Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Thirty-Eight
I ran to the door. On the doorstep was an elderly, well-dressed
lady.
“Are you by chance Miss Jane Carter?”
“Mrs. Carter, actually,” I said. “Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you.”
The woman sat down on the davenport, loosening her wraps.
“I am Mrs. Fairchild,” she said. “You sent me a telegram, I
believe.”
“I did.”
“Your information alarmed me exceedingly, Mrs. Carter. I had
planned a trip back here for some months, so when I received your message, I
decided to start at once. Tell me, did
you not exaggerate the situation at Old Mansion?”
“I did not, Mrs. Fairchild. If anything, I kept serious matters
from you. Have you talked with the Conrads or Clarence Emerson?”
“No, I came directly here from the railroad station,” Mrs.
Fairchild replied.
“Then I urge you go to Old Mansion at once.”
“Just what is wrong there?” Mrs. Fairchild looked alarmed. “You
speak so seriously.”
“I prefer to have Clarence Emerson tell you everything.”
“And who is Mr. Emerson?”
“A detective.”
“Now you do alarm me,” said Mrs. Fairchild.
“I am going to White Falls momentarily,” I said. “If you wish,
I’ll take you to Old Mansion.”
Within half an hour, Mrs. Fairchild and I were motoring toward
White Falls. Mrs. Fairchild was chatty, so I ventured to ask if she had any
other property near White Falls. I was not surprised to learn that the shed
formerly occupied by Mud Cat Joe and his family never had belonged to Glen
Conrad.
“I am ashamed of the man for turning a poor family from the
place,” Mrs. Fairchild said when I’d explained what had happened.
“Mr. Conrad has done other things, too, which I fear will never
meet with your approval,” I said. “The Conrads have turned Old Mansion into a
hotel.”
“Indeed! Well, we shall see about that. My valuable paintings
might have been stolen!”
I had my own opinion of Mrs. Fairchild’s valuable pictures, but I
kept it to myself.
Dad had informed me that Glen Conrad and his wife were allowed the
freedom to move freely inside Old Mansion, although Clarence Emerson or one of
his men watched them constantly. I imagined they deeply resented the
arrangement and had accepted it solely because refusal would mean they would be
turned over to the police.
As we drove up to the house, Mrs. Fairchild remarked that since
her absence the river had cut deeply into the rear yard. She was displeased by
the run-down appearance of Old Mansion, mentioning that only the previous year
she had sent the Conrads money to have it painted.
“You did right to send me that telegram, Mrs. Carter,” she said.
“I have been cheated outrageously.”
She looked at the laundry adjoining the mansion.
“Such an ugly structure! The city fathers never should have
allowed the builder to jam it close to my house. It completely ruins the
property.”
“It doesn’t improve it,” I said. “However, I imagined you knew the
building had been erected.”
“No, it has been put up since I left White Falls.”
We entered the house, and there Mrs. Fairchild’s indignation
mounted to a fever pitch. She wandered from room to room, exclaiming at the
damage done to her antique furniture.
Suddenly she paused before one of the paintings in the library.
“Roll up the window shade, please,” she said.
I obeyed, and the bright sunlight flooding into the room made the
painting look more hideous than ever. Mrs. Fairchild moved a step nearer,
running her hand over the canvas. Then she turned to me, her eyes flashing.
“This is only a crude copy of the original portrait!” she declared. “I’ve been robbed!”
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