Jane Carter Investigates Episode One-Hundred and Seven
“When the Press closed,
machinery, furniture and everything else was left exactly as it stood,”
remarked Jack. “Too bad an enterprising newspaperman doesn’t take over the
place before it’s a complete loss. The present owner doesn’t even employ a
watchman to protect the property.”
“It does seem a shame—” I began, only
to break off. “That’s very odd!”
“What is?” asked Flo.
“The building isn’t deserted after
all!” I said. “There’s a light burning in one of the upstairs rooms!”
Jack rolled down the window, thrust his
head through it, and looked back at the Morning Press building.
“Where do you see a light?” he
demanded.
“It was on the third floor,” I said. “I
can’t see it myself now.”
Jack grinned as he settled back into
his place between Flo and me.
“You certainly get a kick out of
playing jokes.”
“But it wasn’t a joke,” I insisted.
“Honestly, I saw a light. Didn’t you, Florence?”
“Sorry, but I didn’t. I’m afraid your
imagination works overtime, Jane.”
“I know what I saw,” I said.
As Jack and Florence smiled at each
other, I lapsed into injured silence. I was certain I had not been mistaken.
There had been a light on the third floor, a moving light which had been
extinguished before Jack or Flo had noticed it.
The cab drew up at the curb in front of
the Examiner building. My father, a
newspaper tucked beneath his arm, stepped from the vestibule where he had been
waiting.
“Hope we haven’t kept you waiting,
Chief,” Jack said as he held open the cab door, and Flo and I emerged.
“Only a minute or two. Thanks, Jack,
for bringing the girls from the boat. May we offer you a ride home?”
“No, thanks, Chief. I’ll walk from
here. Good evening.”
Jack tipped his hat politely to
Florence, winked at me, and walked away. Dad asked Flo and I if we had enjoyed
our trip aboard the Flamingo.
“The trip itself proved to be rather
boring,” I said, “but we met some interesting people on the way home.”
During the drive to the Radcliffs’ to
drop off Flo, I told Dad about Rosie Larkin, the mysterious young woman who had
dropped a bundle of clothing into the water, and the sailor with the strange
octopus tattoo.
“Thanks for bringing me home, Mr.
Fielding,” said Flo when we arrived at her doorstep.
“What do you think of the tattoo
story?” I asked Dad as the cab rolled on. “Won’t it make a dandy feature for
the Examiner?”
“I regret to say it sounds like
first-rate fiction.”
“Why, Dad! Florence and Jack will
confirm everything I’ve said.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt your word, Jane. I
am sure everything occurred as you report. Nevertheless, were we to use the
story our readers might question its veracity.”
“Veracity?”
“Veracity means truth, Jane.”
“I know that. One doesn’t produce
scores of column inches of romantic bilge for the likes of Pittman’s All-story Weekly Magazine without expanding one’s
vocabulary to at least that elementary degree which allows one to comprehend
ten-dollar words like veracity.”
“Have you and Mr. Pittman patched things
up yet?” My father asked.
“No, unfortunate and hostile statements
were made in the heat of the moment.”
“By whom?”
“Me,” I admitted. “Flo pointed out just
this evening that perhaps I’d been a trifle unwise to draw Mr. Pittman’s
attention to the obvious.”
“The obvious?”
“That Pittman is a scurvy knave and a
pustule on the face of literature,” I said.
I
could see that my father was trying not to laugh, but he did not stoop to
comment on my uncharitable assessment of my former editor.
“Your story of the sailor with the
octopus tattoo is very interesting,” said my father, returning to the original
subject, “but I think you may have placed your own interpretation upon certain
facts.”
“For instance?”
“Well, according to Richard Hamsted’s statement,
he fell from the bridge and was not pushed.”
“But I saw him get pushed in with my
own two baby blues, Dad.”
“There was a heavy fog on the river.
You easily could have been mistaken. As for the octopus tattoo, what is so
strange about it? Sailors compete in striving for startling decorative
effects.”
“Dad, you could rationalize the
national debt,” I said.
“How about you give up the fiction game
and come and work for me,” my father suggested. “You wouldn’t even have to be a
reporter. If you really want a challenge, I could create a special position for
you in the advertising department. I could use a strong-minded person to deal
with unwanted advertisers.”
“Unwanted advertisers? Since when did
you start turning down good money from anyone?”
“Since Mrs. Philip Dunst started wanting me to print inflammatory advertisements urging the local female population to vote their own conscience in the upcoming presidential election. Did you know she’s establishing a local chapter of the American League of Women Voters?”
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