Jane Carter Investigates Episode One-Hundred and Eighteen
I stooped down beside the groaning man
who lay pinned on his side beneath the tree. As Flo and I attempted to move
him, he writhed in pain and pleaded with us not to touch him.
“The tree will have to be lifted,” I
said. “I’ll go for help.”
Leaving Florence to encourage Anchor
Jim, I ran the entire distance to the main road. The nearest house was the one
owned by Paul Firth. However, as I ran in that direction, I met a truck filled
with telephone linemen coming my way. I flagged down the truck and told them
what had happened.
“I am afraid the man is badly hurt,” I
said. “I’ll telephone for a doctor while you go on to the cottage.”
One of the linemen offered to make the
call, leaving me free to guide the other four men to the cottage.
The men managed to raise the fallen
tree. They carefully lifted Anchor Jim, who had lapsed into unconsciousness.
“Bring him into the cottage,” I told
them, going ahead to open doors.
I led them into one of the bedrooms
which had been furnished with an old cot, a chest of drawers and other odd
pieces Dad had brought from our basement and attic. I spread a blanket over the
mattress and the injured man was stretched upon it.
“He’s seriously hurt, isn’t he?” I said
to one of the linemen.
“Afraid he is,” he replied. “Heat up
some water, and I’ll do what I can until the doctor gets here.”
Flo and I hurried to the kitchen to
struggle with the wood-burning range. By the time we had the fire going and
water near boiling-point, we heard voices in the yard. The lineman who’d stayed
behind to telephone was coming toward the cottage. A doctor carrying a small
black bag walked beside him.
“It’s Doctor Edwards,” Florence said.
“He made a quick trip from town.”
I ran to open the door, then back to
the kitchen again for the boiling water.
“You carry it in,” Florence said. “I
can’t bear to see poor Anchor Jim.”
All the linemen had left by the time I
reentered the bedroom. The doctor was working over Anchor Jim, and I was
relieved to see that he had recovered consciousness.
“Where do you feel pain?” the doctor
asked as he unfastened the man’s shirt.
“My back and chest, Doc,” the sailor
mumbled. “Feels like all my insides is crushed.”
“Hardly that,” said the doctor
cheerfully, “or you wouldn’t be telling me about it. Now let’s see.”
He took Anchor Jim’s pulse, then gently
probed his chest and sponged a break in the skin. Carefully, he turned the man
upon his stomach.
When I got a look at the man’s back, I
nearly dropped the pan of water. Across Anchor Jim’s back was tattooed the
sprawling figure of an octopus. Beneath the front arms of the fearsome sea
creature appeared a single word: One.
Richard Hamsted’s tattoo was the same,
save for the word. It was All, while
Anchor Jim’s was One. What could be
the significance?
Even the doctor was startled by the
strange tattoo, for I saw him glance at it curiously as he probed.
“You are a sailor?” he inquired.
“That’s right,” muttered Anchor Jim.
“Ouch, doc! Take it easy, will you?”
I could not remain silent. “Jim, do you
know a man named Richard Hamsted?” I asked.
“Sure, I know him,” the sailor mumbled.
“We shipped together on the Darling Dora.”
“Your tattoo is very similar to his.”
Anchor Jim’s pain-glazed eyes turned
upon me as if he were seeing me for the first time. He tried to pull the
blanket over his back.
“We had ’em put on together,” he
muttered. “Jack an’ Richard, and that rat, Otto—”
“Please don’t talk to the patient,”
said the doctor. “He should be kept quiet.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and did not speak
again until the doctor had completed his examination and had bandaged Anchor
Jim’s cuts and bruises.
“What do you advise, doctor?” I asked.
“Will it be necessary to remove Jim to a hospital?”
“Neither advisable nor desirable for at
least twenty-four hours,” he replied. “I find no indication of internal injury,
but it is best to be safe. The patient should be kept quiet, in bed, for at
least a day or two.”
“It’s something of a problem to care
for him here,” I said. “Do you suggest a nurse?”
“Anyone who has had practical
experience in caring for the sick would do.”
“Mrs. Timms, our housekeeper, may be
willing to come,” I said. “I’ll telephone home at once and learn what
arrangements can be made.”
Although I was too young to remember
that period clearly, I knew that Mrs. Timms nursed my mother through the
lengthy illness which preceded her death. There’s no one on earth better suited
to watch over an injured person than our housekeeper.
When the doctor left, I accompanied him
as far as the first house. From there, I telephoned my father, who promised to
get Mrs. Timms and come at once to the cottage.
Florence was uneasily waiting by the
time I returned. We held whispered consultation outside the bedroom door.
“Has Anchor Jim talked?” I asked Flo.
“You know what I mean. Has he said anything about Richard Hamsted or the
tattoo?”
“Not a word. But every so often he
mutters that he’ll get even with someone by the name of Otto—a fellow sailor
who ratted.”
“He mentioned Otto when I was in the
room, too,” I said. “I wish we dared question Jim, but the doctor advised
against it.”
“I don’t think we should annoy him
right now. Perhaps when he’s recovered he’ll tell us about the tattoo and its
meaning.”
“If I am any judge of character, Anchor
Jim isn’t the talkative type. As soon as he gets over the shock of this
accident, he’ll seal those lips of his up tighter than a sarcophagus. We’ll
learn nothing.”
“Why are you so convinced there’s a
deep mystery connected with the tattoo?”
“I can’t explain it, Flo. I just know
there is. I’ll never rest until I learn the significance of those words, all and one.”
Within a half hour, Mrs. Timms and Dad
arrived at the cottage, bringing a supply of linen, food, and comforts for the
injured man. The housekeeper agreed to assume charge until Anchor Jim could be
safely removed to a hospital.
Dad drove back to Greenville, and I
rode along with him while Flo followed in Bouncing Betsy. It was useless to
leave Betsy behind at the cottage for Mrs. Timms to use, she doesn’t drive.
During the ride home, I questioned my father regarding Anchor Jim.
“I know almost nothing about Jim
Loewen,” Dad told me. “He was sent to me by the Acme Employment Agency, and I
didn’t bother to ask for a recommendation.”
“I’ve learned that he’s a friend of
Richard Hamsted,” I said. “As soon as he’s able to get about again, I mean to
ask him a number of things.”
When we reached home, I took Florence
on to the Radcliffs’ and then returned to the Morning Press building.
I greeted Mrs. Applebee, who was
working in the advertising office, and climbed the stairs to my own office.
For the next half-hour, I checked over
galley proofs, marking corrections on the margins. I never imagined there could
be so many things to do on a weekly. I feared I was never going to finish on
time.
A board creaked in the newsroom. I
glanced up. A shadow passed slowly across the frosted glass of the office door.
“Come in,” I called out.
No one answered, and the shadow
disappeared. I waited a moment, then arose and went to the door. The newsroom
was deserted. It was exceedingly odd. I was sure someone had walked past my
office door.
I went to the head of the stairs and
called down to Mrs. Applebee: “Did anyone come up here a moment ago?”
“Not unless someone let themselves in
with a key by way of the back entrance,” Mrs. Applebee called back up to me.
“No one came by here.”
I was puzzled, but I returned to my
desk. As I sat down, a sheet of paper lying on the blotter pad drew my
attention. I was certain it had not been there a few minutes earlier.
I picked it up. The paper bore a
message scrawled in black ink and read:
To the Editor:
You are hereby warned to give up your story paper which offends public taste. We give you three days to wind up your business and close doors. A word to the wise is sufficient.
Comments
Post a Comment