Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Fifty-Seven
“Perhaps he didn’t hear you,” I
said as I looked after the retreating boat.
“He heard me all right,” growled
Shep as he scrambled back up the high bank.
A small boy in dirty overalls sat
at the water’s edge fishing.
Shep called to him: “Say, sonny,
who was that fellow, do you know?”
“Nope,” answered the boy, “but
his boat has been going up and down the river all morning. That’s why I can’t
catch nothing.”
The boat rounded a bend of the
river and was lost to view. The only other craft on the water was a freshly
painted white motor launch which was coming from the far shore.
“That must be the guest boat
now,” I said, shading my eyes against the glare of the sun. “It seems to be our
only hope.”
“Let’s try to get aboard and see
what happens,” Shep suggested.
We sauntered back toward the
guard at the drawbridge, timing our arrival just as the launch swung up to the
landing. Shep and I stepped aboard, nodded indifferently to the wheelsman, and
took our seats on the leather-covered bench.
I waited uneasily for
embarrassing questions which did not come. Gradually, I relaxed as the boatman
took no interest in us, and the guard’s attention was fully occupied by other
cars which had driven up to the drawbridge.
A few minutes later, two elderly
women, both elegantly dressed, were helped aboard the boat by their chauffeur.
One of the women stared disapprovingly at Shep through her lorgnette and then
ignored him.
“We’ll get by all right,” Shep
whispered.
“Don’t be so confident until we
get past Mrs. Furstenberg,” I warned.
“Oh, we’ll keep out of her way
until we have our story and plenty of pictures. Once we’re across the river, it
will be easy.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said.
While Shep’s task of taking
pictures might prove relatively simple, I realized that my own work would be
anything but. I could not hope to gather many facts without talking to a member
of the family or the wedding party, and the instant I admitted my identity, I
was as likely as not to be slung out on my ear. I had boasted I’d bring in a
front-page story, but, realistically, I’d be lucky if I came back with a column
of routine stuff.
The boat was moving slowly away
from the landing when the guard at the drawbridge called out: “Hold it, Joe!”
Shep and I stiffened in our
seats, fearing we were about to get the bum’s rush, but we were both greatly
relieved to see that a long, black limousine had drawn up at the end of the
road. The launch had been stopped so that additional passengers might get on
board.
Shep nudged my elbow.
“Thomas Atwood,” he whispered,
jerking his head toward a tall, well-built young man who had stepped from the
car. “I’ve seen his picture plenty of times.”
“The bridegroom?” I turned to
stare.
“Sure. He’s one of the
blue-bloods, but they say he’s a little short on ready cash.”
The young man was dressed
immaculately in formal day attire and accompanied by two other men who seemed
to be friends of his. He bowed politely to the elderly women. He looked
questioningly at Shep and me, but if he wondered why we were there, he did not
voice his doubts.
As the boat put out across the
river, I heard a clicking sound. I did not turn toward Shep, but I caught my
breath, knowing that he had dared to take a picture of Thomas Atwood.
I waited, feeling certain that
the sound must have been heard by everyone in the boat. A full minute elapsed,
and no one spoke. When I finally glanced at Shep, he was gazing serenely out
across the muddy water, his miniature camera shielded behind a felt hat which
he held on his knees.
The boat docked. Shep and I
allowed the others to disembark first and then followed a narrow walk which
wound through a deep lane of evergreen trees.
“Shep,” I asked, “how did you get
that picture of Atwood?”
“Snapped it through a hole in the
crown of my hat. It’s an old trick. I always wear this special hat when I’m
sent out on a hard assignment.”
“I thought a cannon had gone off
when the shutter clicked. We were lucky you weren’t caught.”
Emerging from behind the trees,
we got our first view of the Furstenberg house. Sturdily built of brick and
stone, it stood on the top of a slight hill, its many turrets and towers
commanding a view of the two rivers.
“Nice layout,” Shep said, pausing
to snap a second picture. “Wish someone would give me a castle for a
playhouse.”
We crossed the moat and came up
behind Thomas Atwood again. Before the bridegroom could enter the house, a
servant stepped forward and handed him a sealed envelope.
“I was told to give this to you
as soon as you arrived, sir,” the servant said.
Thomas Atwood nodded and, taking
the letter, quickly opened it. A troubled expression came over his face as he
scanned the message. Without a word, he thrust the paper into his pocket.
Turning, he walked swiftly toward the garden.
“Shep, did you see—”
“Listen,” Shep interrupted, “we haven’t an elephant’s whisker of a chance of getting in the front door. That boy in the fancy knickers is giving everyone the once over. Let’s try a side entrance.”
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