Jane Carter Investigates Episode One-Hundred and Fifteen
I smiled and waited. The stranger
hesitated and then took a rolled-up copy of the newly-minted Carter All-Story Weekly from his
overcoat pocket. With his forefinger, he jabbed at the story on page three,
“The Mystery of the Octopus Tattoo.”
“You know who wrote this?” he
questioned.
“I do.”
“That’s a right interesting yarn,” he
said after a long pause.
“I’m glad you like it.”
“I was kind of curious to know where
your writer got his idea for that story.”
“Her idea.”
The man squinted at the story again.
“That story was authored by a Miss
Hortencia Higgins,” I informed him.
“And where might I find this Miss
Higgins?” the man asked.
“I am Miss Higgins.”
“But you just said you were Mrs.
Carter.”
“Nom de plume.”
The man stared at me blankly.
“Hortencia Higgins is my pen name. Lots
of writers use them. I have three if the truth be told.”
“Alright,” said the man, “then I’ll ask
you. Where did you get the idea for this story?”
“It was inspired by true events. I saw
a man pushed from a bridge. I’m a lady novelist. We lady novelists are always
on the lookout for inspiration. It had great dramatic possibilities. The story
practically wrote itself.”
The man stared at me sullenly until I
decided to try and move the conversation along. I was tired and hungry and
eager to go in search of my lunch. If I did not find it, I intended to make a
foray to some nearby restaurant before I succumbed to fatigue and starvation.
“Mr.—? I don’t believe you told me your
name.”
“Firth. Paul Firth.”
“I was driving near the bridge at the
time the man was pushed into the water,” I said.
“You didn’t see the one who did it?”
I crossed my fingers behind my back
before I continued.
“Not clearly. But what does it matter?
I’m not much interested in the truth of what happened. I view the occurrence
merely as inspiration for a work of fiction. May I ask why you are so
interested in the story?”
“I thought maybe I knew that man, the
one who got pushed into the water. What became of him? In real life I mean, not
in the story”
“I have no idea what happened to him,”
I said. “And I haven’t even attempted to formulate the continuing plot of ‘The
Mystery of the Octopus Tattoo.’ Who knows where my imagination will have led me
by installment seven.”
“But what happened after the man fell
into the water?” The man persisted.
“I can’t tell you much. He was rescued
by a tugboat captain. Everything I know about the true affair is in the story,
excepting the pearl-handled revolver discovered in the hero’s pocket, of
course. I thought that the gun was a nice touch. I’m toying with the idea of
making the hero a duke on the lam because he killed his brother, the crown
prince of Bolatestein, in a dual over a woman.”
Mr. Firth tipped his hat and made an
exit. I watched through the plate glass window as he left the office and walked
to his large, shiny car. I had never seen the man before, but his visit left me
with a vague unease. I strongly suspected that he knew far more about the
matter of the sailor pushed from the bridge than he pretended.
I soon dismissed the matter from my
mind, turning my thoughts to the problem of the missing lunch. I made a tour of
the building, venturing everywhere save into the basement with the rats. Any
person foolhardy enough to venture down there with a packet of sandwiches would
end up meeting a fate similar to Mrs. Pruitt’s villainous Malcolm McGrew.
As I had half expected, I found neither
my lunch nor whoever had taken it. I went out for a bowl of soup and grilled
cheese sandwich at Philip’s Bean Pot. When I returned once more to my work in
the deserted Press building, I
occasionally caught myself listening for footsteps.
At a quarter ‘til five, Flo came from
officiating at the Greenville library’s Tiny Tots Story Hour. She and I retired
to her private office to discuss plans for the next week’s paper.
“Flo,” I said, “did you ever hear of a
man named Paul Firth?”
“I have. Why do you ask?”
“He was here earlier to ask me about
the octopus tattoo story. He didn’t seem to think much of it. What can you tell
me about him?”
“Not very much. He lives on a farm
about two miles from the south edge of Greenville. A place called the Willows.”
“Oh, he’s a farmer? He doesn’t look
much like one.”
“He isn’t a farmer. He merely lives on
one. According to the report, he has prospered by leaps and bounds.”
“Then how does he make his money?”
“No one seems to know. When Firth came
here a year or so ago he didn’t appear to have anything, but recently he bought
a fine car, and he spends money rather lavishly.”
“He asked about Richard Hamsted,
although he didn’t inquire after him by name,” I said. “I got the distinct
impression that Mr. Firth was trying to pump information from me for a
particular reason.”
“Those who know Firth say he’s a sly
old fox.”
“That’s the way he impressed me, Flo.
Perhaps I flatter myself, but I believe my tattoo story may end up causing
quite a stir in Greenville.”
“Was Firth annoyed by it?”
“I think so, Flo, although he tried to
cover his feelings. He may or may not be a friend of Richard Hamsted, but he
certainly was anxious to learn what became of him.”
“You didn’t ask him any questions?”
“No, his visit took me by surprise.
Suppose we run out to Firth’s farm tomorrow.”
“What purpose would there be in that?”
“Firth may be able to tell us
interesting facts which will throw light on the mystery. He may understand the
significance of the octopus tattoo.”
“You’re rather overly optimistic, I
think.”
“But you’ll go with me?”
“Yes,” promised Florence. “I’ve always had a curiosity to see the Willows. Besides, I need a vacation from my strenuous duties as editor.”
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