Jane Carter Investigates Episode One-Hundred and Six
The taxi crossed the bridge and made
slow progress away from the river. As the road gradually wound toward higher
ground, the fog became lighter, and the driver was able to make faster time. As
we passed Reverend Radcliff’s church, the clock in the tower chimed the hour of
eleven.
“How about stopping somewhere for a
bite to eat?” Jack suggested.
“Won’t Dad be waiting at the Examiner office?” I asked.
“He suggested that I keep you ladies
entertained until around eleven-thirty if I could.”
“That being the case, we’ll accept your
invitation with alacrity. How about the Golden Pheasant?”
“Oh no, you don’t! Phillip’s Bean Pot
is nearer my speed.”
A block farther down the street Jack
paid the driver and escorted us into a clean but low-priced restaurant.
“No item on the menu over five cents,”
he told Flo and me. “Do your worst. I can take it.”
Florence and I ordered sandwiches,
while Jack fortified himself with a plate of scrambled eggs, two doughnuts, and
a cup of coffee. Returning to the front counter for a forgotten napkin, he
nodded at an older man with faded blue eyes who sat alone, sipping a glass of
orange juice.
The man acknowledged the greeting in an
embarrassed way, quickly lowering his head. Then he got up from the counter and
left the café.
“Jack, who was he?” I asked. “I am sure
I’ve seen him before, but I can’t remember where.”
“That was Marcus Roberts.”
“The former publisher of the Morning
Press?”
“Yes, the old man’s been going to
pieces fast since he closed his newspaper plant. Looks seedy, doesn’t he?”
“His clothes were a bit shiny. I
thought he seemed rather embarrassed because you spoke to him.”
“Old Roberts feels his comedown, I
guess. In the flush days, he wouldn’t be caught dead in a beanery.”
“Is he really that poor, Jack?”
“Probably down to his last hundred
thousand.” Jack grinned.
“What you say is conflicting. First you
imply that Mr. Roberts is poor, and then that he’s rich. I wish you would make
up your mind.”
“Frankly, I don’t know. Roberts owns a
fine home—I’d call it a mansion—on Drexell Boulevard, but he’s allowed the
place to run down over the last year or so. I’ve been told he sold the Morning
Press building—which had also fallen into disrepair—several months ago.
Some say Roberts has piles of cash squirreled away, others say that he’s flat
broke.”
“How did he lose so much of his money,
Jack?”
“No one seems to know for certain.
According to rumor, he played the stock market and suffered heavy losses.”
“It’s strange he closed down the Morning
Press,” I said. “I always thought it was a profitable paper.”
“So did everyone else. The Press had a large circulation, but one
bright Monday morning Roberts posted a notice, closed the plant, and threw over
a thousand employees out of work.”
“That was nearly a year ago, wasn’t it,
Jack?”
“Thirteen months, to be exact. Why this
sudden interest in Marcus Roberts?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “His case
seems rather pathetic. Then, too, he reminds me of someone I’ve seen recently.
I wish I could recall—”
Jack glanced at the wall clock,
swallowing his coffee with a gulp.
“Time to move along,” he announced. “We
mustn’t keep your father waiting, Jane.”
We left the café, and Jack hailed a
passing taxicab.
“It’s only four blocks to the Examiner
building,” I protested. “Aren’t you being too lavish with your money,
Jack?”
“Oh, I’ll add this item to my expense
account. Jump in.”
The taxi turned left at Adams street,
rolling slowly through the downtown business section where an enormous
four-story stone building occupied a large corner lot.
“That place sure looks like a morgue
these days,” Jack said as he pointed up at the building. “The Morning Press.”
I twisted sideways to stare at the dark, deserted building. The windows were plastered with disfiguring posters and the white stone blocks, once beautiful, were streaked with city grime.
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