Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Twenty
“You are certain of your facts?” Dad asked. “There is really a
rumor going around town that a man disappeared from room seven?”
“I’m certain of what I saw in the register when I signed it. At
the time, I thought very little about it. I suppose the name and the number
stuck in my mind because the Conrads acted so funny about that particular
room.”
“I believe you said it appeared they didn’t wish you to occupy
it?”
“Mrs. Conrad didn’t. Her husband was all for chucking Flo and me
in with those hideous portraits.”
“Portraits in a bedroom?”
“Four of them. One fellow in a red cocked hat has eyes that give
you the shivers.”
“I’m not interested in that part,” said Dad. “But you may have
stumbled onto something, Jane.”
“I think so myself, Dad.”
“I’ll assign Jack Bancroft to the story,” my father said. “He has
a nose for news, and he may dig up some interesting facts.”
“But I take it you don’t consider mine especially interesting.”
“Interesting, but a trifle too fanciful for the Greenville Examiner. We can’t print
stories about portraits that wink and roll their eyes, even if it would
brighten up the art section! I’ll admit that once not so long ago you proved
your old Dad to be a bit too conservative—something about a witch doll, wasn’t
it?”
“That’s right,” I said. “Dad, if you send Jack out to Old Mansion,
warn him not to mention my name. It might get Emma into trouble with the
Conrads.”
“I’ll remember. Anyway, Jack probably won’t get out there today.
He’ll be tied up with the Elks convention story. I’ll have him contact the
Conrads by telephone.”
“He’ll learn nothing that way, Dad.”
“Then I’ll send Jack or some other reporter to White Falls
tomorrow.”
“I thought news stories were supposed to be timely, Dad. If you
hurry, you might get a big scoop!”
“Or we might get a big libel suit. We’ll have to feel our way
cautiously on a story like this, Jane. It’s dangerous business publishing that
a man disappeared from a certain hotel, especially when there has been no
arrest.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
I turned to leave.
“Please ask Jack to come here if he’s in the office,” Dad said.
“I’ll give him his new assignment.”
I closed the door behind me and spoke politely to Mr. DeWitt, the
city editor. I paused beside Jack’s desk. He was hammering away at his
typewriter and didn’t notice I was there until I spoke.
“Well, if it isn’t our very own Mrs. Carter, back again so soon.
What’s the latest news from the front?”
“I hate to break it to you,” I said. “But Dad wishes to see you in
his sanctum sanctorum right away.”
Jack’s chair scraped on the floor as he got quickly to his feet.
“What is it, Jane?”
“Shouldn’t be surprised if he intends to fire you,” I said.
Jack just smiled one of his dazzling smiles, and I had to look up
at the ceiling to keep from smiling back.
“We still haven’t agreed on what picture we’re going to see?” Jack
said, abruptly changing the subject.
“I have to iron my shoelaces,” I said, turned on my heel, and
hurried downstairs.
When I arrived home, Mrs. Timms was rather worried over my lengthy
absence. I generally abhor displays of sentimentality, but Mrs. Timms is a
sweet old thing who practically raised me from a pup, so I make allowances.
“Have you had your breakfast?” Mrs. Timms asked when she was done
mauling me.
“Yes, hours ago in White Falls. Still, if you’d urge me, I could
eat a dish of those fresh strawberries you’re picking over.”
“I declare, you’re always hungry. But I wish you would put on a
little flesh.”
“I don’t. Fleshy girls simply get nowhere these days. But I do
wish my brains would expand a little. I have a job on my hands which requires
deep thinking.”
“What are you up to now? I hope it’s nothing like that witch doll
affair.”
“No, I am cogitating upon how to find a stolen houseboat—not to
mention a man who disappeared mysteriously from Old Mansion.”
“Quite a large order, I should say.”
Between strawberries, I told Mrs. Timms about my experiences in
White Falls. Mrs. Timms promised to send a box of food to Mud Cat Joe and his
family the next time she made the trip to the river town.
“Oh, by the way, Jane,” said Mrs. Timms, “while you were gone,
Albert Layman telephoned. He said he would like to have you play tennis with
him this afternoon.”
“He’ll have to find some other girl,” I said. “I’m staying close
to home today. Anyway, Al’s too tall and gangly.”
“Can he help that?”
“Yes, and he’s always talking about his latest get-rich-quick
scheme. No constancy. I prefer my men with steady purpose.”
“Such as that reporter, Jack Bancroft, I suppose,” Mrs. Timms observed.
“Certainly not,” I said. “I’m fond of old Jack, but if I’m going
to play mixed doubles for life with someone, it won’t be with any
newspaperman.”
I put my empty berry dish in the sink and went upstairs to my
room to do a few hours hard labor on the next installment of my latest serial,
“Evangeline: The Horse Thief’s Unwilling Fiancée.”
When last I’d left Evangeline, her father had declared that the
only man Evangeline had ever truly loved was a beggarly dog and had vowed to
marry her off to the dastardly villain who was pretending to be an upstanding
rancher and not the ringleader of a murderous gang of horse thieves. I was
pleased with the dramatic start, but now I was faced with fabricating part two
of the tale and deeply uncertain what subsequent misfortune should befall
Evangeline.
Later in the morning, when Albert Layman telephoned again, I gave
him the icy mitt and firmly declined his invitation to play tennis.
All afternoon I remained at home polishing the mud from Bouncing
Betsy, doing odd jobs which had accumulated, and contemplating the fate of
Evangeline.
Recently, Mr. Pittman, Editor of Pittman’s All-Story Weekly Magazine and the man who writes the
checks compensating me for my little literary efforts had complained. The
readers of Pittman’s, he insisted,
preferred a rather more feminine heroine than I’d featured in my previous
serials. It was all fine and good, Mr. Pittman pointed out, to have characters
going about conking the villain on the head with heavy objects or prodding the
antagonist in the ribs with sharp implements, but wasn’t that rather more the
job of the hero?
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