Jane Carter Investigates Episode One-Hundred and Thirty-Two
Several minutes elapsed before Paul
Firth opened the door. He looked first around the yard then noticed the
envelope. He muttered to himself as he picked it up.
As he read the message his face became
convulsed with rage. Still muttering, he crumpled the paper and thrust it into
his pocket. Then he went back into the house and slammed the door behind him.
With Paul at home, I dared not try to
see Mrs. Timms. As I hesitated, debating what to do next, Anchor Jim came from
his hiding place. He had not seen me.
“Jim!” I called softly.
The sailor turned. I could see in his
expression that he recognized me. He immediately turned and ran in the opposite
direction across the yard. Keeping low behind a hedge, he sprinted toward the
river.
“Jim! Come back!” I called again.
He fled through the fields, without
even turning his head back to look at me. Soon he was hidden by tall trees and
bushes.
The farmhouse door swung open. I barely
had time to step behind a large maple before Paul Firth came down the path. He
went directly to the barn and, a few minutes later, backed out his automobile.
As soon as the car had disappeared down
the main road, I ran to the kitchen door and knocked. When it was not opened
immediately, I thrust my head inside and called out for Mrs. Timms.
“Here I am,” answered Mrs. Timms,
hurrying in from the dining room. “I hope you’ve come to take me home, Jane!”
“No, only to receive your report.” I
sank into a chair beside the stove. “You don’t act very pleased with your new
job.”
“It’s dreadful here. I was crazy to say
I would stay.”
“Haven’t you learned anything?”
“I’ve learned that Paul Firth is one of
the most disagreeable men I ever met in my life. There’s no satisfying him. He
requires a slave, not a housekeeper!”
“But what about the storm cave?” I
asked. “Were you able to find out what Firth keeps in it?”
“Of course not. The padlock is always
locked, and he keeps the key in his pocket.”
“But he does have something hidden
there? He goes down into it at night?”
“I’ve seen him enter the cave only once
since I came here.”
“When was that?”
“Last night after I had gone to bed. I
heard the door close, so I went to the window and watched.”
“How long did he stay there, Mrs.
Timms?”
“About three hours, I’d judge. It was
after two o’clock when he returned to his room.”
“What can he have hidden in the cave?”
“Nothing, in my opinion,” Mrs. Timms
said. “I think he cooks something. At least he builds a fire.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I could see smoke seeping out from the
cracks of the cave door.”
“Cooking? Surely he doesn’t have a
still down there.”
“I doubt it very much. I’ve never seen
him show any signs of being a drinker. Probably you’ve built up a great mystery
about nothing.”
Mrs. Timms began to wash the dirty plates
stacked in the sink. I picked up a towel and automatically wiped and stacked
them away.
“This house is still being watched,” I
told Mrs. Timms. “Only a few minutes ago I saw Anchor Jim sneak up to the
door.”
“Anchor Jim!”
“Mr. Mortimer never caught him, it
seems. But why should the fellow come here? What message did he leave Firth?”
“I heard a knock on the front door,”
Mrs. Timms said. “Firth answered it, and when he came back into the kitchen he
was in a dreadful temper.”
“The letter upset him?”
“I didn’t know he had received one.”
“Yes, Anchor Jim left it on the
doorstep. It may have been a threatening note. I’d give a lot to know what it
said.”
“Firth has been very nervous ever since
I arrived here,” Mrs. Timms said. “If he hears any unusual sound in the yard he
immediately becomes alert.”
“As if he were afraid for his life?”
“Yes, he does act that way. I doubt if
he’ll stay here much longer. His clothes are all packed in suitcases.”
“That is important information,” I
said. “Oh, dear, if only we knew why he’s being threatened, and why he intends
to leave! I believe I’ll go upstairs and inspect his room.”
“You’ll learn nothing there,” Mrs.
Timms insisted. “Firth is a careful man. He leaves no papers lying about.”
“It will do no harm to look.”
I climbed the creaking stairs, followed
by Mrs. Timms.
“This is his room,” said the
housekeeper, opening a door. “I haven’t made the bed yet.”
Mrs. Timms busied herself smoothing
covers while I wandered about. The room had no rug. It was furnished with an
old-fashioned dresser, a washstand, and a bed with a high headboard.
I opened the closet door. The hangers
were dangling together, without clothing. Everything had been packed into two
suitcases which stood against the wall.
“I’ve already inspected the luggage,”
said Mrs. Timms as I bent to open one of the bags. “You’ll find nothing except
clothing. I tell you, Paul Firth is a very cautious man.”
“I can believe it. This room is as bare
of evidence as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.”
“Just what do you hope to find?”
“Well, I don’t know. What’s this?” I
said as I picked up a sheet of notebook paper from the dresser.
“Don’t get excited over that.” Mrs.
Timms laughed mirthlessly. “It’s only a grocery list which Firth made up. He
doesn’t trust anyone to spend his money for him.”
“Is this Firth’s writing?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Mrs. Timms, I’ve seen this writing
before! I’m almost certain of it. There’s a marked resemblance!”
“A resemblance to what, Jane?”
“To a threatening note I received. I
guess I never told you. Someone left a message on my desk at the old Press building, warning me to give up Carter’s All-story Weekly.”
“And you think Paul Firth left it
there?”
“This looks like the same writing.”
“Probably you are mistaken, Jane. Why
should he have any interest in your story magazine?”
“He came to the office one day,
questioning me about a fictionalized account of a sailor with an octopus
tattoo. I included a scene where the sailor gets pushed from the bridge by a
person unknown. When I admitted that the story was based on true events, Mr.
Firth seemed to take a suspicious interest in the fate of the man who got flung
into the river. I shall keep this grocery list and compare it with the note.”
I carefully folded the paper and
slipped it into my dress pocket. Mrs. Timms had finished making the bed and was
ready to leave.
“I’ve learned everything I can for
you,” she said. “Now I hope you’re willing to let me return home.”
“Please stay another day,” I pleaded.
“I feel in my bones that we’re about to make an important discovery.”
“Those bones of yours! Tell me, how is
Rosie Larkin getting along?”
“Well, she tries hard, but I’ll admit
Dad doesn’t like the arrangement.”
“Then I must return. It’s nonsense for
me to stay here.”
I was paying scant attention to Mrs.
Timms’ words. I had picked up the wastepaper basket and was examining the
contents. There were a few advertising circulars, an unaddressed envelope and a
crumpled ball of paper. I carefully smoothed it out.
“Mrs. Timms, look at this!”
There was no writing on the paper, only
a crude drawing of an octopus.
“This must be the paper which Anchor
Jim left on the doorstep only a few minutes ago,” I said.
“You think it may have been intended as
a warning to Paul Firth?” Mrs. Timms looked at the drawing rather dubiously.
“I’m sure of it, Mrs. Timms! Don’t you
see? The drawing is a badly-executed copy of the tattoo which both Anchor Jim
and Richard Hamsted had on their backs!”
“Yes, it does look the same as Jim’s
marking,” Mrs. Timms conceded. “But what does it mean? Why was it sent to Firth?”
“I wish I knew.”
“One thing is clear. That boatman your
father hired is a downright hoodlum.”
“He’s wanted by the government. We know
that. But Firth may be a rascal, too. Why should Anchor Jim threaten him unless
he’s done something he shouldn’t?”
“Why indeed? This is a case for the
police, not one for you or me,” Mrs. Timms said with finality. “I am ready to
leave here whenever you are. I’ve decided not to bother giving Firth notice.”
“You can’t go now. You can’t!” I
moaned. “Stay until after Thursday, at least. I’m positive everything will be
cleared up by then.”
“Why Thursday?”
“Well, I have a little matter coming up
on that day. Besides, I’ve sent off a letter which may help solve the mystery.
Please, Mrs. Timms, do me this one favor, and I’ll never ask another.”
“Has Jack asked you to go to the
pictures with him yet?” Mrs. Timms asked.
“He has not, and I can hardly be blamed
for that.”
“How can he ask you, when you’ve been
avoiding him?”
“I haven’t been avoiding him,” I
insisted. “I’ve just been very busy working on getting the next issue of Carter’s All-Story Weekly ready to go to
press.”
“It is my impression,” said Mrs. Timms,
“that you have had ample time to go gallivanting all over Greenville in the
company of tattoo artists and sailors and who knows what other unsuitable
types.”
“You are a snob, Mrs. Timms.”
“I am not. You know very well that Jack
Bancroft is sweet on you, but you’ve turned him down so many times that he may
have decided to save his breath and his pride.”
She was right, but I was loath to admit
it.
“I’ll find a spare moment to stop by
the Examiner offices,” I said
grudgingly, “and see if I can’t cadge another invitation to go to the
pictures.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“I’ll stay until Friday. Not a day longer.
However, I warn you, if I see Anchor Jim prowling about, I shall summon the
sheriff.”
“That’s all right with me,” I said. “I
must skip now before Firth gets back from town. Just keep your eye on him and
report to me if anything unusual happens.”
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