Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Seventy-Nine
Florence was washing the
breakfast dishes when I walked boldly in at the back door of the Radcliff
residence.
“Don’t you ever answer doorbells,
Flo?” I demanded. “I stood around front for at least ten minutes, ringing and
ringing.”
“Hello, Jane. I didn’t hear you
at all,” Florence said. “The radio is on too loud. I see you reached home
safely last night.”
I picked up a towel and began to
dry the dripping plates resting on the drain-board.
“Oh, yes, and did I have a day!”
“What happened after you left
Andover?”
“It’s a long story, so I’ll begin
at the end. Last night, as I was coming home with Jack, we stopped at a cafe
along the river. Guess who we saw!”
“Knowing your luck, I’d say
Charlie Chaplin, or maybe the Queen of England.”
“This particular cafe wasn’t
quite their speed, Flo. Jack and I saw that same boatman I told you about!”
“The fellow you saw cruising
about the Furstenberg estate? What’s so remarkable about that?”
“It just happens that I’ve dug up
other evidence to show he may know something about Thomas Atwood’s
disappearance,” I said. “Jack and I overheard a conversation. It seems this man
and a companion of his are mixed up with another fellow named Aaron Dietz.”
“Which doesn’t make sense to me,”
Flo said, scrubbing hard at a sticky pan.
“Aaron Dietz was a former
associate of James Furstenberg. Dad said he probably knew more about the
Furstenberg financial affairs than any other person. Dad assigned Jack to try
to pick up the trail today. He’s chartered a motorboat and will patrol the
river.”
“If you don’t mind,” said
Florence. “I’d like to hear the first part of the story now. Then I might
understand what this is all about.”
I told Flo most of what had
happened since I’d had taken leave of her at the clubhouse in Andover—omitting
any mention of the alligator.
“Which brings me to the point of
my visit,” I ended my tale. “How about going out there with me this morning?”
“To the Furstenberg estate?”
“Yes, we may not be able to get
across the river, but I mean to try.”
“You know I’m wild to visit the
place, Jane!”
“How soon can you start?”
“Just as soon as these stupid
dishes are done. And I ought to change my dress.”
“Wear something dark which won’t
attract attention in the bushes,” I advised. “Now get to working on yourself
while I finish the dishes.”
Florence dropped the dishcloth
and hurried upstairs. When she returned ten minutes later, I was swishing the
last of the soapsuds down the sink drain. Another five minutes and we were
aboard Bouncing Betsy, speeding toward Sunnydale.
The sun rode high in the sky by
the time we came within view of the drawbridge. A press car from The Times was parked at the end of the
road, so I drew up some distance away. I could see two reporters talking with
the old watchman.
“Evidently they’re having no luck
in getting over to the estate,” I said to Flo.
“Then what about us?”
“Oh, we have our own private taxi
service,” I said. “At least, I hope so.”
We took a circuitous route to the
river’s edge to elude the notice of the bridge-keeper.
Far up the stream, I saw the
familiar rowboat drifting with the current. I signaled to the small boy, who
seized his oars and rowed toward shore.
“I was here at eight o’clock,
just as you said,” he declared. “That fellow up there by the bridge offered me
fifty cents to take him across the river. I turned him down.”
“Good,” I said.
“Do you want to go across the
river now?” the boy asked.
“Yes, please.” I stepped into the
boat and made room for Florence. “Keep close to the bank until we are around
the bend. Then I’ll show you where to land.”
“I guess you’re afraid someone
will see you,” the boy commented.
“Not exactly afraid,” I said.
“But this way will be best.”
The boat moved quietly along the
high bank, well out of sight of those who stood by the drawbridge.
“The cops were here this
morning,” volunteered the boy as he pulled at the oars.
“You saw them visit the estate?”
I asked.
“Sure, there were four of ’em.
They drove up in a police car, and they made old Thorndyke let the bridge down
so they could go across.”
“Are the policemen at the estate
now?”
“No, they left again a while
back. What do you suppose they wanted over there?”
“Well, now, I couldn’t guess,” I
said. “Like as not they only wished to ask a few questions. Are the
Furstenbergs at home?”
“I saw Mrs. Furstenberg drive
away right after the police left.”
“And her daughter?”
“I guess she must be still there.
Anyway, she wasn’t in the car.”
The boat rounded the bend, and I
pointed out a place on the opposite shore where I wished to land.
“Shall I wait for you?” the boy
asked as we stepped out of the rowboat.
“Yes, but not here,” I said. “You
might row back to the opposite shore and keep watch from there. We ought to be
ready to leave within at least an hour.”
From where we’d landed, I could
see the roof top of the Furstenberg house towering above the tall trees, but as
we plunged into the bushes which grew thickly along the shore, we lost sight of
it entirely.
“I hope,” said Florence, “that
you know where you are going. It would be easy to lose oneself in this jungle.”
“Oh, I have my directions
straight. We should come out near the lily pool at any minute.”
“What do you hope to gain by
coming here, Jane?”
“I thought I would try to talk
with Miss Furstenberg again. There’s an important question I forgot to ask her
yesterday. And I wanted to show you the estate, especially the lily pond.”
“Is there anything unusual about
it?”
“I’ll let you be the judge,” I
answered. “We’re almost there now.”
We came to a path, which made
walking much easier. I went ahead of Flo but suddenly halted in the middle of
the pathway.
“See what is ahead, Flo! I never
saw that thing before.”
I stepped to one side so that
Florence might see the tall stone tower which loomed up against a background of
scarlet maples.
“How curious!” Flo said.
“This isn’t the only odd thing
I’ve found on the estate.”
“What purpose could the tower
have?”
“Decoration, perhaps,” I said,
moving forward again. “Or it might have been built for a prison.”
“Listen, you have too many
different theories about Thomas Atwood,” said Florence. “Why don’t you get one
and stick to it?”
“My mind is always open to new
possibilities and impressions.”
“I’ll say it is,” agreed
Florence. “I suppose you think Mrs. Furstenberg is keeping young Atwood a
prisoner in yonder tower?”
“Well, no, but you must admit it
would make a lovely tale. So romantic.”
“Are you trying to kid me?” Florence demanded.
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