall to the rear bedroom. The door was closed. I twisted the knob and pushed, gently at first, and then with increasing force.

  “It seems to be stuck,” I said. “The recent rains must have caused the wood to swell.”

  “Let me try,” said Mr. Mortimer.

  He took my place, and after testing the door, gave it a hard push. There was a loud crash as it suddenly swung open.

  “Goodness! What was that?” I said.

  “A barricade. Keep back.”

  To my astonishment, the government man drew his revolver before entering the room. Disregarding the order to remain behind, I followed him inside.

  “I might have expected this!” he muttered.

  A chair lay overturned on the floor. The bed, still bearing the imprint of a man’s body, was empty.

  “His clothing is gone, too!” I said.

  Mr. Mortimer strode to the open window.

  “You think he left that way?” I asked. “He must have heard us talking!”

  The government man nodded.

  “He heard us all right. There’s no question now that he’s the man I am after! And I’ll get him, too!”

  Mr. Mortimer climbed through the open window, lowered himself to the ground and examined the area before he took off at a jog toward the river.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I lost no time in telling Mrs. Timms that Anchor Jim had disappeared.

  “Well, of all things!” exclaimed the housekeeper as she saw the deserted bedroom. “He was here a half hour ago. I know because I came in while he was sleeping.”

  “He must have heard Mr. Mortimer inquiring about him,” I said. “Obviously he ran away to avoid the interview.”

  “Then that means he’s guilty.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said, “but I’ll admit it doesn’t look very good to elude questioning by a representative of the FBI. What do you suppose he did to have a government man after him?”

  “He may have been a gangster.”

  “Anchor Jim? He hardly looked the type.”

  “In any event, we’re fortunate to be rid of him.”

  “I wish we could have questioned him,” I said. “Now I may never learn about that octopus tattoo.”

  “You and your tattoo!” scoffed Mrs. Timms, beginning to strip linen from the bed. “Anchor Jim certainly deceived me. He seemed such a pleasant sort, and I was sorry for him.”

  “I still am,” I said. “The poor fellow is in no condition to be wandering around. I rather hope Mr. Mortimer overtakes him soon. Then at least he’ll get the medical attention he requires.”

  While Mrs. Timms straightened the bedroom, I wandered out to the river’s edge. Only a few stars were pricking the sky, and it was impossible to see very far. There was no sign either of Mr. Mortimer or the man he pursued.

  I returned to the cottage to eat supper with Mrs. Timms.

  “With Anchor Jim has gone, I may as well go home tonight,” Mrs. Timms said. “I can’t leave, though, until I’ve cleaned the cottage and set it to rights.”

  “How much longer will it take?”

  “Oh, an hour or two.”

  “While I am waiting for you, I may walk over to Paul Firth’s place,” I said. “I shouldn’t mind seeing Rosie Larkin again.”

  “You’ll be cautious in crossing the river?”

  “Of course,” I told Mrs. Timms. “I won’t be gone long.”

  I washed the dishes for Mrs. Timms and then set out for the Firth farmhouse. Frogs croaked as I crossed the swaying bridge, and far upstream I heard the faint chug of a motorboat. Otherwise, the night was unusually still.

  When I emerged from among the trees, I saw a light glowing in the distance. It came from the Firth house, and I used it as a beacon to guide me.

  I passed the barn, climbed a fence and entered the yard. The house was dark save for a single light burning in the kitchen. I could see Rosie Larkin moving about inside.

  I knocked on the side door. Through the window, I observed Rosie freeze as if terrified by the sound. To reassure the girl I called her name in a loud voice.

  Immediately Rosie ran to open the door.

  “Oh, it’s you!” she exclaimed in relief. “I was frightened.”

  To my surprise, Rosie wore a silk dress. Pocketbook, hat and gloves lay upon the kitchen table.

  “I am afraid I’ve come at an awkward time,” I apologized. “You were going somewhere?”

  “I’m leaving here,” Rosie answered grimly. She closed the door behind me.

  “You mean for good? You’ve found another job?”

  Rosie shook her head. “I’ve been discharged. He didn’t so much as give me a week’s advance wages, either.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” I said. “But you’ll find a better place. You said you didn’t like it here, anyway.”

  “I’ve had a wretched time of it. Paul Firth is such a paranoid person. Why do you think he discharged me?”

  “I can’t guess, but I should like to know.”

  “He accused me of prying!”

  “How unjust.”

  “Well, in a way, I was trying to learn about things I shouldn’t,” Rosie admitted. “It was that storm cave.”

  “Did you get down into it?”


  “No, but I tried. Old Paul was gone this afternoon, and I decided to find out what he keeps hidden underground.”

  “The padlock wasn’t locked?”

  “Usually it is, but today he forgot. I got the door open. Just as I started down the steps, he grabbed me by the shoulder. I was scared half to death.”

  “You mean Firth had hidden himself in the cave?”

  “Yes, it was a trick to catch me prying. He said so himself, Jane. He only pretended to go away, then lay in wait for me.”

  “Did he threaten to hurt you?”

  “No, he just told me to get out and never come back. It wouldn’t surprise me if he leaves here soon himself.”

  “Why do you say that, Rosie?”

  “Because he’s afraid of his own shadow, but I don’t blame him for being nervous. This house is being watched!”

  As if fearing that unfriendly eyes were upon her at that very moment, Rosie went to the window and, after peering into the yard, lowered the blind.

  “Twice I’ve seen men hiding in the wheat field just back of this place,” she confided. “The first time there was only one, but yesterday I saw three.”

  “Are you sure they were watching this house, Rosie?”

  “Oh, yes, they were lying on the ground. For an hour they scarcely moved.”

  “Didn’t you tell Firth?”

  “I was afraid to tell him, but I think he knew, already. All day he kept inside the house, and I saw him at the windows. He was as jumpy as a cat. Another thing—I saw him loading his revolver.”

  “He must fear for his life.”

  “I’m sure of it, Jane. Even if he’s only going to the barn he carries the revolver with him.”

  A clock on the shelf above the stove struck eight times.

  “Mercy!” exclaimed Rosie, “I must hurry, or I’ll never get away before Mr. Firth returns. Excuse me while I run upstairs for my suitcase.”

  “Where is Firth now?” I asked.

  “In Greenville, I suppose. He went away right after supper.”

  “Run along and get your suitcase,” I said. “I’ll drive you into town.”

  “It won’t take me long to collect my things.”

  After Rosie had gone, I walked to the window and rolled up the blind. Across the yard, I could see the dim outline of the disfiguring mound of earth and cement. What secret did the storm cave guard? Why was it always kept padlocked?