Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Sixty-Seven
“Mr. Atwood?” inquired my father,
waving the visitor into a chair.
“James Atwood.”
So much for the reappearance of
Thomas Atwood, I thought to myself.
Mr. James Atwood did not sit
down. Instead, he spread out a copy of the night edition of the Greenville Examiner and pointed to the
story which I had covered.
“Do you see this?” Mr. Atwood
demanded.
“What about it?” Dad asked.
“You are holding my family up to
ridicule by printing such a story! Thomas Atwood is my son!”
“Is the story incorrect?”
“Yes, you imply that my son
deliberately jilted Cybil Furstenberg!”
“And he didn’t?”
“Certainly not. My son is a man
of honor and had a very deep regard for Cybil. Under no circumstance would he
have jilted her.”
“Still, the wedding did not take
place.”
“That is true,” Mr. Atwood
admitted.
“Perhaps, you can explain why it
was postponed?”
“I don’t know what happened to
Thomas,” Mr. Atwood said reluctantly. “He left our home in ample time for the
ceremony and, I might add, was in excellent spirits. I believe he must have
been the victim of a stupid practical joke.”
“Well, that suggests a new
angle,” my father said. “Did your son have friends who might be apt to play
such a joke on him?”
“No one of my acquaintance,” Mr.
Atwood answered. “Of course, Thomas had many young friends who were not in my
circle.”
I had listened quietly to the
conversation, but now I got up and walked over to the desk. I took the white
gold wedding ring out of my pocket and held it up for Mr. Atwood’s inspection.
“Mr. Atwood,” I said, “I wonder
if you could identify this.”
The man studied the ring for a
moment.
“It looks very much like a ring
which Thomas purchased for Cybil,” he said. “Where did you get it?”
“I found it lying on the ground
at the Furstenberg estate,” I said.
“You see,” said my father, “we
have supporting facts in our possession which we did not publish. I think the
story was handled discreetly, with due regard for the feelings of those
involved.”
“Then you refuse to retract the
story?”
“I should like to oblige you, Mr.
Atwood, but you realize such a story as this is of great interest to our
readers.”
“You care only for sensationalism!”
“On the contrary, we try to avoid
it,” Dad said. “In this case, we deliberately played the story down. If it
develops that your son actually has disappeared—”
“I tell you it was only a
practical joke,” Mr. Atwood interrupted. “No doubt my son is at home by this
time. The wedding has merely been postponed.”
“You are entitled to your
opinion,” my father said. “And I sincerely hope that you are right.”
“At least do not use that picture
which your photographer took of Mrs. Furstenberg. I’ll pay you for it.”
Dad just smiled and shook his
head.
“I might have expected such an
attitude!” Mr. Atwood growled. “Good afternoon.”
He left the office, slamming the
door behind him.
“Well, you’ve lost another
subscriber, Dad,” I said.
“He’s not the first.”
“I intended to give Mr. Atwood
the wedding ring, but he went off in too big a hurry. Should I go after him?”
“No, don’t bother, Jane. You
might take it around to the picture room and have it photographed. We may use
it as Exhibit A if the story develops into anything.”
“How about the alligator?” I
asked. “Would you like me to bring that to the picture room to be photographed,
too?”
“Move out of here and let me
work,” said my father.
I went to the photographic
department and asked them to take pictures of the ring.
“I’ll wait for the ring,” I said.
“You won’t catch me trusting you boys with any jewelry.”
While the picture was being
taken, Shep came by with several damp prints in his hand.
“Take a look at this one, Jane,”
he said proudly. “Mrs. Furstenberg wielding a wicked plate. Will she burn up
when she sees it on the picture page?”
“She will, indeed. I feel more than a little sorry for her. You shouldn’t have goaded her on like that. It’s no wonder you newspapermen have such a scoundrelly reputation.”
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