Jane Carter Investigates Episode One-Hundred and Twenty-Four
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.
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