Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Forty-Eight
I yelled as loud as I could, but no one came. Emma and Mrs.
Fairchild must have wisely left the house and gone out to the street when the
hook and ladder arrived. I was worried now, not just about the laundry going up
in smoke, but that it would take Old Mansion down with it.
“I’m sorry to have to do it, but we’ll have to pull your father
through by force,” I said to Miss Lee before clambering through the opening.
“Even if we ran down to the street to get help,” I told Flo as I
emerged into the bathroom, “no one’s going to be able to enter this room
through the attic. The flames have spread too far. The only way out is through
this hole.”
Flo was the strongest of the three of us, so she stood in the
bathtub, inserted her upper body back into the hole, and extended her arms.
“He’s passed out completely now,” Miss Lee said.
“Give me his arms!” Flo instructed.
Flo took ahold of Mr. Lee’s arms, and I wrapped my arms around
Flo’s waist. On Flo’s command, I pulled. It took three tugs, but after the
third attempt, the mercifully unconscious Sing Lee lay in the upstairs bathtub.
I rushed down the stairs and into the street, blessedly free.
“We’ve got an injured man in here!” I yelled at a group of volunteers
pumping water from the river and squirting it onto the roof of the laundry.
Twenty minutes later, Flo and I were standing in the street with
Emma and Mrs. Fairchild looking up at the blackened carcass of the laundry. The
fire still was not out, but well under control. Old Mansion would sustain some
smoke damage, certainly in the bathroom, but the structure itself appeared
safe.
Just a few minutes before, Mr. Lee had been taken away to Doctor
Hamsted. Miss Lee had gone with him. I hoped the unfortunate man would not
suffer any permanent damage from the beating he’d received from Ralph and his
minions.
I wondered how far Ralph and Violet had gotten.
“I hope all the evidence against Ralph and his confederates didn’t
get destroyed,” Flo said, echoing my thoughts.
Before I could answer, I saw an automobile draw up at the curbing.
“There’s Dad!” I said and ran across the street.
“Jane!” he cried. “This building must be saved! I’ve just learned
that a gangster by the name of Ralph Zantello is the one behind everything!
He’s been hiding out right next door. Valuable evidence will be found in that
laundry!”
“You’re telling me!” I said.
Dad obviously had no suspicion that his daughter had just escaped
death. He and Clarence Emerson ran to help the firefighters, but their services
were not required. In a few minutes, they came back, satisfied that the blaze
was under control.
“Dad, how did you learn about Ralph?” I asked.
“From Jack,” replied my father. “Clarence and I just came from the
hospital.”
“Is he better?”
“Yes, perfectly rational again. He told us what happened. It’s a
fantastic story and it may not be true in every particular, although Jack
seemed to realize what he was saying.”
“After tonight, I’d believe anything,” I said.
“Jack learned everything while he was being held a prisoner. Mr.
Zantello induced Glen Conrad to go in with him on a scheme to steal Mrs.
Fairchild’s paintings. Mrs. Conrad, however, had nothing to do with the plot,
although she realized what was afoot when cheap paintings were substituted for
the originals.”
“It was a crude scheme.”
“From Glen Conrad’s standpoint, yes. But he was a weak character,
and he felt confident Mrs. Fairchild never would return to discover the
deception. Of course, unwittingly, Conrad played into Zantello’s hands. By
threatening him with exposure, Glen could be induced to agree to anything.”
“Then he had a part in those mysterious disappearances?”
“No active part, Jack says, but he had a very good idea of what
had occurred. Ralph Zantello was the one who placed those four portraits in
room seven, all against the east wall.”
“I could tell you something about those pictures,” I said, but my
father did not even notice the interruption.
“This is the part I can’t believe,” Dad went on. “I fear Jack is
still a bit mixed up. Anyway, he claims that after he retired to room seven
that night of the party, all was quiet for nearly two hours. He was just dozing
when he became aware of a strange scent in the room.”
“Floral,” I said. “I remember that.”
“Jack says the smell grew overpowering and the effects of whatever
it was—”
“Opium,” I said. “I bet it was opium. Having never smoked the
stuff, Jack was probably sensitive—as were both Harwood and Merriweather.”
“What do you know about opium?” Dad demanded.
“Don’t worry, Dad,” I said. “All my research has been purely of
the academic variety.”
“Anyway, the effects of the opium—if that’s what it was—must have
been already impeding his judgment,” Dad continued his story, “because instead
of sticking his head out into the hall and yelling for help, Jack went to the
window, drew up the sash and opened the shutters. He breathed in some fresh
air, but he was still feeling dizzy, so he remained by the window until a noise
drew his attention toward the paintings on the east wall. Then the eyes of
those paintings, four pairs of them, focused upon him. The way Jack described
it made chills run down my spine.”
“Then what happened, Dad?”
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