Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Eighty-Six
I repeated the figure in a louder
tone, giving my father a nudge. “Wake up, Dad. One fifty-eight.”
Absently, Dad reached for his
wallet. Not until the attendant brought the change did it dawn on him that I
had scored once more.
“Tricked again,” he groaned.
“It was your own suggestion that
we stop for gasoline,” I reminded him. “I shouldn’t have minded taking a chance
myself. The gauge is usually at least a gallon off.”
“I suppose I would rather pay for
it than have you siphon it out of my car,” my father said.
“Thanks for the present.”
Dinner was waiting by the time we
reached home. Afterward, I helped Mrs. Timms with the dishes while Dad mowed
the lawn. When the telephone rang, he came to the kitchen door.
“Was that a call for me?” he
asked.
“No, Dad, it was for Mrs. Timms.”
“Strange DeWitt hasn’t called,”
my father said. “I believe I’ll telephone him.”
After Mrs. Timms had finished
with the phone, Dad called the newspaper office only to be told that Jack
Bancroft still had not put in an appearance.
“At least he might have
communicated with the office,” my father said as he hung up the receiver.
Dad went back to mowing the lawn,
but I noticed that he paused now and then to stare moodily down at the Grassy
River which wound through the valley far below the terrace. I finished drying
the dishes and went outside to join him.
“You’re worried about Jack,
aren’t you?”
“Not exactly,” Dad said. “But he
should have been back long ago.”
“He never would have stayed away
without good reason. We both know Jack isn’t like that.”
“No, he’s either run into a big
story, or he’s in trouble. When I sent him away this morning, I didn’t look on
the assignment as a particularly dangerous one.”
“And yet, if he met those two
sailors anything could have happened. They were tough customers, Dad.”
“I could notify the police if
Jack isn’t back within an hour or two,” Dad said. “Still, I hate to do it.”
“Where did Jack rent his boat,
Dad?”
“I told him to get one at
Griffith’s dock at twenty-third street.”
“Then why don’t we go there?” I
suggested. “If he hasn’t come in we might rent a boat of our own and start a
search.”
Dad nodded.
“Bring a heavy coat,” he told me.
“It may be cold on the river.”
I ran into the house after my
coat. I took a flashlight from my bureau drawer. When I hurried outdoors again,
my father had backed his own car from the garage and was waiting.
By the time we reached the
twenty-third street dock, it had grown dark. Harry Griffith, the owner of the
boat house, told us Jack Bancroft had rented a motorboat early that morning but
had not yet returned it.
“I been worryin’ about that young
feller,” he said to Dad. “You’re not Mr. Fielding, are you?”
“Yes, that’s my name.”
“Then I got a letter here for
you. I reckon maybe it explains what became of the young feller.”
The boatman took a greasy
envelope from his trousers pocket and gave it to my father.
“Where did you get this, Mr.
Griffith?”
“A boy in a rowboat brought it up
the river about two hours ago. He said the young feller gave him twenty-five
cents to deliver it to a Mr. Fielding. But the kid was mixed up on the address,
so I just held it here.”
“Dad, it must be from Jack.”
As my father opened the envelope,
I held the flashlight close. In a nearly illegible scrawl, Jack had written:
“Following up a hot tip. Think I’ve struck trail of key men. Taking off in
boat. Expect to get back by nightfall unless Old Man Trouble catches up with
me.”
Dad looked up from the message,
his gaze meeting my frightened eyes.
“Oh, Dad, it’s long after dark now. What do you think has become of Jack?”
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