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

by Alice Simpson

  “Crooks can be identified by their tattoos. Oh, it’s easy for a fellow to get one on, but not so easy to get it off.”

  “But it can be done?” I persisted. “Have you ever removed one?”

  “I’m the only man in the state who can take off a tattoo, so it doesn’t show,” boasted Mr. Pruitt. “Surgeons sometimes try, but you always can see where it was.”

  “Tell me about some of the tattoos you’ve removed,” I urged.

  “I’ve told you more than I should, already,” said Mr. Pruitt.

  “This will be strictly confidential,” I promised. “I’m not a reporter. I deal in pure fiction.”

  “It’s this way,” Mr. Pruitt said. “I never do any work for crooks—not me. But if a law-abiding, respectable citizen comes here and says he’s sick of his tattoo, then sometimes I take it off for him if he’s willing to pay the price. Fact is, I’m workin’ on a mighty interesting case right now. It’s a design that’s rare—an octopus.”

  I did not trust myself to speak for a moment.

  “How interesting, Mr. Pruitt,” I said as casually as I could manage. “An octopus tattoo? Was the man a sailor?”

  “He’s an old Salt all right, though he denies it.”

  “What is his name?”

  “I couldn’t tell you that,” Mr. Pruitt demurred. “I have to protect my customers.”

  “Tell me more about the tattoo,” I urged.

  “It’s just a figure about so large—” Mr. Pruitt demonstrated with his hands, “on the man’s back. Funny place for a tattoo, ain’t it?”

  “I should say so. Is it merely a figure of an octopus? No words or anything like that?”

  “There are two words. I took ’em off last week.”

  “Two? What are they, Mr. Pruitt?”

  “They don’t make sense. The words are For One.”

  “I once saw an octopus tattoo such as the one you describe,” I said. “But I distinctly recall that the design used only a single word. It was One.”

  “Is that so?” said Mr. Pruitt. “Maybe the tattoo isn’t as uncommon as I thought, but I never saw one like it before.”

  “I wonder what those words mean?”

  “I was asking my customer about it. He pretended he didn’t know, but I figure maybe he and some buddies had a sentence tattooed on ’em.”

  “You mean that if one were able to read several tattoos together, the words would make sense?”

  “That’s right,” nodded Mr. Pruitt. “I don’t know about this octopus tattoo, but I figure it may have been that way.”

  “Did your customer have any other tattoos on his body? An anchor, for instance?”

  “Didn’t notice ’em if he did.”

  “I suppose it takes a long while to remove a tattoo. Does your customer come often?”

  “Every Tuesday and Thursday night. He complains because I don’t do the work faster, but I tell him if he wants a good job it has to be done carefully.”

  Before I could ask another question, two young sailors swaggered into the shop. Ellis Pruitt, scenting business, immediately arose.

  “Be careful what you include in that yarn of yours,” he warned as he left me. “There’s been a lot of news articles on tattooin’, but not a one that’s right. It just ain’t possible for a reporter to write a true story unless it’s about a murder or a fire! Maybe you novelists can get it right for once.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I promised.

  I didn’t believe Mr. Pruitt could have been mistaken about the words which were incorporated in the design, and I was equally certain I wasn’t mistaken about Anchor Jim’s tattoo. It had only the single word, One. Mr. Pruitt’s declaration that his customer was not the possessor of a tattooed anchor caused me to doubt if the person could be Jim Loewen. However, the man was wanted by government agents, and it seemed reasonable to believe that he might seek to remove tell-tale markings. I decided that on Thursday night I’d watch Mr. Pruitt’s shop. I might succeed in identifying his mysterious customer.

  Chapter Twenty

  “All unwittingly, Mr. Pruitt gave me just the clue I need,” I told Flo. “It will be a gigantic step forward if I learn the identity of his mysterious customer.”

  “What’s to be gained by it?” asked Florence as she slugged a story and speared it on a hook. “What will be proven?”

  “Well, if I’m ever going to solve the mystery I must gather every fact I can,” I said. “I aim to learn the meaning of those strange tattoos and, above all, the reason why Richard Hamsted was pushed from the bridge.”

  “You certainly have your work cut out for you.”

  “But Mr. Pruitt’s information helps. You remember I told you that Richard Hamsted’s tattoo bore the word All. Anchor Jim’s was the same except for the word One. And now Ellis Pruitt has a customer with two words on his back: For One. I believe I have it!”

  “You have what?” asked Florence calmly.

  “It came to me like a flash—the meaning of those tattooed words! If we haven’t been a couple of Dumb Doras!”

  “I’ll thank you not to include me in that remark. Will you kindly stop jumping around and explain.”

  “Mr. Pruitt told me he thought several sailors might have had a sentence incorporated in their tattoo. That is, only a word or two was used in each design, but, taken as a whole, it would make sense.”

  “And you think you have the phrase?”

  “I do, Florence! Why couldn’t it be: All for one, one for all?”

  “If the men were close friends, that would be fairly logical. But the words we must juggle don’t make such a sentence, Jane.”

  “Obviously there must be a fourth sailor whose tattoo includes the words, ‘for all,’” I pointed out. “Then it would fit perfectly.”

  “Just because four men were pals, you think they would have such nonsense tattooed on their backs?”

  “That’s my theory.”

  “If you’re right, then the mystery is solved.”

  “Far from it,” I said. “I haven’t learned who pushed Richard Hamsted from the bridge or why. You remember how Anchor Jim talked about someone who had ratted? The four of them must have been in on a scheme, and one man betrayed his comrades.”

  “Better bridle that imagination before it takes you for too wild a ride,” said Florence.

  “Then you think there’s nothing to my theory?”

  “I think that if you speculate upon it much longer we’ll never get any work done,” Florence replied, turning once more to her typewriter. “If you don’t spend more time on your editorial duties and less time sticking your nose into other people’s business, this week’s edition of Carter’s All-Story Weekly will be nothing but more of Mrs. Dunst’s sentimental verses. If you have to round out all the remaining pages with full page ads for the League of Women Voters, I suspect we may not sell a single issue.”

  Florence was right. I needed to get to work. It wasn’t quite as bleak a picture as she was painting, but Mrs. Pruitt’s latest offering, “Lady Porefield’s Larcenous Landlord,” needed considerable pruning and paring if the Mrs. Browns of Greenville were not to be further scandalized. The first thing to go would be a passage where the impoverished-but-still-gentile Lady Porefield locks the larcenous landlord into the bell-tower of a church and sets the bell to clanging until his eardrums burst, and he is rendered permanently deaf.

  I was starting to feel frightened for Mrs. Pruitt’s husband. That level of dormant rage obvious in Mrs. Pruitt’s prose was bound to come out in real life sooner or later. It might take as little as Mr. Pruitt commenting uncharitably on the quality of supper or leaving an errant dirty sock lying about for Mrs. Pruitt to snap and visit who-knew-what horrors upon him.

  I was also disappointed that Flo did not take the matter of the tattoos more seriously.

  I shook off my gloom and went to consult Harry in the composing room. The pressman had proven to be worth many times the small salary I paid him. Not only had he made the
rotary presses ready for service, but he had cleaned and oiled every usable piece of machinery in the building. Eagerly, he awaited the day when we would print Carter’s All-Story Weekly in our own plant.

  “Everything’s all set,” he told me. “Whenever you give the word, we can go to press.”

  “That’s fine. Florence and I have been having a few difficulties, financial and otherwise. But I hope it won’t be long now.”

  I talked with Harry about various technical problems, then returned to my desk. I slipped a sheet of paper into my typewriter and composed a letter to the well-known steamship, the Darling Dora.

  I put the letter in my pocket and walked down the hall to Florence’s office.

  “Do you mind staying here alone for a while?” I asked her.

  “No, of course not. Where are you going?”

  “To mail an important letter. Then I want to drive out to Firth’s farm and see Mrs. Timms.”

  “I’ll look after everything until you get back,” Florence promised. She glanced curiously at the letter but did not ask to whom it was directed.

  I dropped the stamped envelope into a convenient corner mailbox, and then drove to the outskirts of the city. As I neared Drexel Boulevard, it occurred to me that I never had found time to revisit Marcus Roberts’ home. Henrietta still owed me an explanation for the way she’d acted that day I’d seen her on the Flamingo. I decided to stop and see if she was alone.

  I spun the wheel and followed the boulevard to the Roberts’ home. The iron gate stood open. I drove through and up the curve of cement to the house.

  An indifferent and untidy maid answered my knock and admitted me to a dark and dusty, but once-lavish living room. As I waited for Henrietta, I looked around the room. The wall-paper was coming loose in curling tendrils, and the expensive-but-neglected upholstered furniture had assumed a moth-eaten appearance. The entire room seemed to have given up on itself and fallen into a chronic depression.

  Henrietta came slowly down the circular stairway. She hesitated as she recognized me but could not retreat.

  “How do you do,” she said stiffly. “Nice of you to call.”

  “I think you know why I came,” I said. “We were unable to talk freely when I was here before.”

  “I’ve told you all there was to tell,” Henrietta declared, seating herself opposite me. “Frankly, I can’t see that the affair is any of your concern. I wore the disguise because I didn’t wish to be recognized on board the Flamingo.”

  “Your explanation isn’t very satisfactory, I’m afraid. Rosie Larkin is staying at our home now.”

  “What of it?”

  “She was robbed that night on the boat.”

  “We discussed it before,” Miss Roberts said in exasperation. “You insult me by suggesting that I may have snatched the girl’s pocketbook! Why should I steal when my father is wealthy? I’ve always had whatever I want.”

  “I should like very much to believe you,” I said. “But unless you are willing to offer a complete explanation, I am afraid I can’t.”

  “Very well, if I must know, I’ll tell you,” Miss Roberts replied angrily. “You may have read in the newspapers that I am engaged to marry Major Howard Atchley?”

  “The story escaped me.”

  “I admire Howard very much,” resumed Henrietta, still in an icy tone. “He comes from an excellent family, is well-to-do, and, in Father’s opinion, will make me a good husband.”

  “Your opinion differs?”

  “I admire Howard, but I do not love him, and I never shall. On the night you saw me aboard the Flamingo, I had gone with another friend of mine, Carl Feldman, intending to enjoy the excursion trip.”

  “Your father knew nothing about it?”

  “I told him I was going with another girl.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “There was nothing wrong about it,” Henrietta said irritably. “But I’m fairly well known. I realized that if I were recognized, Father or Howard might learn about it. Then there would be trouble, for Howard is a very jealous person.”

  “So, you resorted to the wig and veil?”

  “Yes, that was my sole reason. Major Atchley met me at the boat. Before joining him, I threw the bundle of clothing into the river. Now, are you satisfied with my explanation?”

  “I am,” I said. “In fact, I never believed that you had robbed Rosie.”

  “You certainly acted as if you did.”

  “Perhaps, I only wanted to learn the truth.”

  “Is there anything else you wish to know?” she asked after a giving me a cold hard stare. “Any more humiliating details of my private life you wish me to divulge?”

  “Nothing, Miss Roberts. I was only thinking that I would like to help you and your father.”

  “Thank you. We don’t require assistance.”

  “Perhaps, you don’t,” I said, “but your father needs friends. He admitted to me that if it weren’t for you he would be tempted to end it all.”

  “Father never said that!”

  “He did.”

  “I can’t believe it. Father’s the most cheerful person in the world!”

  “In your presence, possibly. The loss of the Morning Press must have been a heavy blow to him.”

  “Father wasn’t forced to give up the paper,” Henrietta protested. “He did it because he was tired of working so hard.”

  “Was that what he told you?”

  “Yes, is was. I know of no other reason.”

  “The general belief seems to be that your father speculated on the stock market, losing large sums of money.”

  “That can’t be true. To my knowledge Father never gambled. He may have bought a few stocks from time to time, but only for investment purposes.”

  “Then you feel sure he did not dispose of the Press because he needed money?”

  Henrietta hesitated before she answered. “It never occurred to me before, but Father has been rather close the past year. I thought it was sheer carelessness that he is letting this place run down because he always gives me everything I want.”

  “Why does he favor your marriage to the Major?”

  “Perhaps money does enter into it,” Henrietta said. “Many times, Father has reminded me that I would have every luxury as Howard’s wife.”

  “Your friend Carl is poor?”

  “He has a fairly good position, but not much money. Father always seemed to like Carl. That was why I couldn’t understand when he asked me not to see him anymore.”

  “I am sure your father thinks only of your welfare.”

  “But I would rather marry Carl and be poor always than to have riches with Howard.”

  “You’ve not told your father that?”

  “Why, no. It never occurred to me that money had influenced him.”

  “There’s another rumor,” I said. “I suppose I shouldn’t mention it.”

  “I wish you would.”

  “I’ve heard it said that your father disposed of the Press because he had been blackmailed.”

  “By whom?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. It’s only a rumor.”

  “There may be truth in it. You’ve opened my eyes, Miss Carter. I’ve been very blind.”

  “Then you think someone may have forced your father to pay money?”

  “I don’t know. But Father has acted strangely ever since he gave up the paper. Once a month, on the fourth, he receives a visit from an odd-looking man. He always tries to get me out of the house before the fellow comes.”

  “Don’t you know the man’s name?”

  “No, Father has never told me. The man seldom stays longer than ten minutes.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Not very well, because I never saw him at close range. I should say he’s middle-aged. Short and stocky with light brown hair. I’ve never seen him smile. He doesn’t seem at all the sort Father would choose for a friend.”

  “Your father offers no explanation as to why
the man comes?”

  “None. He refuses to discuss the subject. I’ve noticed, though, that for days after the fellow leaves he’s very nervous and morose.”

  “Excuse me for asking so many questions, Miss Roberts, but do you know of any reason why your father might be blackmailed?”

  “No, I don’t. I am sure he’s never been involved in anything dishonorable.”

  I was convinced that Henrietta had given a truthful account of the situation and had no more of significance to tell. I was not particularly welcome, so I stood up to take my leave.

  “I am glad you came,” Henrietta said, extending her hand. “Please excuse my rudeness. There were so many things I failed to understand.”

  “You must forgive me, too,” I said. “I didn’t mean to meddle. I truly want to help your father.”

  “I wish I could help him, too. In the past, I fear I’ve been very selfish and inconsiderate. Oblivious, one might say.”

  “There’s a way to help your father if you’re willing to do it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You say that on the fourth of each month a man comes here to see your father. If you tried, could you learn his name?”

  “I might drop in upon them at an awkward moment, compelling Father to introduce me.”

  “Are you willing to do it?”

  “Yes, but I fail to see what will be gained.”

  “Perhaps, nothing. Perhaps, a great deal,” I said. “If the man is a blackmailer, it should surely help for us to know his name.”

  “I’ll learn what I can.”

  “Then until the fourth, goodbye. And please, not a word to your father. We must work in secret.”

  I drove on toward Paul Firth’s home. A quarter of a mile away I parked Bouncing Betsy and set off on foot, hoping to attract no attention should the owner of the Willows be at home.

  It was well that I took the precaution. I was three hundred yards from the house when I saw a man emerge from behind the barn. He was too tall to be Paul Firth.

  The man moved stealthily across the yard to the front door of the farmhouse. His face turned slightly in my direction. It was Anchor Jim.

  Anchor Jim dropped a white envelope on the front porch, then he pounded forcefully on the door several times before darting into the shelter of the lilac bushes.