Jane Carter Investigates Episode One-Hundred and Twenty-Three
I mounted the steps two at a time,
bursting in upon Florence, who was busy proofreading Mrs. Pruitt’s latest
offering,
“Got it!” I announced. “About six
hundred pounds of paper. That should keep the Weekly going for a while.”
“Here’s something to dampen your
enthusiasm.” Florence thrust a letter toward me. “Another kick on that octopus
tattoo story you wrote. A Mrs. Clarence Brown says she heartily disapproves of
such outlandish tales and that she’ll never buy another copy of Carter’s All-Story Weekly.”
“At least it proves my story attracted
attention,” I said. “Anything else while I was gone?”
“Yes, Mrs. Timms telephoned to ask that
you come to the cottage as soon as possible. And that reminds me—the telephone
bill. The company requires a month’s advance—”
“Never mind the bills,” I said. “Did
Mrs. Timms say anything about Anchor Jim?”
“He appears to be much better.”
“I’m glad of that. I suppose I should
drive out to the cottage before it gets dark.”
“Run along. I’ll look after everything
here.”
I swept my desk clear of papers and
locked the drawers. I told Florence goodbye and left the office. On the
stairway, I met Harry.
“I’ve made my list,” he said. “I figure
we can’t get out the next issue with less than this.”
I glanced at the paper and slipped it
into my purse.
“I’ll get the things somehow,” I
promised. “By the way, there’s a roll of paper on the loading dock.”
“I’ve already hauled ’er in. Any other
jobs for me?”
“No, you seem to be one jump ahead.”
We descended the stairway together, the
steps creaking beneath our weight. Harry looked different. His hair had been
cut and his face was clean-shaven.
“I suppose you knew Marcus Roberts
rather well?” I asked him.
“Oh, sure.”
“What was he like?”
“Well—” Harry hesitated, at a loss for
words. “Roberts was odd, sort of cold and unfriendly except to those who knew
him best, but he was a straight-shooter.”
“The employees liked him?”
“Everyone did except a few chronic
sore-heads.”
“Is it true that the Press was making money at the time it
closed down?”
“That’s what everyone on the paper
thought. It was a shock to us all when Roberts closed up shop. I’ll never
forget the day he told us he was giving up the plant. The old man looked like
death had struck him, and he cried when he said goodbye to the boys.”
“I wonder why he closed the plant.”
“Some say it was because he had lost a
pile of money speculating on the stock market, but I never believed it. Roberts
wasn’t the gambling type.”
“Why do you think he gave up the
paper?”
“I’ve done a lot of speculating on it,”
Harry admitted. “This is just my own idea, but I figure Roberts may have been
blackmailed.”
“Blackmailed! By whom?”
“I can’t tell you—it’s only my guess.”
“You have no evidence to support such a
theory?”
“Nothing you could call evidence, but
the day before Roberts quit he was in the pressroom. He was sort of thinking
out loud, I guess. Anyhow, he said to me, ‘Harry, the dirty blackmailer
couldn’t do this to me if it weren’t for my daughter. If it didn’t mean
smearing her name, I’d fight!’”
“Did you ask him what he meant?”
“I made some reply, and then he closed
up like a clam. I figure he hadn’t realized what he was saying.”
“You haven’t any idea as to whom he
meant?”
“I couldn’t make a guess.”
“No matter what the reason, it was a
pity the Press had to close,” I said.
“I feel very sorry for Mr. Roberts.”
I told Harry goodbye and climbed aboard Bouncing Betsy. As I drove toward the river cottage I couldn’t stop thinking about what the old pressman had told me. It was possible that Harry was right, but why should Mr. Roberts submit to blackmail even for his daughter’s sake? Somehow the pieces of the puzzle refused to fit together.
Comments
Post a Comment