Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Thirty-One
I slept fitfully during the few hours which remained of the night.
I was on constant alert for the phone to ring, but daybreak came, and my father
hadn’t called.
I was just sitting down to a lonely breakfast when Dad’s car came
up the drive. He came into the house looking tired and worn. His eyes were
bloodshot from lack of sleep.
“Any news, Dad?” I asked.
“No, nothing of consequence.”
He sat down at the breakfast table, saying to Mrs. Timms, who had
come in from the kitchen: “Just a cup of strong, black coffee, please.”
“Dad, you should eat your breakfast,” I protested.
Dad shook his head.
“I don’t feel like it.”
“Hasn’t anything developed at all?”
“Not concerning Jack. Clarence Emerson is of the opinion we may never
see him again, or if we do, his body will be taken from the river.”
I was halfway through my curried eggs and apple chutney, but there
was no chance of me finishing them now. What I’d already eaten threatened to
come back up.
“Mud Cat was starting to drag the river when I left. That means it
won’t be long until everyone in the village knows what has happened. Not that
it matters much, I guess. However, when the police get wind of the affair, I
may have some tall explaining to do.”
“Dad, does Clarence Emerson think the Conrads had any part in
Jack’s disappearance?”
“Not that I can get out of him. He did force Glen Conrad to reveal
where Harwood’s car was hidden. It was found in the woods some distance off a
side road. Conrad claims he disposed of the automobile merely to avoid
questioning by the police.”
“His story has been consistent, but I don’t trust the fellow.”
“Clarence learned one fact which may interest you.”
“What is that, Dad?”
“The Conrads are not the owners of Old Mansion.”
“They aren’t? Well, that is a surprise.”
“The Conrads are merely caretakers, but they’ve lived there so
long, they’ve come to regard the house as their own.”
“Who is the owner?”
“A woman named Irma Fairchild, living in Chicago.”
“I wonder if she has any idea what has been going on at her
place.”
“No, the Conrads have kept her in ignorance, fearing that it might
cost them their jobs. It seems that they turned the place into a hotel without
Mrs. Fairchild’s consent.”
“That was a high-handed thing to do, although quite in keeping
with Glen Conrad’s character.”
“Yes, he figured Mrs. Fairchild never would find out. She hasn’t
visited the place even once since she left it in their care nearly ten years
ago.”
“Why has she kept the place occupied, I wonder?”
“Sentimental reasons, I suppose. Mrs. Fairchild was married in
that house, two of her children died there, and likewise her husband.”
“Not in room seven, surely,” I said.
“No, not to my knowledge. At one time, the house was considered
quite a showplace. But some ten years ago or more, the city fathers made the
whole street into a commercial district and shop buildings went up beside the
dwelling. The river has been cutting in closer, too.”
“And that was what motivated Mrs. Fairchild to move to Chicago?”
“Perhaps, all I know for certain is that she hired the Conrads as
caretakers and left everything in their charge. She moved east and has never
returned.”
“The house was furnished when she left it?”
“Yes, the Conrads have admitted to Clarence Emerson that
everything—furniture, paintings, even the glassware —belongs to Mrs.
Fairchild.”
“I rather thought the Conrads had never furnished that house.
However, I can’t say much for Mrs. Fairchild’s taste in paintings. Some of
those portraits are mere daubs in expensive frames.”
“You’re wrong, Jane. Mr. Vhorst, the café owner, told me those
paintings are generally known in the community to be quite valuable.”
“Maybe the community got it wrong,” I said. “Dad, can’t you see
how atrocious they are?”
“They don’t appeal to me,” Dad admitted. “However, I don’t pretend
to know anything about art.”
“Even a blind man could tell those paintings aren’t art,” I
insisted. “If they’re supposed to be valuable, then someone must have cheated
Mrs. Fairchild.”
“Well, at any rate, she considered them worth enough to merit
keeping a caretaker for ten years. The Conrads receive only a small salary and
the use of the property. That was one reason why they began taking in guests.
They needed extra money.”
“I wish I knew if Glen Conrad owns that shed where Mud Cat Joe and
his family live.”
“I doubt if the man has any property of his own.”
“So do I. Chances are, he’s trying to drive Joe off the property
belonging to Mrs. Fairchild. Maybe as caretaker, he had a right to, but it
seems to me he’s suddenly taking his duties very seriously.”
“Yes, considering that he has been unfaithful to Mrs. Fairchild’s
trust in many other ways.”
“Someone should let Mrs. Fairchild know about how Old Mansion is
being operated.”
“I suggested to Clarence Emerson that we try to get in touch with
her,” Dad said. “He didn’t believe it would do any good.”
“She should be informed on principle; it seems to me, Dad. I would
like to send her a telegram.”
“Go ahead if you like. Here is her address, or at least it is the
one Mrs. Conrad gave Clarence.”
Dad handed me a slip of paper and, drinking the last of his
coffee, stood up from the table.
“I’ll be at the office for an hour,” he said. “After that, I’ll
probably return to White Falls.”
When the breakfast dishes had been cleared away, I backed Bouncing
Betsy from the garage and drove over to see Florence. Together we composed the
telegram to Mrs. Fairchild and dispatched it.
“She’ll think the worst when she receives our message,” Florence
said. “What if she decides to come here?”
“I hope she does decide to come,” I said. “It’s high time Mrs.
Fairchild checked up on the Conrads.”
After the telegram had been sent, there was nothing more to occupy
our minds. I could not stand to be idle. When I was idle, visions of Jack’s
waterlogged body being dredged up from the river bottom haunted me.
“It’s so hard just to sit and wait and hope,” I said.
“We could drive over to White Falls,” Flo said. “I’ll go with
you.”
“I’d rather be there than here.”
“So would I.”
I knew every inch of the road between Greenville and White Falls
by this time, and we made the drive in excellent time. We were approaching the
Grassy River, near where Mud Cat Joe and his family had their temporary home,
when I slammed on the brakes.
“You’re stopping here again today?” Flo asked.
I most certainly was stopping. There, on the roadside directly
ahead of us, was Jennie Gains, her three children gathered close beside her,
sitting dejectedly on an old log. Not far away were all their worldly
possessions: a rusty stove, two cots, bedding and a box of cooking pans.
“It looks to me as if Mud Cat and his family have been put out of
their home,” I said.
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