Jane Carter Investigates Episode One-Hundred and Thirty-Six
It was too dark for me to read the
letter. Stepping to the car, I switched on Bouncing Betsy’s headlights and held
the paper in her brilliant beam.
The letter read:
Dear
Marcus,
Sorry
to bother you again, Old Pal, but I know you’re always willing to give an old
buddy and cellmate a helping hand. I don’t want to tip off the New York cops
where you are, and you can trust me to keep mum if you come through with
another six thousand. This is my last request.
Paul F.
“Paul Firth!” I said. “And it’s no
surprise, either! Harry, where did you find this letter?”
“It was in a pile of rubbish down in
the basement. I don’t know how it got there.”
“Paul Firth has a habit of leaving
notes on Mr. Roberts’ desk,” I said. “This one may have blown off and been
swept out without the publisher seeing it!”
“Don’t you figure it’s a blackmail
attempt?”
“Without question. You’ve not shown the
letter to anyone?”
“Only to you. From the threat, it seems
that Roberts was sent to prison years ago, but never finished his sentence, and
he’s still wanted.”
I nodded as I placed the letter in my
pocketbook. Harry’s guess was a shrewd one, but I could tell him nothing
without breaking my promise to Mr. Roberts.
“Mr. Horner,” I said, “a great deal
hinges upon this letter. You’ll not tell anyone what you’ve learned?”
“I’ll keep it to myself. I’m not one to
get Roberts into additional trouble. He’s had enough of it already.”
Father’s car was not in the garage.
Since he had not come home, he must be working late at the Examiner office
as he frequently did.
“Jump in, Mr. Horner,” I said, swinging
wide the car door. “I’m going downtown to find Dad. I’ll give you a ride.”
I was grateful that the pressman had
little to say as we sped through dimly-lit residential streets. How much he
suspected I could only guess, but the letter had made it clear to me that the
former publisher never had completed his ten-year prison sentence. That was why
he didn’t answer me when I asked about Henrietta’s age. He must have escaped
from prison soon after he was sent there. No longer did I wonder why Mr.
Roberts had not refused Paul Firth’s repeated demands for money. Obviously, he
had feared a far worse fate than exposure—he had feared being returned to the
New York state prison.
I parked Bouncing Betsy next to the
deserted loading dock at the back of the Examiner building. A few windows were
lighted. At this hour, the day staff had gone home, and only the scrub women
were at work. I could not see the windows of my father’s office from the street.
Harry stepped from the running board
and thanked me for the ride.
“Guess I’ll amble up the street and get
a cup of coffee.”
“You’ll be sure not to mention the
letter?” I reminded him.
“I won’t tell a soul. You know, I was
thinkin’ about it as we rode downtown. Paul Firth came into the office a couple
of times just before Roberts closed the plant. He was a dirty blackmailer, all
right. Wouldn’t that letter I gave you be enough to send him up?”
“I should think so, Harry. But the
problem is how to take care of him without ruining Mr. Roberts.”
“Better show the letter to your father.
Maybe he’ll have some ideas.”
Harry tipped his hat headed down the
sidewalk.
I entered the rear vestibule, speaking
to three scrub women who were locking up their cleaning equipment in
preparation to leave the building. Not even the elevator man was on duty, so I
climbed the stairs. I switched on a light in the newsroom as I passed through
it to my father’s office.
The room was dark. My father was gone.
I decided to telephone home, so I left my handbag sitting on Jack’s desk and
entered one of the glass-enclosed telephone booths at the end of the newsroom.
As I lifted the receiver, a voice from
behind me said, “Put that down!”
I whirled around. Paul Firth stood in
the doorway of the booth.
“Come out of there!” he ordered.
I obeyed. I was likely alone in the
building, save for Firth who stood between me and the outside door.
“What do you want here, Mr. Firth?” I
demanded with far more confidence than I felt.
“The letter.”
I stared back at him.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know,” Firth
said. “I want the letter you and that old man were talking about.”
“You heard our conversation?”
“I happened to be standing in the
loading dock. I know you have the letter. Hand it over.”
I pushed past Mr. Firth and he let me.
Then I backed a few steps away toward my father’s office.
“So you admit you wrote it?” I
challenged.
“I admit nothing. But I want that
letter.”
“You’ll not get it,” I said. “Paul
Firth, you were the one who put that warning note on my desk a few days ago.
And I know why, too. You were afraid I’d learn too much about the octopus
tattoo. Well, I’ve learned plenty.”
Firth’s face contorted with rage.
“You’ve been down in the cave!” he
snarled and finally made a move to grab me.
I gave him a sharp kick in the shin
with my pointed-toed pump. He cried out in pain, and I eluded his grasp. I
darted into my father’s office and slammed the door. Bracing my body against
it, I managed to turn the key before Firth could force it open.
“Come out of there!” he shouted. “Come
out, I say!”
“And I say I won’t! Just try to get
in!”
I managed to push my father’s heavy
desk across the room, jamming it up against the door.
Firth rattled the handle several times
and threw his body against the panel once or twice. Then I heard footsteps as
he walked away. It was only a trick to get me to come out. There was no way
he’d give up that easily. Doubtless he was still lurking outside in the
newsroom. I decided to stay where I was.
I walked to the window and looked down
at the cars passing along the street. If I shouted for help someone might hear
me. However, it might prove difficult to explain my predicament from three
stories up.
The telephone had fallen from the desk
to the floor. I picked it up and dialed the number of my own house. Mrs. Timms
answered.
“Hello,” I said, falsely cheerful. “Dad
hasn’t come home yet, by any chance?”
“He’s just now driving into the
garage,” the housekeeper replied. “I’ll call him.”
A moment later I heard my father’s
voice at the other end of the wire.
“Dad,” I said, “I’m down at your
office, sitting behind a barbed wire barricade. I wish you’d get a policeman
and see what you can do about rescuing me.”
“Is this one of your jokes?” My father
demanded.
I was afraid my father would hang up
the receiver, so I talked fast and to the point. Dad promised that he would
come without a moment’s delay.
I was optimistic that my
father—hopefully accompanied by a couple of burly officers of the law—would
catch Paul Firth lurking, and the man would be arrested. With Mr. Firth safely
locked away for at least a few hours, I could drive out to the Willows and
learn what he was hiding in his storm cellar.
I was just congratulating myself on my
cleverness when I sniffed the air. I smelled smoke, and I thought it must be
coming from a cigarette. I figured Firth had decided to pass the time waiting
for me to emerge by having a gasper.
But, as the odor of smoke grew
stronger, I saw a wisp of it filter beneath the crack at the bottom of the
door. My heart caught in my throat. That was no mere cigarette burning in the
newsroom. I decided that perhaps Firth was burning the papers from a scrap
basket just to frighten me into coming out of my father’s barricaded office.
I pulled the heavy desk away from the
door and stood with my ear against the door. I heard the crackle of flames. The
wood felt warm to my cheek. That was no mere burning waste paper.
Frantically, I turned the key in the
lock.
The door swung outward to the pressure
of my shoulder. A wave of heat rushed in.
I staggered backward, horrified. At the
end of the newsroom, where the exit should have been, rose a towering barrier
of flames.
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