Jane Carter Investigates Episode One-Hundred and Twenty-One
As he turned again, the beam of his
flashlight swept across the front counter, focusing upon the package of food.
The man gave a low exclamation of pleasure. With the swiftness of a cat, he
darted to it and tore off the paper wrapping.
I waited until he was eating greedily.
Then, stealing along the wall, I groped for the electric light switch. As I
pressed it, the room was brilliantly illuminated. Then I gave a shrill whistle,
a signal to Florence that the culprit had been trapped.
The man at the counter whirled around,
facing me. He was a gaunt, unshaven fellow in his late fifties with shaggy hair
and soiled, wrinkled clothing.
Before he could retreat, Florence came
down the stairway, blocking the exit.
“What are you doing here?” I questioned
him. “Why did you steal my supper?”
The man’s lips moved nervously, but no
sound came from them.
“Shall I call the police?” I asked.
“No, don’t do that,” the man pleaded,
finding his voice. “Don’t call the police. I’ll go. I won’t bother you
anymore.”
“Why have you been hiding in the
building?”
“Because I have no other place to
sleep, Ma’am. The cops chase you off the park benches.”
“You’ve been living in this building a
long while?” I asked.
“Maybe six months. I sleep down in the
furnace room. I didn’t do any harm, except to steal—” The man motioned to the
box lunch.
“You’re hungry, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am, Ma’am. Lately I haven’t
been eating any too often.”
“You may finish the lunch,” I said.
“And there’s a thermos bottle of coffee under the counter.”
“Thank you, Ma’am, thank you. I surely
am obliged.”
His hand trembled as he poured himself
a cup of the steaming coffee.
“You haven’t told me your name,” I said
after the man had drained the cup.
“Folks just call me Harry.”
“What is your real name?”
“Harold Horner,” the man answered
reluctantly.
“I’m curious to learn how you’ve been
getting in and out of the building.”
“With a key.” Harry devoured the last
bite of sandwich and poured himself a second cup of coffee.
“A skeleton key, you mean?”
“No, Miss. I have my own key. In the
old days, I used to work here.”
“You’re a former Press employee?”
“Sure, I know it’s hard to believe, but
when a fellow’s out of a job and money, it doesn’t take long to go to seed. I
lost my place when Roberts closed down.”
“And you’ve been unable to find other
work?”
“In the past nine months, I’ve worked
exactly six days. No one hires an old fellow any more. If I could have kept on
with Roberts three more years I’d have been due for my pension.”
“What work did you do on the paper?” I
asked.
“I was a pressman.”
“Mr. Horner,” I said, “it’s possible I
may be able to find some sort of work for you later on. Do you mind writing
your name on this paper?”
The man took the sheet I handed him,
without hesitation scrawling his name, Harold Horner.
I studied the writing a moment. To my
relief, it bore not the slightest resemblance to the warning message left on my
desk the previous night.
“Harry,” I asked, “did you ever try to
frighten me away from this building?”
“Oh, no, Ma’am,” he replied. “Once I
tiptoed up to your office. When I saw you were working there, I slipped down to
the basement again.”
“Did you ever place a note on my desk?”
“I never did.”
I was satisfied that Harry had told the
truth. Yet, if he was not the culprit, I was unable to guess who had warned me
to abandon the plant.
“Mr. Horner, I’ve decided that we need
a watchman around this place,” I said abruptly. “If you want the job, it’s
yours.”
“You’re not turning me out?”
“No, you may stay. I can’t promise much
of a salary, but at least you’ll have a place to sleep and enough food.”
“You’re mighty kind,” Harry said. “Mighty kind.” He hesitated and then added: “I promise you won’t be sorry you did it, Ma’am. Maybe you’ll find I can be of some real use around this plant. I’m at your service and what’s more, I’m for you one hundred percent.”
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