Jane Carter Investigates Episode One-Hundred and Thirty-Eight
I waited in silence for several minutes
until I heard Jack rattling with the open door to the cave. He soon responded
to my muffled scream for help. He came down into the cave, and as he released
my bonds, I explained to him what had happened.
“Firth used this furnace for melting
down gold, all right,” he said, peering into the dark cavern. “Wonder where he
got it?”
“It must be stolen gold—government
gold, perhaps. Jack, those men have been gone only a minute or two!”
“Then maybe we can get ’em yet!”
Jack said he’d heard an automobile turn
into the yard. Hopeful that it might be the awaited authorities, we ran up the
stone steps. It was the police cruiser.
We told the officers our story,
omitting all unessential details. I had no idea which direction the men had
gone, but Jack had seen a group of four from a distance walking toward the
river just as he had left the barn.
Jack and I stood on the running board
of the cruiser as the police car headed in the direction of the Grassy. A
series of explosive sounds, staccato noises like the backfiring of an
automobile exhaust, came up from the river.
The car braked, and the policemen
leaped out and raced across the field toward the river bank. Disregarding
orders to remain behind, Jack and I followed.
We reached the bank of the river out of
breath. A beam of light attracted my eye to the opposite shore. A high-powered
motor boat had pulled away and was fast gathering speed. Flashes of gunfire
from its decks were answered by the revolvers of men on the river bank.
I wanted to stay and watch from the
open, but Jack drew me behind a tree. In a moment, as the motor boat passed
beyond range, the gunfire ceased.
I started to get up from behind the
tree, but Jack held me back.
“Just look at that moon,” he said next
to my ear.
“Right up there in the sky,” I said.
“Same as always.”
“We got interrupted,” said Jack. “The
last time we went moon-gazing together.”
“Did we? I don’t seem to recall—”
I turned my head to look at Jack. His
face was just inches from mine. I started to turn away again, but he caught my
face in his hands.
“I won’t kiss you, Jane, if you don’t
want me to, but I’ve been wanting to for ever so long.”
“Oh, alright,” I said. “But don’t let
it go to your head—”
I never got to finish my sentence because
Jack was kissing me, and I was kissing him back, and I could feel my resolve to
remain the cool and distant Widow Carter melting away under the moonbeams.
Then we slid down the bank to learn
what had occurred.
Paul Firth had been captured. He was
handcuffed to Mr. Mortimer. I guessed that the other four men were government
operatives.
“Find a boat and start after those
three sailors who got away!” Mortimer ordered his men. “I’ll take this fellow
to town.”
I edged forward, obtaining an excellent
view of Paul Firth’s downcast face. I told Mr. Mortimer all about the storm
cave at the Willows.
“So that was how the gold was melted
down,” Mortimer said.
The agent then explained that for days
his operatives had watched the river where they knew Anchor Jim had hidden a
motorboat. Surprised in the act of taking off, the sailors had exchanged shots
with the government men, but by abandoning Firth and the gold, they had
escaped.
“This man’s real name is Otto Franey,”
Mortimer revealed, indicating Firth. “He and the three sailors were shipmates
aboard the Darling Dora.”
“They’re wanted for stealing gold?” I
asked.
“Yes, they got away with four gold bars
taken from the Darling Dora. About a year ago, a consignment of
gold was shipped by a Swiss bank to the New York Federal Reserve. Because of
heavy fog, the bars were unloaded at the pier instead of being taken off at
Quarantine. They were removed in a sling and dumped on the wharf to await the
mail truck.”
“And the four sailors saw a chance to
steal some of the bars?” Jack asked.
“Yes, how they accomplished it we don’t
know, but hours later a mail driver refused to sign for one of the bags because
it had been slit open. Four large bars valued at approximately fourteen
thousand dollars each were missing. Investigation revealed that a sailor, Otto
Franey, had jumped ship. A few days later Jim Loewen, Richard Hamsted and Roger
Guenther also disappeared.”
“Each man was marked with an octopus
tattoo, wasn’t he?” I said.
“Yes, although I did not learn that
until a day or so ago. Otto has been trying to get his tattoo removed so that
it would be harder to trace him. The four sailors had their backs marked with
an octopus design and words which read, All for one, one for all,
when put together. They were feeling very friendly toward each other at that
time.”
“Then I was right!” I said. “And the
four conspired to steal the gold bars?”
“Otto was entrusted by his pals to
dispose of the stolen gold. Instead, he gave them the slip and tried to keep it
for himself. Evidently he rigged up a furnace and melted the metal into usable
form. But the three sailors trailed him here, determined to avenge themselves.”
As Firth was hustled to a waiting car,
I told Mr. Mortimer everything I knew about the prisoner, save his connection
with Marcus Roberts. I withheld the information about the blackmail plot.
While the prisoner was being loaded
into the government car, another automobile drew up nearby. It was Father. Jack
and I ran to tell him the latest news.
“Full speed ahead, Chief,” said Jack.
“We’ve got a big story by the tail.”
“A lot of good it does us,” my father
responded gloomily.
“You mean the firemen failed to save
the Examiner building?” I asked.
“The building’s saved, but considerable
damage was done by fire and water. We can’t use the plant for at least a week.
It’s enough to make a man ill! Scooped by the opposition when the story is
ours!”
“You forget that you know the
illustrious editor of Carter’s All-Story
Weekly,” I reminded my father. “Mr. Horner has our presses ready to roll.
I’m turning the plant over to you.”
“To me?” Dad asked.
“Yes, gather your mechanical force. The
plant’s yours for the night.”
“Jane, you’re the tops!” Dad said,
starting his car with a lurch. “Together we’ll get out an extra!”
After that, I lost all sense of time.
As if by magic, the staff of the Examiner appeared to take
over the Press plant. The
building shook off its lethargy and machinery began to turn.
In the composing room, printers were
locking the forms, using pages previously made ready for the next issue of
the Morning Press. Stereotypers were testing the pneumatic steam
tables. Pressmen under Harry’s direction oiled the double-deck rotaries and
tightened bolts.
At last came the moment when the plate
was fitted into place on the cylinder. With a half turn of a wrench, Harry made
it secure.
“She’s ready,” he announced, flashing
the signal light.
The press began to roll faster and
faster. In a moment papers dropped so swiftly from the folder that my eye could
not follow. A conveyer carried them upward over the presses to the distributing
room.
Later, while newsboys cried their
wares, my father and I sat in the private office, talking with Marcus Roberts.
From his own lips, we learned how he had submitted to blackmail rather than
disgrace Henrietta by returning to prison.
“Your case is a deserving one,” my
father told him. “I assure you we’ll never publish the story, and I’ll do
everything in my power to help you obtain a pardon.”
Before leaving the office, Mr. Roberts
promised me that he would tell his daughter the truth, allowing her to break
her engagement to Major Atchley if she chose.
“We’ll go away somewhere,” he said.
“California, perhaps. Although I’ll never try to publish a paper again, at
least my life will cease to be a torment.”
Alone with my father once more, I had
two requests to make.
“Name them,” he urged.
“Can you get Rosie Larkin a job?”
“Easily.”
“And will you take Harry Horton into
your own plant?”
“I’ll be glad to do it as soon as
the Examiner operates again. Until remodeling work is
completed I have no plant.”
“Yes, you have, Dad. This building is
yours if you can make arrangements with Mr. Vaughn.”
“Jane! You’re willing to give up
the Weekly?”
“Willing? I’m desperate to get rid of
it. Matters have reached a state where either I must abandon Carter’s All-Story Weekly or my budding
career as a novelist. I’ve only awaited a chance to end my magazine career in a
blaze of glory.”
“A blaze expresses it very mildly,” Dad
said. “In all modesty, let us say a conflagration, but what’s all this about
your budding career as a novelist?”
I produced the letter I’d received in
the morning post from Litchfield Press out of the recesses of my handbag and
handed it over to my father. As he read it, a broad smile spread across his
face.
“Did you read the part about the
thousand-dollar advance?” I said. “They’d never offer me such an extravagant
sum if they weren’t confident that Perpetua’s
Promise was going to be a hit!”
“I’m very relieved,” Dad said. “Now you
can stop siphoning gas out of my car to keep Bouncing Betsy on the road.”
I did not dignify the accusation of
petty larceny with a response.
“You’ll never guess what my very first
expenditure will be,” I told Dad.
“Well, a normal woman would splash out
on a whole new wardrobe, but you’re not exactly—”
“—a normal woman.”
“I wouldn’t call you abnormal,” my
father said. “But I would be surprised if you blew your windfall on shoes. What
do you plan to do with the money?”
“I shall reserve a portion of it for a
rainy day,” I said. “But I’ve got a marvelous idea of how to put the rest to
good use. Dad, how should you enjoy going on a nice long cruise?”
“Why would I want to go on a nice long
cruise?” my father was incredulous. “What about the paper?”
“Oh, I expect DeWitt would be capable
of doing without you for a month or two.”
“A month or two! Are you proposing to
take me off on some round-the-world galivant?”
“I
do not propose,” I said, “to take you
off anywhere. Any proposing to be done, you’ll have to do yourself.”
“What are you talking about, Jane?”
“I’m talking about you proposing,” I said.
“Proposing what? And to whom?”
“Don’t be so coy, Dad. I’ll admit you
managed to keep me in the dark until quite recently, but sooner or later I was
bound to find out your secret.”
“What secret?”
“You and Mrs. Timms.”
Dad turned the color of an overripe
tomato.
“You know I think very highly of Mrs.
Timms,“ I told my father. “She’s a veritable queen among women, and I’ve never
wished for anything more earnestly than I’ve wished for you two to light a fire
under a pot together.”
My father mumbled something incoherent.
“Now that the pot has reached a nice
steady rolling boil,” I continued, ignoring my father’s indignant spluttering
in the background. “It’s time to center-aisle it and make an honest woman of
Doris Timms. You propose and book the church, and I’ll cover the honeymoon
cruise. Cabin class, of course. If you want to splash out on a first-class deck
compartment complete with assorted trimmings, you’ll need to come up with the
kale for that yourself.”
THE END
Next Episode
I FINALLY GAVE UP ON GETTING CHAPTER 136, AND FINISHED BY READING 137 & 138. GREAT STORY!!!
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