The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Secret Pact, by Mildred A. Wirt
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Title: The Secret Pact
Author: Mildred A. Wirt
Release Date: December 18, 2010 [EBook #34682]
Language: English
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The Secret
Pact
_By_
MILDRED A. WIRT
_Author of_
MILDRED A. WIRT MYSTERY STORIES
TRAILER STORIES FOR GIRLS
_Illustrated_
CUPPLES AND LEON COMPANY
_Publishers_
NEW YORK
_PENNY PARKER_
MYSTERY STORIES
_Large 12 mo. Cloth Illustrated_
TALE OF THE WITCH DOLL
THE VANISHING HOUSEBOAT
DANGER AT THE DRAWBRIDGE
BEHIND THE GREEN DOOR
CLUE OF THE SILKEN LADDER
THE SECRET PACT
THE CLOCK STRIKES THIRTEEN
THE WISHING WELL
SABOTEURS ON THE RIVER
GHOST BEYOND THE GATE
HOOFBEATS ON THE TURNPIKE
VOICE FROM THE CAVE
GUILT OF THE BRASS THIEVES
SIGNAL IN THE DARK
WHISPERING WALLS
SWAMP ISLAND
THE CRY AT MIDNIGHT
COPYRIGHT, 1941, BY CUPPLES AND LEON CO.
The Secret Pact
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
1 ABOARD THE GOODTIME _1_
2 THE RIVER'S VICTIM _11_
3 THE OCTOPUS TATTOO _19_
4 A PROSPECTIVE TENANT _27_
5 COBWEBS AND RUST _36_
6 HEADLINES AND HEADACHES _45_
7 PETER FENESTRA _54_
8 THE STORM CAVE _62_
9 A FALLEN TREE _70_
10 A WORD TO THE WISE _77_
11 MR. JUDSON'S DAUGHTER _85_
12 OLD HORNEY _91_
13 PAPER PROBLEMS _101_
14 AN EMPTY BEDROOM _109_
15 INFORMATION FROM TILLIE _116_
16 BEHIND THE LILACS _123_
17 THE ART OF TATTOO _131_
18 PAULETTA'S EXPLANATION _138_
19 MRS. WEEMS' REPORT _150_
20 PICNIC BY MOONLIGHT _159_
21 ELLIS SAAL'S CUSTOMER _167_
22 GHOSTS OF THE PAST _176_
23 PENNY'S PLIGHT _185_
24 A BARRIER OF FLAMES _193_
25 SAILORS' REVENGE _201_
CHAPTER
1
_ABOARD THE GOODTIME_
A blanket of fog, thick and damp, swirled about the decks of the
excursion steamer, _Goodtime_, cautiously plying its course down the
river. At intervals, above the steady throb of the ship's engines, a fog
horn sounded its mournful warning to small craft.
"I hope we don't collide with another boat before we make the dock,"
remarked Louise Sidell who stood at the railing with her chum, Penelope
Parker.
"That would be a perfect ending for an imperfect day," returned Penny,
fitting her coat collar more snugly about her throat.
"An imperfect day! I call it a miserable one. Rain and fog! Rain and fog!
It's made my hair as straight as the shortest distance between two
points."
"Mine's as kinky as wool." Impatiently Penny brushed a ringlet of golden
hair from her eyes. "Well, shall we go inside again?"
"No, I'd rather freeze than be a wallflower," the dark-eyed girl
responded gloomily. "We haven't been asked to dance once this evening."
"That's because we came without our own crowd, Lou. Except for that
couple yonder, we're practically the only persons aboard unattached to a
group."
Penny jerked her head in the direction of a young man and girl who slowly
paced the deck. Earlier in the evening their peculiar actions had
attracted her attention. They kept strictly to themselves, avoiding the
salon, the dining room, and all contact with other excursionists.
"I wonder who they are?" mused Louise, turning to stare. "The girl wears
a veil as if she were afraid someone might recognize her."
"Yes, I noticed that, and whenever anyone goes near her, she lowers her
head. I wish we could see her face."
"Let's wander over that way," proposed Louise.
Arm in arm, they sauntered toward the couple. The young man saw them
coming. He touched his companion's arm and, turning their backs, they
walked away.
"They did that to avoid meeting us!" Louise declared in an excited
undertone. "Now why, I wonder?"
The couple had reached the end of the deck. As the young woman turned to
glance over her shoulder, a sudden gust of wind caught her hat. Before
she could save it, the head-gear was swept dangerously close to the
railing.
Not giving the young man an opportunity to act, Penny darted forward.
Rescuing the hat, she carried it to the couple.
"Thank you," the girl mumbled, keeping her head lowered. "Thank you very
much."
Quickly she jammed the felt hat on her head and replaced the veil, but
not before Penny had seen her face clearly. The young woman was unusually
pretty with large brown eyes and a long, smoothly brushed black bob.
"This is certainly a miserable night," Penny remarked, hoping to start a
conversation.
"Sure is," replied the young man with discouraging brevity.
He tipped his hat and steered his companion away from the girl.
Ruefully Penny returned to Louise who had been an interested spectator.
"Did you get a good look at the pair?" she asked eagerly.
"Yes, but I've never seen either of them before."
"They wouldn't talk?"
"No, and the girl lowered her veil as soon as she could."
"Perhaps she's a movie actress traveling in disguise."
"Aboard a river excursion boat? I'm afraid not, Lou."
"Then maybe she's a criminal trying to elude the police."
"I fear the mystery of her identity must remain forever unsolved,"
chuckled Penny. "We'll dock in another five minutes."
Through the fog could be seen a dim glow of lights along the Riverview
wharf. The _Goodtime_, its whistle tooting repeated signals, was
proceeding more slowly than ever. Sailors stood ready to make the vessel
fast to the dock posts when she touched.
Passengers began to pour from the salon, and Penny and Louise joined the
throng. Many persons pushed and jostled each other, trying to obtain a
position close to the gangplank.
Suddenly a girl who stood not far from Penny gave an alarmed cry.
"My pocketbook! It's gone!"
Those near her expressed polite concern and assisted in searching the
deck. The missing purse was not found. Before the captain could be
notified, the gangplank was lowered, and the passengers began to
disembark from the steamer.
The girl, whose pocketbook had been lost, remained by the railing, quite
forgotten. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
"Excuse me," said Penny, addressing her, "is there anything I can do to
help?"
Disconsolately, the girl shook her head. She made a most unattractive
picture, for her blouse was wrinkled and her skirt was spotted with an
ugly coffee stain. Beneath a brown, misshapen roll-brim hat hung a tangle
of brown hair.
"Someone stole my pocketbook," she said listlessly. "I had twelve dollars
in it, too."
"You're sure you didn't leave it anywhere?" Louise inquired.
"No, I had it in my hand only a minute ago. I think someone lifted it in
the crowd."
"A pickpocket, no doubt," Penny agreed. "I've been told they frequent
these river boats."
"Nearly everyone has left the steamer now, so I suppose it would do no
good to notify the captain," commented Louise.
She and Penny started to turn away, then paused as they noticed that the
girl remained in the same dejected posture.
"You have friends meeting you at the boat?" Penny inquired kindly.
"I haven't any friends--not in Riverview."
"None?" Penny asked in surprise. "Don't you live here?"
"No," answered the girl. "I've been working as a waitress at Flintville,
up-river. The job played out last week. Today I took this boat, thinking
I might find work in Riverview. Now I've lost my purse and I don't know
what to do or where to go."
"Haven't you any money?" inquired Penny.
"Not a cent. I--I guess I'll have to sleep in the park tonight."
"No, you won't," declared Penny. Impulsively, she opened her own purse
and, removing a five dollar bill, thrust it into the girl's hand. "This
isn't much, but it may tide you over until you can find work."
"Oh, you're kind to help me. I'll pay you back just as soon as I get a
job."
"Don't worry about that," replied Penny. "However, I should like to know
your name."
"Tillie Fellows."
"Mine is Penelope Parker and my friend is Louise Sidell. Well, good luck
in finding that job."
Edging away from Tillie who would have detained them indefinitely, the
girls crossed the gangplank to shore.
"You were generous to give a stranger five dollars, Penny," commented
Louise when they were beyond hearing.
"Oh, she needed it."
"Your allowance money, wasn't it?"
"Yes, but I couldn't allow the girl to go hungry or sleep in the park."
"No, I suppose not," replied Louise.
Penny paused, scanning the crowd on the dock. Her father, Anthony Parker,
had promised to meet the excursion boat, but there was no sign of him or
his car.
"Dad must have been detained at the newspaper office," she remarked. "I
suppose we must wait here until he comes."
Removing themselves from the stream of traffic, the girls walked a short
distance along the dock, halting beside a warehouse. The throng rapidly
dispersed, and still Mr. Parker did not arrive.
"I hope we haven't missed him," Penny remarked anxiously. "In this fog
one can't see many yards."
They had waited only a few minutes longer when Louise suddenly touched
her chum's arm.
"Penny, there she is! Alone, too!"
"Who, Louise?"
"Why, that girl whose hat you recovered on the _Goodtime_. See her coming
this way?"
Penny turned to stare at the young woman who was walking hurriedly along
the dock. At first glance she was inclined to agree with Louise that it
was the same girl, then she was uncertain. The one who approached wore an
expensive fur and carried a distinctive beaded bag.
"I don't believe I ever saw her before," she commented.
"I guess I was mistaken," admitted Louise. "She's too well dressed."
Apparently the girl did not observe Penny and her chum, for she passed
them without a glance. Hurriedly she walked a short distance down the
wharf. Then, with a deft movement, she took a package from beneath her
smart-fitting coat, and tossed it into the water.
Turning, she retraced her steps to the gangplank of the _Goodtime_. A
moment later the girls saw her meet a young man in topcoat and derby who
had emerged from the crowd on the dock. Entering a gray sedan, they drove
away.
"I wonder what she threw into the river?" mused Penny. "Didn't you think
she acted as if she were afraid someone would see her, Lou?"
"Yes, I did. Whatever it was, it's gone to the bottom of the river."
Curiously the girls walked to the edge of the dock. Penny glanced over
the side and gave an excited cry. Instead of falling into the water, the
package had caught fast on a jagged dock post.
"It's hanging by the string!" she exclaimed.
Eagerly Louise peered down. "You're right!" she agreed. "But we can't get
it."
"I'm going to try."
"Please don't," pleaded Louise. "It's too far down. You'll tumble into
the water."
"Not if you sit on my heels."
Undisturbed by what anyone who saw her might think, Penny stretched flat
on the dock. With Louise holding to her, she jack-knifed over the edge,
clutching at the bundle which dangled an inch above the water.
"Got it!" she chuckled. "Haul away, Lou."
Louise pulled her friend to safety. Eagerly they examined the package
which was wrapped in ordinary newspaper.
"I'll venture it contains nothing more than the remains of a lunch,"
declared Louise. "This is going to be a good joke on you, Penny."
"A joke?" quavered Penny.
Her gaze had focused upon a hole in the paper. Through the opening
protruded a long strand of dark hair.
Louise saw it at the same instant and uttered a choked, horrified scream.
"Human hair--" she gasped. "Oh, Penny! Turn it over to the police!"
"It can't be that," said Penny in a calmer voice.
With trembling fingers she untied the string. The paper fell away and
several objects dropped at Penny's feet. Stooping, she picked up a girl's
long black wig. In addition, there was a dark veil, a crushed felt hat,
and a cheap cloth jacket.
"A disguise!" exclaimed Louise.
"Yes, the girl who tossed this bundle into the river was the same one we
saw aboard the steamer! But why did she wear these things and then try to
get rid of them?"
"Why, Penny, don't you understand?" Louise demanded impressively. "She
was a crook just as I thought. And she must have been the one who robbed
Tillie Fellows!"
CHAPTER
2
_THE RIVER'S VICTIM_
Penny stared at the curious array of objects found in the discarded
bundle. Unquestionably, they had been worn by the mysterious young woman
observed aboard the _Goodtime_. However, she was not certain she agreed
with Louise that the girl or her escort had robbed Tillie Fellows.
"I never heard of a professional pickpocket bothering with a disguise,"
she said doubtfully.
"Why else would the girl wear one?"
"I haven't an idea," admitted Penny. "Everything about it is queer. For
instance, what became of her escort after the steamer docked? And who was
that other young man in the gray car?"
"He appeared to be fairly well-to-do."
"Yes, he did. For that matter, the girl was elegantly dressed."
Louise kicked at the bundle with her foot. "What shall we do with these
things? Toss them away?"
"Indeed, not!" Penny carefully rewrapped the wig, jacket, and other
articles in the crumpled newspaper. "I shall take them home with me. One
never knows what may develop."
Before Louise could inquire the meaning of her chum's remark, a taxi drew
up nearby. The door swung open and out leaped a lean young man in a
well-tailored blue suit and snap-brim hat.
"Why, it's Jerry Livingston!" exclaimed Penny, recognizing one of her
father's reporters.
The young man saw the girls and came toward them. "Hello," he greeted
cheerily. "Swell night for a murder."
"I hope you're not carrying concealed weapons," laughed Penny. "Where's
Dad?"
"Delayed at the _Star_ office. He sent me to meet the boat in his place.
The fog made traffic slow. That's why I'm late."
Taking each of the girls by an elbow, he steered them to the waiting
taxi.
"_Riverview Star_," he instructed the driver, and slammed the car door.
The fog was not so dense after the cab left the docks, but the entire
river valley was blanketed, making it necessary for automobiles to
proceed with headlights turned on.
"Have a nice time?" Jerry inquired as the cab crept along the waterfront
streets.
"Not very," answered Penny, "but we ran into a little adventure."
"Trust you for that," chuckled the reporter. "City Editor DeWitt was
telling the boys at the office that he'd bet you would come home dragging
a mystery by its tail!"
"Here it is," Penny laughed, thrusting the newspaper bundle into his
hands. "Lou and I did a little fishing from the dock and this is what we
hooked."
While Jerry examined the contents of the strange package, the girls
competed with each other in relating their experiences aboard the
steamer. Although the reporter was deeply interested, he could offer no
theory to explain why the young woman had discarded the bundle of
clothing.
"Louise's guess seems as good as any," he commented. "The girl may have
been the one who robbed Tillie Fellows."
"Pickpockets usually frequent crowds," said Penny. "During the entire
trip both the girl and her escort kept strictly to themselves."
Jerry retied the bundle, tossing it into her lap.
"Your mystery is too much for me," he said lightly. "Afraid you'll have
to solve it yourself."
Penny lapsed into meditative silence, yet oddly her thoughts centered
upon nothing in particular. For a reason she never tried to explain, the
waterfront seldom failed to cast its magical spell over her. She loved
the medley of sounds, deep-throated blasts of coal boats mingling with
the staccato toots of the tugboats, the rumble and clank of bridges being
raised and lowered.
Always Penny had felt an intimate connection with the river, for her home
overlooked the Big Bear. Not many miles away flowed the Kobalt, so
closely associated with Mud-Cat Joe and the Vanishing Houseboat. It was
the Kobalt which very nearly had claimed Jerry's life, yet had brought
the _Star_ one of its greatest news stories.
Ever since she was a little girl, Penny had loved newspaper work. Her
entire life seemed bound up with printer's ink and all that it connoted.
She had learned to write well and Mrs. Weems, who had served as the
Parker housekeeper for many years, predicted that one day the girl would
become a celebrated journalist.
The taxi came to a sudden halt and with a start Penny emerged from her
reverie. Jerry leaned forward to ask the driver why they had stopped.
"I can't see the road very well," the man replied. "And there's a bridge
ahead."
As the car crept forward again, Penny peered from the window. Through the
swirling gray mist the indistinct lights which marked the arching steel
bridge were faintly visible. A pillar gradually emerged, and beside it
the shadowy, slouching figure of a man. His burning cigarette made a pin
point of light as he tossed it into the river.
Suddenly Penny's blood ran cold, for a second man appeared on the bridge.
Stealthily he approached the one who gazed with such absorption into the
inky waters. His purpose was shockingly clear to those who watched.
Penny screamed a warning; the taxi driver halted his cab, shouting
huskily. Their cries came too late.
They saw the attacker leap upon his victim. There was a brief, intense
struggle, then a body went hurtling from the bridge, fifty feet to the
water below.
"You saw that?" cried Penny. "That man was pushed off the bridge! He'll
drown!"
"We've got to save him," said Jerry.
As the cab came to a standstill, Jerry, the driver, and the two girls,
sprang to the pavement. In the murky darkness the bridge appeared
deserted, but they could hear the pounding footsteps of the attacker who
sought to escape.
"Leave that guy to me!" exclaimed the cab driver. "I'll get him!"
Abandoning his taxi, he darted across the bridge in pursuit.
Jerry and the girls ran to the river bank. Below they could see a man
struggling in the water and hear his choked cry for help.
Jerry kicked off his shoes.
"Wait!" commanded Penny. "You may not need to jump in after him. That
boat will be there in a minute."
She indicated a tugboat which had passed beneath the bridge and was
swerving toward the struggling man. As the young people anxiously
watched, they saw it lay to while the captain fished the victim from the
water with a boat-hook.
"Thank goodness for that," murmured Penny. "I hope the poor fellow is all
right."
"And I hope our driver catches the man who did the pushing," declared
Louise feelingly. "I never witnessed a more vicious attack in my entire
life!"
As she spoke, the cabman recrossed the bridge, scrambling down to the
river bank.
"The fellow got away," he reported. "He had a car waiting."
"You didn't see the license number?" Jerry inquired.
"Not a chance."
"Too bad."
Penny was watching the tugboat which had been tied up only a short
distance from the bridge.
"Jerry, let's go down there," she proposed. "I want to be certain that
man is all right."
The reporter hesitated, then consented. Leaving Louise with the cab
driver, he and Penny descended the steep, muddy slope.
The boat had been made fast to a piling. Face downward on the long
leather seat of the pilot-house, lay the rescued man. Working over him
was the captain, a short, stocky man with grease-smeared hands and
clothing saturated with coal dust.
"Anything we can do?" called Jerry from shore.
"Don't know yet if he'll need a doctor," answered the tugboat captain,
barely glancing up. "It was a nasty fall."
Jerry leaped on deck, leaving Penny behind, for the space was too wide to
be easily spanned.
Inside the cabin Captain Dubbins was expertly applying artificial
resuscitation, but he paused as the man on the seat showed signs of
reviving.
"Struck the water flat on his back," he commented briefly. "Lucky I saw
him fall or I never could have fished him out. Not on a night like this."
"The fellow didn't fall," corrected Jerry. "He was pushed."
Captain Dubbins glanced up, meeting the reporter's gaze steadily. He
offered no comment for the man on the seat groaned and rolled over.
"Steady," said the captain. "Take it easy. You'll tumble off the seat if
you don't stay quiet."
"My back," mumbled the man.
In the glare of the swinging electric light his face was ghastly white
and contorted with pain. Jerry judged him to be perhaps thirty-two. He
wore tight-fitting blue trousers and a coarse flannel shirt.
"My back," he moaned again, pressing his hand to it.
"You took a hard wrench when you hit the water," commented the captain.
"Here, let's see."
He unbuttoned the shirt, and rolling the man over, started to strip it
off.
"No!" snarled the other with surprising spirit. "Leave me alone! Get
away!"
Jerry stepped forward to assist the captain. Ignoring the man's feeble
struggles, they pulled off his shirt.
Immediately they understood why he had tried to prevent its removal.
Across his bruised, battered back had been tattooed in blue and black,
the repulsive figure of an octopus.
CHAPTER
3
_THE OCTOPUS TATTOO_
Jerry bent closer to examine the strange tattoo. Between the two foremost
arms of the octopus was sketched a single word: ALL.
"'All,'" he read aloud. "What does that signify?"
His question angered the man on the couch. Snatching the shirt from
Captain Dubbins, he made a feeble, ineffectual effort to get his arms
into it.
"I want out o' here," he muttered. "Quit starin', you two, and give me a
hand!"
"Take it easy," advised the tugboat captain soothingly. "We was just
tryin' to see if your back was badly hurt."
"Sorry," the man muttered. Relaxing, he leaned weakly against the leather
cushions. "I ain't myself."
"You swallowed a little water," remarked the captain.
"A little?" growled the other. "Half the river went down my gullet." As
an afterthought he added: "Thanks for pullin' me out."
"You're welcome," responded the captain dryly. "Ex-sailor, aren't you?"
"Yeah. How did you know?"
"I can usually tell 'em. Out of work?"
"No." The man's curt answers made it clear that he resented questions.
"You haven't told us your name."
"John Munn," the man replied after a slight hesitation.
"We tried to catch the man who pushed you off the bridge," contributed
Jerry. "He got away."
The sailor gazed steadily, almost defiantly at the reporter.
"No one pushed me off the bridge," he said. "I fell."
"You fell?" echoed Jerry. "Why, I thought I saw you and another man
struggling--"
"You thought wrong," the sailor interrupted. "I was leaning over, lookin'
into the water an' I lost my balance. That was how it happened."
"As you please, Mr. Munn," said Jerry with exaggerated politeness. "Oh,
by the way, what's the significance of that octopus thing on your back?"
"Leave me alone, will you?" the sailor muttered. "Ain't a man got any
right to privacy?"
"Better not bother him while he's feeling so low," said the tugboat
captain significantly. "I'll get him into some dry clothes."
"Nothing I can do?"
"No, thanks, he'll be all right."
"Well, so long," Jerry said carelessly. With another curious glance
directed at the sailor, he left the pilot-house, leaping from the deck to
shore. Penny stood waiting.
"Jerry, what was the matter with that fellow?" she demanded in a whisper.
"What did he have on his back? And why did he lie about being pushed off
the bridge?"
"You heard us talking?"
"I couldn't help it. You were fairly shouting at each other for awhile."
"Mr. John Munn wasn't very grateful to the captain for being saved. He
took offense when we tried to look at his back."
"I thought I heard you say something about an octopus. Was it a tattoo,
Jerry?"
"Yes, and as strange a one as I've ever seen. The picture of an octopus.
Between its forearms was the word: 'All.'"
"What could that mean?"
"I tried to learn, but Mr. John Munn wasn't in a talkative mood."
"It seems rather mysterious, doesn't it?"
"Oh, I don't know." Jerry took Penny's arm to aid her in making the steep
climb. "Sailors have some funny ideas regarding self-decoration. This
Munn was a peculiar fellow."
"It was odd that he would lie about being pushed off the bridge. Jerry,
will you write it for the paper?"
"The story isn't worth more than a few lines, Penny. We can't say that
Munn was pushed off the bridge."
"Why not? It's true."
"Munn would deny it, and then the _Star_ would appear ridiculous."
"If I owned a paper, I certainly would use the story," declared Penny.
"Why, it has wonderful possibilities."
"I fear your father never would agree. You talk him into printing the
yarn and I'll be glad to write it."
"Oh, I suppose we must forget about it," Penny grumbled. "All the same,
I'd like nothing better than to work on the story myself."
Reaching the pavement, they cleaned mud from their shoes before walking
on to the waiting taxi. Louise immediately plied them with questions,
displaying particular interest in the octopus tattoo.
"Do you suppose the man knew who pushed him off the bridge?" she inquired
thoughtfully.
"I'll venture he did," replied Penny. "Probably that was the reason he
wouldn't tell."
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. A clock chimed the hour of
eleven.
"How about stopping somewhere for a bite to eat?" Jerry suddenly
proposed.
"Won't Dad be waiting at the _Star_ office?" Penny asked.
"He suggested that I keep you girls entertained until around
eleven-thirty if I could."
"That being the case, we'll accept your invitation with alacrity,"
laughed Penny. "How about the Golden Pheasant?"
"Oh, no, you don't! Phillip's Bean Pot is nearer my speed."
A block farther down the street Jerry paid the driver and escorted the
girls into a clean but low-priced restaurant.
"No item on the menu over ten cents," he chuckled. "Do your worst. I can
take it."
Penny and Louise ordered sandwiches, while the reporter 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
carelessly at an elderly man who sat alone, sipping a glass of orange
juice.
The man acknowledged the greeting in an embarrassed way, quickly lowering
his head. Within a few minutes he left the café.
"Jerry, who was he?" Penny inquired curiously. "I am sure I've seen him
before, yet I can't remember where."
"That was old man Judson. Matthew Judson."
"Not 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 Judson feels his come-down I guess. In the flush days he wouldn't be
caught dead in a beanery."
"Is he really poor, Jerry?"
"Probably down to his last hundred thousand," the reporter grinned.
"What you say is conflicting," declared Penny impatiently. "First you
imply that Mr. Judson is poor, and then that he's rich. I wish you would
make up your mind."
"Frankly, I don't know. Judson owns a fine home on Drexell Boulevard
which he's allowed to run down. I've been told he sold the _Morning
Press_ building several months ago. Some say he has plenty of cash salted
away, others that he's broke."
"How did he lose so much of his money, Jerry?"
"No one seems to know for certain. According to rumor he plays the stock
market heavily."
"It's strange he closed down the _Morning Press_," Penny remarked
thoughtfully. "I always thought it was a profitable paper."
"So did everyone else. The _Press_ had a large circulation. But one
bright Monday morning Judson posted a notice, closed the plant, and threw
over a thousand employes out of work."
"That was nearly a year ago, wasn't it, Jerry?"
"Thirteen months to be exact. Why this sudden interest in Judson?"
"Oh, I don't know," Penny replied vaguely. "His case seems rather
pathetic. Then, too, he reminds me of someone I've seen recently. I wish
I could recall--"
Jerry glanced at the wall clock, swallowing his coffee with a gulp.
"Time to move along," he announced. "We mustn't keep your father waiting,
Penny."
They left the café and Jerry hailed a passing taxicab.
"It's only four blocks to the _Star_ building," protested Penny. "Aren't
you being too lavish with your money, Jerry?"
"Oh, I'll add this item to my expense account," he laughed. "Jump in."
The taxi turned left at Adams street, rolling slowly through the downtown
business section. Jerry peered from the car window at a large, four-story
stone building which occupied a corner.
"That place sure looks like a morgue these days," he commented. "_The
Morning Press._"
Penny and Louise likewise twisted sideways to stare at the dark, deserted
building. Windows were plastered with disfiguring posters and the white
stone blocks, once so beautiful, were streaked with city grime.
"When the _Press_ closed, machinery, furniture and everything else was
left exactly as it stood," remarked Jerry. "Too bad an enterprising
newspaper man 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--" Penny began, only to break off. "Why, that's
funny!"
"What is?" inquired Jerry.
Penny had turned to glance back at the _Morning Press_ plant.
"The building isn't deserted!" she exclaimed. "There's a light in one of
the upstairs rooms!"
CHAPTER
4
_A PROSPECTIVE TENANT_
Jerry rolled down the window beside him and, thrusting his head through
it, glanced back at the _Morning Press_ building.
"Where do you see a light?" he demanded.
"It was on the third floor," declared Penny. "I can't see it myself now."
Jerry grinned as he settled back into his place between the two girls.
"You certainly get a kick out of playing jokes," he accused.
"But it wasn't a joke, Jerry. Honestly, I saw a light. Didn't you,
Louise?"
"Sorry, but I didn't. I'm afraid your imagination works overtime, Pet."
"I know what I saw," insisted Penny.
As Jerry and Louise smiled, she lapsed into injured silence. However, she
was certain she had not been mistaken. Distinctly she had observed a
light on the third floor, a moving light which had been extinguished
before her companions had noticed it.
The car presently drew up at the curb in front of the _Star_ building.
Anthony Parker, a newspaper tucked beneath his arm, stepped from the
vestibule where he had been waiting. He was a tall, slender man, alert
and courageous in following his convictions. Under his management the
_Riverview Star_ had grown to be one of the most influential papers in
the state.
"Hope we haven't kept you waiting, Mr. Parker," Jerry greeted him,
swinging open the cab door.
"Only a minute or two. Thanks, Jerry, for bringing the girls from the
boat. May we offer you a ride home?"
"No, thanks, Chief. I'll walk from here. Good evening."
Jerry tipped his hat politely to Penny and Louise as the cab drove away.
Mr. Parker asked the girls if they had enjoyed their trip aboard the
_Goodtime_.
"The boat wasn't very well named, I'm afraid," answered Penny. "The trip
proved to be rather terrible but we met some interesting people."
During the drive to the Sidell home, she and Louise talked as fast as
they could, telling Mr. Parker about Tillie Fellows, the mysterious young
woman who had dropped a bundle of clothing into the water, and
particularly the man with the strange octopus tattoo.
"You'll have to tell the rest of it, Penny," laughed Louise as she bade
her chum good-bye. "Thanks for bringing me home."
The cab rolled on, and Penny glanced questioningly at her father.
"What do you think of the tattoo story?" she asked hopefully. "Won't it
make a dandy feature for the _Star_?"
"I regret to say it sounds like first-grade fiction."
"Why, Dad! Louise and Jerry will confirm everything I've said."
"Oh, I don't doubt your word, Penny. I am sure everything occurred as you
report. Nevertheless, were we to use the story our readers might question
its veracity."
"Don't crush me with such big words, Dad."
"Veracity means truth, Penny. Now your story is very interesting, but I
think you may have placed your own interpretation upon certain facts."
"For instance?"
"Well, according to John Munn's statement, he fell from the bridge and
was not pushed."
"But I saw it with my own two eyes, Dad."
"The night is foggy. 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," accused Penny. "Very
well, since you scorn my story I'll give it to the High School paper!"
"An excellent idea. That is, if your editor favors highly colored
journalism."
Penny made a grimace, knowing that her father was deliberately teasing
her. It was a constant source of irritation that a boy named Fred Clousky
had been elected editor of the Riverview High School Chatter instead of
Penny by the margin of one vote. She disapproved of Fred, his pimples,
and particularly the way he blue-penciled the occasional stories which
she submitted.
"The Riverview High Chatter is just as silly as its name," she announced.
"If I had that sheet I'd make it into a real paper."
"Sour grapes?" inquired her father softly.
"Maybe," grinned Penny. "But Fred is such an egg, even more conservative
than you."
The cab drew up before the Parker home. A light still burned in the
living room where Mrs. Weems, the housekeeper, sat reading a magazine.
"I am glad you have come, Penny," she remarked, switching on another
light. "I was beginning to worry."
Since the death of Mrs. Parker many years before Mrs. Weems had taken
complete charge of the household, caring for Penny and loving her as her
own daughter. There were occasions when she found the impulsive girl
difficult to restrain, but certainly never dull or uninteresting.
Mrs. Weems soon went to bed, leaving Penny and her father to explore the
refrigerator. As they helped themselves to cold ham, potato salad, and
celery, Penny spoke of the light which she had seen in the abandoned
_Morning Press_ building.
"It may have been a watchman making his usual rounds," commented her
father.
"Jerry tells me the building has no watchman."
"Could it have been a reflection from a car headlight?"
"I don't think so, Dad."
"Well, I shouldn't lose sleep over it," remarked Mr. Parker lightly.
"Better run along to bed now."
Penny arose at six-thirty the next morning, and before breakfast had
written a two-page story about John Munn for the Riverview High School
Chatter. She read it twice and was very well pleased with her work.
"Editor Fred is lucky to get this," she thought. "He should make it the
lead story."
Off to school at a quarter to nine, Penny deposited her literary treasure
in a box provided for journalistic contributions. All that day she went
from class to class, warmed by the knowledge that she had accomplished an
excellent piece of writing. To Louise she confided that she thought the
work might improve her grade in English Composition.
"I'm glad you've decided to contribute to the paper again," declared her
chum. "It's time you and Fred buried the hatchet."
"Oh, I don't bear him any grudge," returned Penny. "Of course, everyone
knows he campaigned for the editorship with free candy and soda pop."
At three-thirty, a minute before the closing bell rang, Fred Clousky
sauntered down the aisle. With a flourish he dropped two pages of copy on
Penny's desk, face upward. Across one of the pages in huge blue letters
had been written: "Too imaginative for _Chatter_. Language too flowery.
Spelling bad. Try us again sometime."
A red stain crept over Penny's cheeks. Her blue eyes began to snap.
"The poisonous little mushroom!" she muttered. "If he thinks he can do
this to me--"
The closing bell rang, and immediately a group of sympathetic friends
gathered about Penny. They all tried to soothe her feelings.
"Don't let it bother you," Louise advised her chum. "Of course, he did it
just to make you peeved."
"'Spelling bad,'" Penny read aloud. "Look at this word he underlined!
Anyone could tell I merely struck a wrong letter on my typewriter!"
Crumpling the page, she tossed it into the waste paper basket.
"'Too imaginative,'" she muttered. "'Language too flowery'!"
"Oh, forget it, Penny," laughed Louise, leading her toward the locker
room. "Fred always has been jealous of you because you've had stories
published in the _Star_. Don't let him know that you're annoyed."
"I guess I am acting silly," admitted Penny, relaxing. "What I must do is
to give this problem a good, hard think. Editor Fred will hear from me
yet!"
Declining an invitation to play tennis, she went directly home. For an
hour she lay on the davenport, staring at the ceiling.
"Penny, are you ill?" inquired Mrs. Weems anxiously.
"No, I'm in conference with myself," answered Penny. "I am trying to
arrive at a momentous decision."
Presently, she began to scribble figures on a sheet of paper. When her
father came home at five o'clock he found her engaged in that occupation.
"Well, Penny," he remarked, hanging up his hat, "how did it go today? The
editor of _Chatter_ accepted your contribution I hope."
Penny grinned ruefully. "If you don't mind, let's discuss a less painful
subject," she replied. "Suppose you tell me what you know about Matthew
Judson and the _Morning Press_."
"Why this sudden display of interest?"
"Oh, I saw Mr. Judson last night at the Bean Pot. He looked rather
depressed."
Mr. Parker sat down on the arm of the davenport. "It's too bad about
Judson," he remarked. "I always admired him because he was a clever
newspaper man."
"Clever? Didn't he mis-manage the paper so that it had to close?"
"Not that anyone ever learned. No, I never could figure out why Judson
quit. The _Press_ had a large circulation and plenty of advertisers."
"What became of the building?"
"It's still there."
"No, I mean who owns it," Penny explained. "Not Mr. Judson?"
"The building was taken over a few months ago by a man named George
Veeley. Come to think of it, I once brought him home with me. You should
remember him, Penny."
"I do. He was rather nice. I wonder what he plans to do with the _Press_
building and its equipment."
"Hold it for speculation, I assume. In my opinion he'll have it empty for
a long while."
"I rather doubt it," said Penny. "He has a prospective tenant now, only
he doesn't know it."
"Indeed? Who?"
"You're looking at her."
"You!" Mr. Parker smiled broadly.
"I have it all planned," announced Penny with quiet finality. "What this
town needs is a good, live newspaper, and an imaginative editor to run
it."
"Oh, I see." With difficulty Mr. Parker kept his face composed. "And
where do you propose to start your newspaper? In the old _Press_
building?"
"You took the words out of my mouth, Dad. Everything is there, awaiting
the touch of my magic wand."
"There's a little matter of rent. Several thousand a month."
"I have a solution for that problem."
"Your staff?"
"I'll gather it as I prosper."
"The necessary capital?"
"A mere detail," said Penny grandly. "I meet only one obstacle at a time.
Tomorrow I shall accost Mr. Veeley with an attractive proposition. If he
falls into my net, Riverview's newest paper, _The Weekly Times_, makes
its bow to the public."
CHAPTER
5
_COBWEBS AND RUST_
"My dear young lady, do I understand you correctly? You are asking for
the use of the _Morning Press_ building without the payment of rent."
Mr. Veeley, slightly bald and with a bulging waistline, regarded Penny
across the polished mahogany desk. Upon arriving at his office that
Saturday morning, he had found the girl awaiting him. For the past ten
minutes she had stunned him with her remarkable figures and plans.
"Yes, that's about the size of it," Penny acknowledged. "What Riverview
needs is a newspaper unhampered by the conservatism of over-aged minds.
Now you have a fine building and equipment which is standing idle, fast
falling into decay--"
"Decay?" Mr. Veeley inquired mildly.
"Expensive machinery soon rusts and becomes practically worthless unless
kept in use," declared Penny with authority. "If you'll agree to my
proposition, I'll publish a weekly paper there, see that your property is
kept in good condition, and turn the plant back to you whenever you can
find a prosperous renter."
"Your father sent you here?"
"Oh, goodness, no! Dad thinks it's all a great joke. But it isn't! I
_know_ I can make a success of the paper if only I have a chance to test
my ideas."
Mr. Veeley could not fail to be impressed by Penny's earnest, appealing
manner. The novelty of her plan both amused and intrigued him.
"I wish I could help you start your paper," he said. "However, I doubt if
you comprehend the cost of such a venture. Even should I permit the use
of my building rent free, how would you meet such expenses as light,
water and heat?"
"Oh, I have a plan for everything," insisted Penny grandly. "All I need
is a building. I'll have the windows washed for you and do a good job of
house cleaning. With me in charge you'll be able to dismiss your
watchman."
"I haven't one."
"No watchman?" Penny inquired innocently. "Last night when I drove past
the building I saw a light on the third floor. Evidently someone is
prowling about there, Mr. Veeley."
"You're certain you saw a light?" the man inquired, disturbed by the
information.
"Oh, yes, indeed. Excuse me for advising you, Mr. Veeley, but you really
should have someone to guard your property."
Mr. Veeley smiled broadly. "You are a very convincing young lady. While I
realize it is a foolish thing to do, I am tempted to let you have the
key."
"Oh, Mr. Veeley, that's wonderful! You'll never regret it!"
"I'll allow you the use of the building for a month," resumed Mr. Veeley.
"At the end of that time we'll discuss the future."
Penny was thrown into such a frenzy of excitement that she scarcely could
remain outwardly serene until she had left the office. Once on the street
she ran the entire distance to the _Star_ building, dashing into her
father's suite with all the sound effects of a laboring steam engine.
"Dad!" she cried dramatically. "I have it! The key to the _Morning Press_
plant! Now I'm on my way to draw my savings from the bank."
"What's that?" demanded Mr. Parker. "Don't tell me Mr. Veeley listened to
your crazy scheme!"
"He's heartily in favor of it, Dad. Now I must rush off to the bank."
"Come back here," her father commanded as she started for the door. "I
can't allow you to withdraw your savings."
"How can I launch the _Weekly Times_ without capital?"
"You're really determined to try it?"
"Of course."
Mr. Parker reached for a cheque book. "How much will you need?"
"Oh, just sign your name at the bottom and leave the amount blank."
"Sorry, I prefer not to financially cripple myself for life. One hundred
dollars is my limit. I'm throwing it down a sink-hole, but the lessons
you'll learn may be worth the cost."
"I can do a lot with a hundred dollars," said Penny. "Thanks, Dad."
She picked up the cheque before the ink was dry and, dropping a kiss
lightly on her father's cheek, was gone.
From the corner drugstore Penny telephoned Louise, telling her the news
and asking her to come downtown at once. Fifteen minutes later her chum
met her at the entrance to the _Morning Press_ building.
"Just think, Lou!" she murmured, unlocking the front door. "This huge
plant all mine! I'm a publisher at last!"
"You're completely insane if you ask me," retorted Louise. "This place is
a dreadful mess. You'll never be able to clean it up, let alone get out
an issue of the paper!"
The girls had passed through the vestibule to the lower floor room which
once had served as the _Press_' circulation department. Behind the high
service counter, desks and chairs remained untouched, covered by a thick
layer of dust. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling light fixtures and festooned
the walls.
Climbing the stairs, the girls glanced briefly into the newsroom, and
then wandered on to the composing room. Penny's gaze roved over long rows
of linotype machines and steel trucks which were used to hold page forms.
There were bins of type, Cheltenham, Goudy, Century--more varieties than
she had ever seen before.
Passing the stereotyping department, the girls entered the press room
where slumbered ten giant double-decked rotary presses. Lying on the
roller of one was a torn strip of newspaper, the last issue of the
_Morning Press_ ever printed.
"It gives one a queer feeling to see all this," said Louise. "Why do you
suppose Judson closed the plant when it was prosperous?"
"No one seems to know the answer," Penny replied, stooping to peer into
an empty ink pot. "But it doesn't seem possible a man would give up his
business, throw so many persons out of work, without a good reason."
"His bad luck seems to be yours," Louise remarked gloomily. "Well, since
you've fallen heir to all this, what will you do with it? It will take a
sizeable chunk of your hundred dollars just to get the place cleaned."
"Not according to my calculations," chuckled Penny. "Let's choose our
offices and then we'll discuss business."
"Our offices?" echoed Louise. "I'm not in on this brain-storm of yours."
"Oh, yes, you are. You'll be the editor."
"But I thought you were that!"
"I'll be the managing editor," said Penny gently. "You'll have your
office, and oodles of authority. Of course, you'll have to work hard
keeping our staff in line."
"What staff?"
"We'll recruit from Riverview High, concentrating on the journalism
majors. Now I think Jack Malone will be our new advertising manager."
"Jack Malone! Why, Penny, he hasn't an ounce of push."
"I know, Lou. But his father is president of the Malone Glass Company. I
figure if his son is in charge of advertising--"
"I get the idea," interrupted Louise. "Penny, with a head like yours, we
should land all the important accounts in town."
"I aim to win several fat ones away from the _Star_," Penny said with
quiet confidence. "If we don't, it will be bankruptcy before the first
issue of the paper is off the press."
Louise glanced dubiously at the dusty machinery.
"There's no denying you're a genius, Penny. Even so, I don't see how you
expect to get these presses running."
"We'll only need one."
"True, but you can't recruit pressmen or linotype operators from
Riverview High."
"Unfortunately, no," sighed Penny. "The first issue of the _Times_ will
be printed at the _Star_ plant. Dad doesn't know it yet. After
that--well, I'll think of something."
"How do you propose to get this place cleaned?"
"Every person who works on our paper must wield a broom, Lou. After we've
chosen our offices, we'll scamper forth and gather our staff together."
Returning to the second floor, the girls inspected the offices adjoining
the newsroom. Penny selected for hers the one which previously had been
occupied by Matthew Judson. His name remained on the frosted-glass door,
and the walls bore etchings and paintings of considerable value.
In the top drawer of the flat-top desk there remained an assortment of
pens, erasers, thumbtacks, and small articles. All letters and papers had
been removed.
"Mr. Judson apparently left here in a great hurry," she remarked. "For
some reason he never returned for the paintings and personal trifles."
Louise chose an office adjoining Penny's new quarters. They both were
admiring the view from the window when her chum suddenly drew herself
into an attitude of attention.
"What's wrong?" inquired Louise, mystified.
"I thought I heard someone moving about," whispered Penny. "Quiet!"
They remained motionless; listening. A board creaked.
Darting to the door, Penny flung it open. The newsroom was deserted, but
she was almost certain she heard footsteps retreating swiftly down the
hall.
"Lou, we're not alone in this building!"
"I thought I heard someone, too."
The girls ran through the newsroom to the hall, and down the stairway.
Three steps from the bottom, Penny suddenly halted. On the service
counter of the advertising department lay a man's grimy felt hat.
"Look at that," she whispered. "Someone _was_ upstairs!"
"He may still be here, too. Penny, did you leave the entrance door
unlocked?"
"I guess so. I don't remember."
"A loiterer may have wandered into the building, and then left when we
gave chase."
"Without his hat?"
"It probably was forgotten."
"Anyhow, I intend to look carefully about," declared Penny. "After all, I
am responsible for this place now."
Both girls were uneasy as they wandered from room to room. Penny even
ventured into the basement where a number of rats had taken refuge. The
building seemed deserted.
"We're only wasting precious time," she said at last. "Whoever the
intruder was, he's gone now."
Retracing their way to the advertising department, the girls stopped
short, staring at the counter. The hat, observed there only a few minutes
before, had vanished.
CHAPTER
6
_HEADLINES AND HEADACHES_
Penny and Louise stared at the counter, unable to believe their eyesight.
They knew that they had not touched the hat. Obviously it had been
removed by the man who had left it there.
"The hat's gone," whispered Louise nervously. "That means someone is
still inside the building!"
"He could have slipped out the front door while we were in the basement."
Once more the girls made a complete tour of the building, entering every
room. Unable to find an intruder they finally decided to give up the
futile search.
"After this I'll take care to lock the door," declared Penny as they
prepared to leave the building. "Now let's get busy and gather our
staff."
During the next hour she and Louise motored from house to house,
recruiting school friends. Early afternoon found the old _Press_ building
invaded by a crew of willing and enthusiastic young workers. A group of
fifteen boys and girls, armed with mops, window cloths and brooms, fell
to work with such vigor that by nightfall the main portion of the
building had emerged from its cocoon of grime.
Weary but well satisfied with her first day as a newspaper publisher,
Penny went home and to bed. At breakfast the next morning she ate with
such a preoccupied air that her father commented upon her sober
countenance.
"I hope you haven't encountered knotty problems so soon in your
journalistic venture," he remarked teasingly.
"None which you can't solve for me," said Penny. "I've decided to run the
octopus tattoo story on the front page of our first issue."
"Indeed? And when does the first issue appear?"
"I'll print one week from today."
"A Sunday paper?"
"I thought probably your presses wouldn't be busy on that day."
"_My_ presses!"
"Yes, I haven't hired my pressroom force yet. I plan to make up the
paper, set the type and lock it in the page forms. Then I'll haul it over
to your plant for stereotyping and the press run."
"And if I object?"
"You won't, will you, Dad? I'm such a pathetic little competitor."
"I'll run off the first edition for you," Mr. Parker promised. "But mind,
only the first. How many papers will you want? About five hundred?"
"Oh, roughly, six thousand. That should take care of my street sales."
Mr. Parker's fork clattered against his plate. "Your street sales?" he
repeated. "Where, may I ask, did you acquire your distribution
organization?"
"Oh, I have plans," Penny chuckled. "Running a paper is really very
simple."
"Young lady, you're riding for a heartbreaking fall," warned her father
severely. "Six thousand copies! Why, you'll be lucky to dispose of three
hundred!"
"Wait and see," said Penny confidently.
During the week which followed there were no idle moments for the staff
of the newly organized _Weekly Times_. Leaving Louise in charge of the
news output, Penny concentrated most of her attention on the problem of
winning advertisers. Starting with a page taken by the Malone Glass
Company, she and Jack Malone toured the city, selling a total of
forty-two full columns.
The novelty of the enterprise intrigued many business men, while others
took space because they were friends of Mr. Malone or Mr. Parker. Money
continued to pour into the till of the _Weekly Times_.
Yet, when everything should have been sailing along smoothly, Louise
complained that it was becoming difficult to keep her staff of writers
satisfied. One by one they were falling away.
"We must expect that," declared Penny. "Always the weak drop by the
wayside. If only we can get on a paying basis, we'll be able to offer
small salaries. Then we'll have more workers than we can use."
"You certainly look to the future," laughed Louise. "Personally I have
grave doubts we'll ever get the first issue set up."
Every moment which could be spared from school, Penny spent at the plant.
Long after the other young people had left, she remained, trying to
master the intricacies of the linotype machine. Although in theory it
operated somewhat like a typewriter, she could not learn to set type
accurately.
Friday night, alone in the building, the task suddenly overwhelmed her.
"Machines, machines, machines," she muttered. "The paper is going to be a
mess and all because I can't run this hateful old thing!"
Dropping her head wearily on the keyboard, Penny wept with vexation.
Suddenly she stiffened. Unmistakably, footsteps were coming softly down
the hall toward the composing room.
Twice during the week Louise had declared that she believed someone
prowled about the plant when it was deserted. Penny had been too busy to
worry about the matter. But now, realizing that she was alone and without
protection, her pulse began to hammer.
A shadow fell across the doorway.
"Who--who is there?" Penny called, her voice unsteady.
To her relief, a young man, his bashful grin reassuringly familiar,
stepped into the cavernous room. Bill Carlyle was one of her father's
best linotype operators.
"You nearly startled me out of my wits," she laughed shakily, "What
brought you here, Bill?"
"I noticed the light burning," the operator replied, twisting his hat in
his hands. "I thought I would drop in and see how you were getting
along."
"Why, that's nice of you, Bill." Penny saw that he was gazing hard at
her. She was afraid he could tell that she had been crying.
"The boys say you're doing right well." Bill moved nearer the linotype
machine.
"Don't look at my work," pleaded Penny. "It's simply awful. I can't get
the hang of this horrid old machine. I wish I hadn't started a
newspaper--I must have been crazy just as everyone says."
"You're tired, that's what's the trouble," said Bill soothingly. "Now
there's nothing to running a linotype. Give me a piece of copy and I'll
show you."
He slid into the vacant chair and his fingers began to move over the
keyboard. As if by magic, type fell into place, and there were no
mistakes.
"You do it marvelously," said Penny admiringly. "What's the trick?"
"About ten years practice. Shoot out your copy now and I'll set some of
it for you."
"Bill, you're a darling! But dare you do it? What about the union?"
"This is just between you and me," he grinned. "You need a helping hand
and I'm here to give it."
Until midnight Bill remained at his post, setting more type in three
hours than Penny had done in three days.
"Your front page should look pretty good at any rate," he said as they
left the building together. "Using rather old stories though, aren't
you?"
"Old?"
"That one about the man who was pushed off the bridge."
"The story is still news," Penny said defensively. "No other paper has
used it. Didn't you like it?"
"Sure, it was good," he responded.
Now that several days had elapsed since her experience at the river, even
Penny's interest in John Munn and his strange tattoo, had faded. However,
she was determined that the story should appear in the paper if for no
other reason than to plague the editor of _Chatter_.
According to a report from Louise, Fred Clousky had called at the _Times_
early that afternoon, and had seemed very gloomy as he inspected the
plant. He had spent nearly a half hour in the composing room, a fact
which Penny later was to recall with chagrin.
"Poor Fred," she thought. "After my paper comes out his _Chatter_ will
look more than ever like a sick cat."
Saturday was another day of toil, but by six o'clock, aided by the few
faithful members of her staff, the last stick of type was set, the pages
locked and transported to the _Star_ ready for the Sunday morning run.
"I'll be here early tomorrow," Penny told the pressman. "Don't start the
edition rolling until I arrive. I want to press the button myself."
At her urging, Mr. Parker, Jerry Livingston, Salt Sommers, and many
members of the _Star's_ staff, came to view the stereotyped plates
waiting to be fitted on the press rollers.
"You've done well, Penny," praised her father. "I confess I never thought
you would get this far. Still figuring on a street sale of six thousand?"
"I've increased the number to seven," laughed Penny.
"And how do you plan to get the papers sold?"
"Oh, that's my secret, Dad. You may be surprised."
Exhausted but happy, Penny went home and to bed. She was up at six, and
after a hastily eaten breakfast, arrived at the _Star_ office in time to
greet the workmen who were just coming on duty.
"Everything is set," the foreman told her presently. "You can start the
press now."
Penny was so nervous that her hand trembled as she pressed the electric
switch. There was a low, whining noise as the wheels began to turn,
slowly at first, then faster and faster. Pressmen moved back and forth,
oiling the machinery and tightening screws.
Penny's gaze was upon the long stream of paper feeding into the press. In
a moment the neatly folded newspapers would slide out at the rate of
eight hundred a minute. Only slightly over an hour and the run would be
completed.
The first printed paper dropped from the press, and the foreman reached
for it.
"Here you are," he said, offering it to Penny.
Almost reverently she accepted the paper. Even though there were only
eight pages, each one represented hours of labor. She had turned out a
professional job, and could rightly feel proud.
And then suddenly Penny's eyes fell upon the uppermost line of the front
page. She gasped and leaned against the wall.
"I'm ruined!" she moaned. "Ruined! Someone has played a cruel joke on
me!"
"Why, what's wrong?" inquired the press foreman, reaching for another
paper.
"Look at this," wailed Penny. "Just look!"
She pointed to the name of the paper, printed in large black letters. It
read: THE WEAKLY TIMES.
"I'll be the laughing stock of Riverview," Penny moaned. "The papers
can't go out that way. Stop the press!"
CHAPTER
7
_PETER FENESTRA_
As the foreman turned off the rotarypress, the loud throb of machinery
died away and the flowing web of paper became motionless.
"How could the mistake have been made?" Penny murmured disconsolately. "I
know that originally the name-plate was set up right."
"You should have taken page proofs and checked the mat," said the
foreman.
"But I did! At least I took page proofs. I'll admit I was careless about
the mats."
"Well, it looks as if someone played a joke on you," replied the foreman.
Penny's face hardened. "I can guess who did it! Fred Clousky! Louise told
me he spent a long while in the composing room one afternoon while I was
away. He must have changed the type just to make me look ridiculous."
"Well, it's done anyway," said the foreman with a shrug. "What will you
do about the run?"
"I'll never let it go through this way. I'd rather die."
The foreman reminded Penny that with paid advertisements she would be
compelled to print an issue. She knew that it would not be possible to
make a change in the starter plate. The entire page must be recast.
"I don't suppose the type can be matched in this plant," she said
gloomily.
"We may have some like it," replied the foreman. "I'll see."
Soon he returned to report that type was available and that the work
could be done by the stereotypers. However, the men would expect overtime
pay.
"I'll give them anything they want," said Penny recklessly. "Anything."
After a trying wait the new plate was made ready and locked on the
cylinder. Once more the great press thundered. Again papers began to pour
from the machine, every fiftieth one slightly out of line.
"What do you want done with 'em?" inquired the foreman.
"Have the papers carried to the mailing room and stacked by the door,"
she instructed. "I'll be around in the morning to arrange for
deliveries."
Monday's first issue of the _Star_ was hot off the press when Penny
stationed herself beside the veritable mountain of papers. The room was a
bedlam, with newsboys shouting noisily for their wares. As they passed
her on their way to the street, she waylaid them one by one.
"Here you are, boys," she said with an expansive smile. "Two dozen papers
each. Sell them for a nickel and keep half of it for yourself. Turn in
the money at the _Weekly Times_ office."
"Two and a half cents!" exclaimed one of the boys. "Gee, that's more than
we get for selling the _Star_!"
"Generosity is my motto," laughed Penny. "Just push those papers for all
you're worth."
Leaving the _Star_ plant, she went directly to the _Weekly Times_
building. Permission had been granted to absent herself from school, and
she planned to be busy throughout the day, checking on paper sales.
As Penny unlocked the front door, she noticed that a faint odor of
tobacco lingered in the air. A perplexed frown knitted her brow.
"That's funny," she thought. "None of the boys are allowed to smoke here.
I wonder if someone disobeyed rules, or if there's really a prowler in
the building?"
Too busy to search the plant again, Penny gave the matter scant
consideration. Tossing a package of lunch on the counter, she prepared
for a hard day's work.
Now and then, to rest her mind from columns of figures, she wandered to
the window. Down the street, newsboys called their wares and it pleased
her that they shouted the _Weekly Times_ as frequently as they did the
_Star_.
By ten o'clock the boys began to straggle in with their money. Only a few
had failed to sell all of their papers, and not one neglected to make a
report. Penny's final check-up disclosed that six thousand eight hundred
and twenty-nine Weeklies had been sold.
"I can't expect to do that well after the novelty wears off," she
thought. "But one thing is assured. My _Weekly_ isn't going to be
_weakly_!"
With a large sum of money in her possession, Penny decided to take no
chance of losing it. After making a careful count, she poured the coins
into a bag which she transported by car to the bank.
It was lunch-time when she returned to the plant. She went to the counter
for the package of sandwiches. To her surprise it had disappeared.
"Now who took my food?" she muttered.
Penny was annoyed. She did not believe that one of the newsboys had
picked up the package. Accumulative evidence pointed to a likelihood that
someone was hiding in the building. The moving light, tobacco smoke,
unexplained footsteps, suggested that a tramp might be using the empty
plant as a comfortable shelter.
"But how can he get in?" she asked herself. "Doors and windows are kept
locked."
As Penny considered whether or not to report the matter to police, the
front door opened. A man of early middle age, well dressed, but with a
sharp, weather-beaten face and a mis-shapen nose, entered.
"This the office of the _Weekly Times_?" he demanded grumpily.
"Yes," said Penny. "Is there anything--"
"I want to see the editor."
"You're looking at her now."
"You! A girl!"
Penny smiled and waited. The stranger hesitated and then took the _Weekly
Times_ from his overcoat pocket. With his forefinger he jabbed at a story
on the front page--Penny's account of the tattooed man who had been
pushed from the bridge.
"You know who wrote this?" he questioned.
"I did."
Again Penny's words surprised the man although he tried not to disclose
it.
"That's a right interesting yarn," he said after a long pause.
"I'm glad you like it." Penny stared at the man with interest, wondering
why he had come and what he wanted.
"I was kind of curious to know where you got your information."
"Why, I saw it happen, Mr--I don't believe you told me your name."
"Fenestra. Peter Fenestra."
"I was driving near the bridge at the time the man was pushed into the
water," Penny resumed.
"You didn't see the one who did it?"
"Not clearly. May I ask why you are so interested in the story?"
"I thought maybe I knew that man, Munn. What became of him?"
"I can't tell you that. He was rescued by a tugboat captain. Everything I
know about the affair is in the story."
"Well, thank you kindly," Mr. Fenestra said, tipping his hat.
Penny watched him leave the office and walk to his car. She had never
seen the man before to her knowledge. Although she should have felt
flattered by his visit, it left her with a vague, unexplainable sensation
of distrust.
"There's something queer about the way he came here," she reflected.
"Perhaps he knows more than he pretended."
Penny soon dismissed the matter from her mind, turning her thoughts to
the problem of the missing lunch. Resolutely she made a tour of the
building, venturing everywhere save into the basement. As she had half
expected, she found no one. However, returning once more to her work, she
occasionally caught herself listening for footsteps.
At three-thirty Louise came from school with other members of the _Times_
staff. She and Penny retired to the latter's private office there to
discuss plans for the next week's paper.
"Lou," said Penny abruptly, "did you ever hear of a man named Peter
Fenestra?"
"Why, yes, I have."
"He was here today to ask me about the octopus tattoo story. What can you
tell me?"
"Not very much, Penny. He lives on a farm two miles from the south edge
of Riverview. A place called The Willows."
"Oh, is he a farmer?" Penny was surprised. "I never would have guessed
that."
"He isn't one. He merely lives there. According to the report, he has
prospered by leaps and bounds."
"How does he make his money?"
"No one seems to know. When Fenestra came here a year or so ago he didn't
appear to have anything. Lately he bought a fine car, and he spends money
rather lavishly."
"He inquired about John Munn," Penny remarked. "Somehow I had a feeling
that he was trying to pump information from me for a particular reason."
"Those who know Fenestra say he's a sly old fox."
"That's the way he impressed me, Lou. Perhaps I flatter myself, but I
believe my tattoo story may cause quite a stir in Riverview."
"Was Fenestra annoyed by it?"
"I think so, Lou, although he tried to cover his feelings. He may or may
not be a friend of John Munn, 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. But I've been thinking, Lou. I very
much want a follow up story on John Munn for next week's paper. Suppose
we run out to Fenestra's farm tomorrow."
"What purpose would there be in that?"
"Fenestra 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 hopeful, I think."
"But you'll go with me?"
"Yes," promised Louise. "I've always had a curiosity to see The Willows.
Besides, I need a vacation from my strenuous duties as editor."
CHAPTER
8
_THE STORM CAVE_
"Well, Penny," remarked Mr. Parker casually at the breakfast table. "I
finally bought the cottage."
Penny closed her history book with a loud snap, favoring her father with
complete attention. "You bought a cottage?" she echoed. "Where? When?
Why?"
"I've talked about it for the past week, but you were so busy stealing
the _Star's_ advertisers that you never listened."
"I'm all ears now, Dad," Penny assured him, absently reaching for a piece
of toast. "Tell me all about it."
"The cottage is located on the Big Bear River. Four rooms and a
boathouse. Incidentally, I've hired a man to look after the place and
keep the boat in shape. He calls himself Anchor Joe."
"Are we going to live at the cottage this summer?" Penny inquired.
"No, I merely bought it for week-end trips. I plan on a bit of fishing
now and then. You may enjoy going with me."
"Oh, Dad," groaned Penny, "how can I? These days I don't even have time
to wash my neck. Running a newspaper is more work than I figured."
"I'll give you the address of the cottage, at least," smiled Mr. Parker.
"If you have any spare time during the next three months drive out and
look over the place."
"I'll get there somehow," Penny promised, pocketing the card. Her hand
encountered a typed, folded sheet of paper which she immediately placed
in front of her father. "Oh, by the way, sign this for me, will you?"
"No more cheques."
"This is only an order for a ton-roll of paper. I'm trying to store up a
few supplies so that eventually I can publish the _Weekly_ in my own
plant."
Mr. Parker signed the order, inquiring teasingly: "Have you engaged your
pressman yet? Their wages come rather high you know."
"It takes everything the _Weekly_ makes to meet its current bills,"
sighed Penny. "But one of these days I'll get the paper out in my own
plant. Just wait and see!"
"I'll wait," chuckled Mr. Parker. "My hope is that you don't fail in your
studies before that happy day arrives."
On her way to school, Penny studied the card given her by her father, and
noticed that the new cottage was situated not far from The Willows. Often
she and Louise had talked of calling upon Peter Fenestra, but both had
been kept busy at the _Times_ office. Now that a linotype operator had
been hired to set type, they had a little more free time.
"If Louise will accompany me, I'll visit both places tonight," decided
Penny.
Four-thirty found the two girls walking through a dense maple and oak
woods which rimmed the Big Bear River. A breeze stirred the tree leaves,
but even so the day was hot and sultry.
"I wish it would rain," remarked Louise, trudging wearily beside her
companion. "I never knew it to be so warm at this time of year."
"Maybe we can cool off by taking a boat ride when we get to the cottage,"
encouraged Penny. "I think I see the place through the trees."
Directly ahead, in a tiny clearing, stood a freshly painted white
cottage. Quickening their steps, the girls soon arrived at the front
door. No one seemed to be within call, so they pushed it open.
A long living room with a cobblestone fireplace met their gaze. Beyond
was the kitchen, a dining alcove, and two bedrooms.
As they went outside again, they saw a short, wiry man coming toward the
cottage from the river.
"You're Miss Parker?" he asked, looking at Louise.
"No, _I_ am," corrected Penny. "And you must be Anchor Joe." Her eyes
fastened for an instant upon the tattoo of a four-masted sailing ship
imprinted on his arm.
"That's me," agreed the man. "Go ahead an' look around all you like."
Penny and Louise wandered about the grounds, then returned to find Anchor
Joe giving the motor boat, which was upturned on the grass, a coat of
varnish.
"We thought you might take us for a ride," remarked Penny. "It must be
cool on the water."
"I sure would like to, Miss Parker," said Anchor Joe regretfully. "But I
dasn't get 'er wet now. Not until this varnish dries."
Penny nodded, and then asked: "You're a sailor, aren't you? Where have
you sailed?"
"The Atlantic, the Great Lakes, the Gulf o' Mexico. Oh, I been
everywhere."
Penny and Louise chatted with Anchor Joe for a time but, although they
asked any number of questions, they gained very little definite
information. The sailor seemed unwilling to tell anything about himself,
save in generalities.
"We may as well go on to Peter Fenestra's place," Penny presently
remarked. "It's getting late."
Anchor Joe's varnish brush became motionless. He glanced up with sudden
interest.
"I wouldn't go there if I was you gals," he said.
"Why not?" questioned Penny in astonishment.
"The weather don't look so good. She might blow up a gale before
sundown."
"Oh, we're not afraid of a little wind or rain," answered Penny
carelessly. "Come along, Lou."
Anchor Joe said nothing more, but his sober gaze followed the girls as
they walked away.
Keeping close to the river, Penny and Louise trod a path which they knew
would lead to the main road and Peter Fenestra's farm.
"Queer sort, wasn't he?" Penny remarked thoughtfully.
"Anchor Joe?"
"Yes, I wonder where Dad found him? He certainly didn't tell us much
about himself."
Crossing the river by means of a swaying, suspension bridge, the girls
came out from beneath the solid canopy of trees. Penny paused to stare up
at the sky.
"Aren't those clouds odd?" she observed. "Just watch them boil!"
"They must be filled with wind," declared Louise uneasily. "Anchor Joe
said he thought a storm would blow up."
"It's not far away either. Unless we step right along, we'll surely get
caught in it."
"Perhaps we should forget The Willows and start home."
"We never could get there now," responded Penny. "If we hurry we may
reach Fenestra's place before the storm breaks."
Walking even faster, the girls hastened along the winding path. The air
remained sultry and very still. The sky, Penny noted, had changed to a
peculiar yellowish color.
Then, as she watched with increasing alarm, a writhing, twisting,
funnel-shaped arm reached down from the boiling clouds, anchoring them to
earth. For a moment the entire mass seemed to settle and flatten out.
"Listen!" commanded Penny.
Plainly they both could hear a sullen, deep-throated roar as the storm
moved forward.
"A tornado!" gasped Louise. "It's coming this way!"
"Run!" urged Penny, seizing her hand. "We still have a chance to make
Fenestra's place."
In a clearing beyond a weed-grown field stood a white farmhouse, a red
barn and a silo. One side of the property was bounded by the
willow-rimmed river, the other by the road.
Crawling beneath a barbed-wire fence, the girls cut across the field. The
sky was darker now, the roar of the wind ominous. They could see the tail
of the funnel whipping along the ground, veering to the south, then
coming toward them again.
"We'll never make the house," Louise cried fearfully.
"Yes, we will," encouraged Penny.
She raised another wire strand for Louise to roll beneath. Her own
sweater caught on the sharp barbs, tearing a large hole as she jerked
free.
Dust had begun to blow. Trees and bushes bowed before the first gusts of
wind.
Glancing frantically about for a place of refuge, Penny saw a low,
circular cement hump rising from the ground not many yards distant.
Instantly she recognized it as an old fashioned storm cellar.
"We'll get in there, Lou!" she shouted. "Come on!"
Running across the yard, they reached the cave. Entrance was guarded by a
door built in the side of the cement dome. A brass padlock hung unsnapped
in the hasp.
"Thank goodness, we can get in," gasped Louise. "Hurry!"
Penny tugged at the heavy door. It would not raise, and then it gave so
suddenly that she nearly tumbled backwards.
The door clattered back against the cement dome. Through the rectangular
opening protruded the head and shoulders of Peter Fenestra. His face was
convulsed with rage.
"What are you trying to do?" he demanded harshly. "Speak up!"
CHAPTER
9
_A FALLEN TREE_
"Speak up!" Peter Fenestra commanded again as the girls stared at him in
blank astonishment. "Why are you trying to get into my cave?"
"Listen to that wind!" cried Penny, recovering the power of speech. She
pointed toward the sky.
"A tornado!" exclaimed Fenestra in a stunned voice.
"And it's coming this way," added Louise. "Let us down into the cave!"
Instead of stepping aside, the man came up the stone steps. Slamming the
door of the cave, he padlocked it.
"Quick! Into the house!" he ordered.
"We'll be much safer underground," argued Penny. "That twister easily can
lift a building from its foundation."
"Do as I say!" commanded Peter Fenestra harshly. "The cave is half filled
with water. You can't go down there."
Deserting the girls, he ran toward the house. Mystified by the old man's
actions, Penny and Louise followed, overtaking him as he reached the
porch.
"Get inside!" he ordered.
The girls scurried through the door and he closed it behind them. Barely
had they reached shelter when the wind struck the house in full force,
fairly shaking it to its foundation. Windows rattled, a tree bough came
crashing down on the porch, the air was filled with flying debris.
As a hard object shattered a pane of glass, Penny and Louise heard a
terrified scream from the kitchen. A moment later a girl ran into the
room. She stopped short as she saw Penny and Louise. They also stared,
for it was Tillie Fellows.
"Stop that silly screeching!" Fenestra ordered sharply. "The center of
the storm is passing to the south. Now get back to your work!"
"Yes, sir," Tillie mumbled.
Still gazing at Penny and Louise, she slowly retreated. However, as Peter
Fenestra went to the window, turning his back, she made strange signs to
the girls which they were unable to understand. Obviously she did not
wish them to speak to her for she raised a finger to her lips, indicative
of silence.
A gate was wrenched from its hinges and carried across the yard. From
across the road came the crash of an uprooted tree. With a stifled scream
Tillie fled to the kitchen.
"That stupid girl drives me crazy," Fenestra muttered. "I don't know why
I ever hired her."
"You can't blame her for being frightened," declared Louise quickly.
"This is a dreadful storm."
"The worst is over now," said Fenestra. "You'll be able to go in a few
minutes."
Penny and Louise glanced at each other. Peter Fenestra's remark made it
very clear that he did not wish them to linger after the storm had
passed. Without inviting them to sit down, he nervously went from window
to window, watching the clouds.
Rain began to fall. At first it came in a heavy downpour, then slackened
somewhat. The wind no longer tore at the doors.
"You'll be able to go any time now," said Fenestra. "I can let you have
an umbrella."
"It's still rather bad," answered Penny. "If you don't mind, I believe
we'll wait a few minutes longer."
The decision displeased the man. Frowning, he turned to gaze at the girls
somewhat critically.
"Who sent you here?" he demanded. "Why did you come?"
His manner was so suspicious that Penny sensed it was no time to reveal
the real purpose of the visit. Instead she said:
"My father has a cottage along the river. We were returning from there
when the storm broke."
Her explanation seemed to satisfy the man. He shrugged and fell to pacing
the floor restlessly.
The rain presently ceased. Penny and Louise felt that they no longer
could delay their departure. Saying good-bye to Fenestra, they left the
house.
Rounding a corner of the building, they were startled to hear a light tap
on the window. Glancing up, they saw Tillie Fellow's face pressed against
the pane.
"She's signaling for us to wait," observed Penny. "I guess she wants to
talk with us."
The girls stepped into the doorway of a woodshed. In a moment Tillie
slipped from the house, a coat thrown over her head.
"I hope old Fenestra doesn't see me," she greeted the girls nervously.
"Let's get out of sight."
Penny and Louise followed her into the woodshed, closing the door.
"How long have you worked here?" the latter inquired curiously.
"Ever since I met you girls on the boat. I answered an advertisement the
next morning and got this job."
"Do you like it?" asked Penny. "I imagine farm work is hard."
"The work is easy enough. But I hate the place! That's why I wanted to
talk with you. Do you know of anyone who needs a girl? I'll work for very
small wages."
"I don't know of anyone at the moment," responded Penny.
"I can't stay here much longer," Tillie said, a note of desperation in
her voice. "Mr. Fenestra is so overbearing and mean! He can't bear noise
either. If I as much as rattle a dish he berates me."
"Does he pay you a decent wage?" inquired Louise.
"Ten dollars a week. I can't complain on that score. But there's
something about him--I can't explain--it gives me the creeps."
"Fenestra is a peculiar type," admitted Penny. "He didn't act very
friendly toward Louise and me. By the way, why does he keep the storm
cellar padlocked?"
"That's something I wish you would tell _me_."
"He wouldn't allow us to enter it even when the storm was coming."
"Fenestra always keeps the cave padlocked," revealed Tillie. "He goes
there every day, too. Sometimes he spends hours beneath ground. It rather
frightens me."
"What do you think he does there?"
"I don't know. Once I asked him about the cave and he flew into a violent
rage. He said if he ever caught me near it he would discharge me."
"He told us that the cave was half filled with water."
"I don't believe that," said Tillie. "He has something hidden down
there."
"Haven't you any idea what it is?"
"No, and I don't care very much," returned Tillie. "All I want to do is
get away from this place. If you hear of a job anywhere will you let me
know?"
"Of course," promised Penny. "Mrs. Weems, our housekeeper, may know of a
vacancy. If she does, I'll telephone."
"We haven't a telephone. Mr. Fenestra had it taken out because the
ringing of the bell made him jumpy. He said the neighbors always listened
to his conversations, too. He's very suspicious of everyone."
"Then I can run out in the car," said Penny. "I don't blame you for not
liking this place. I shouldn't either."
"Thanks for everything," replied Tillie gratefully. "You've been awfully
good to me. I must run back now or old Fenestra will ask me a million
questions."
Hastily saying good-bye, she darted away. Walking slowly toward the road,
Penny and Louise discussed Peter Fenestra's strange actions. They were
inclined to agree with Tillie that he had hidden something of value
beneath ground.
Across the road from the farmhouse a giant elm tree had been uprooted.
They saw overturned chicken houses, fences laid flat, tangles of
telephone and electric wires.
"Even more damage must have been done farther down the river," remarked
Penny anxiously. "I hope our new cottage hasn't blown away."
"Shall we go there and see?"
"I wish we could."
For several hundred yards the girls followed the road, then once more
they cut across the fields toward the winding river. As they approached
the Parker property their misgivings increased. All along the water
front, trees had been toppled and split. In sections there were wide
paths cut as if by a scythe.
"The cottage is still there!" Penny cried as they presently ascended to
higher ground. "I can see it."
"Several trees are down," observed Louise. "One has fallen across the
porch."
"A beautiful birch, too," murmured Penny. "Anchor Joe will have a job
clearing it away."
Approaching the cottage, the girls saw no glimpse of the workman. Penny
called his name several times.
"I wonder where he went?" she murmured.
The girls rounded the corner of the cottage. As their eyes fell upon the
giant birch which had demolished the porch railing, they were startled to
see a slight movement among the leaves. A hand lay limp against the
trunk.
"Anchor Joe!" gasped Penny in horror. "He's pinned beneath the tree!"
CHAPTER
10
_A WORD TO THE WISE_
Penny and Louise stooped beside the groaning man who lay pinned on his
side beneath the tree. As they attempted to move him he writhed in pain
and pleaded with them not to touch him.
"The tree will have to be lifted," declared Penny. "I'll go for help."
Leaving Louise to encourage Anchor Joe, she ran the entire distance to
the main road. The nearest house was the one owned by Peter Fenestra.
However, as she hastened in that direction, she observed a truck filled
with telephone linemen coming toward her. Hailing the men, she told them
what had occurred.
"I am afraid Anchor Joe is badly hurt," she added. "I'll telephone for a
doctor while you go on to the cottage."
One of the linemen offered to make the call, leaving her free to guide
the other four men to the Parker camp. Reaching the spot, the men raised
the fallen tree. Carefully they lifted Anchor Joe who had lapsed into
unconsciousness.
"Bring him into the cottage," Penny directed, going ahead to open doors.
One of the rooms had been furnished as a bedroom with an old cot, a chest
of drawers and odd pieces brought from the Parker home. Penny spread a
blanket over the mattress and the injured man was stretched upon it.
"He's seriously hurt, isn't he?" she asked anxiously.
"Afraid he is," admitted one of the linemen. "Heat up some water and I'll
do what I can until the doctor gets here."
Penny and Louise hastened to the kitchen to struggle with the
wood-burning range. By the time they had the fire going well they heard
voices in the yard. Glancing out the window they saw a lineman coming
toward the cottage and walking beside a doctor who carried a light, black
bag.
"It's Doctor Griswold," observed Louise. "He made a quick trip from
town."
Penny ran to open the door for the two men. Then, at the doctor's
bidding, she went to the kitchen again for the boiling water.
"You carry it in," urged Louise. "I can't bear to see poor Anchor Joe."
The linemen had left by the time Penny reentered the bedroom. The doctor
was working over Anchor Joe, and she observed in relief that he had
recovered consciousness.
"Where do you feel pain?" the doctor inquired as he unfastened the man's
shirt.
"My back and chest, doc," the sailor mumbled. "Feels like all my insides
is crushed."
"Hardly that," said the doctor cheerfully, "or you wouldn't be telling me
about it. Now let's see."
He took Anchor Joe's pulse, then gently probed his chest and sponged a
break in the skin. Carefully he turned the man upon his back.
Penny drew in her breath, nearly dropping the pan of water. Across Anchor
Joe's back was tattooed the sprawling figure of an octopus. She bent
closer. Beneath the front arms of the repulsive sea creature appeared a
single word: _One_.
"John Munn's tattoo was exactly the same, save for the word!" thought
Penny. "It was 'All' while this is 'One.' What can be the significance?"
Even the doctor was startled by the strange tattoo for he glanced at it
curiously as he probed.
"You are a sailor?" he inquired.
"That's right," muttered Anchor Joe. "Ouch, doc! Take it easy, will you?"
Penny could not remain silent. "Joe, do you know a man named John Munn?"
she asked.
"Sure I know him," the sailor mumbled. "We shipped together on the
_Dorasky_."
"Your tattoo is very similar to his."
Anchor Joe's pain-glazed eyes turned upon Penny as if he were seeing her
for the first time. He made an effort to pull the blanket over his back.
"We had 'em put on together," he muttered. "Jack an' John, and that rat,
Otto--"
"Please don't talk to the patient," said the doctor significantly. "He
should be kept quiet."
"I'm sorry," apologized Penny.
She did not speak again until the doctor had completed his examination
and had bandaged Anchor Joe's cuts and bruises.
"What do you advise, doctor?" she asked. "Will it be necessary to remove
Joe to a hospital?"
"Neither advisable nor desirable for at least twenty-four hours," he
replied. "I find no indication of internal injury, but it is best to be
safe. The patient should be kept quiet, in bed, for at least a day or
two."
"It's something of a problem to care for him here," said Penny frowning.
"Do you suggest a nurse?"
"Any woman who has had practical experience in caring for the sick would
do."
"Mrs. Weems may be willing to come," said Penny. "I'll telephone home at
once and learn what arrangements can be made."
When the doctor left, Penny accompanied him as far as the first house.
From there she telephoned her father, who promised to get Mrs. Weems and
come at once to the cottage.
Louise was uneasily waiting by the time Penny returned. Outside the
bedroom they held whispered consultation.
"Has Anchor Joe talked?" Penny questioned. "You know what I mean. Has he
said anything about John Munn or the tattoo?"
"Not a word. But every so often he mutters that he'll get even with
someone by the name of Otto--a fellow sailor who 'ratted.'"
"He mentioned Otto when I was in the room," nodded Penny. "I wish we
dared question Joe, but the doctor advised against it."
"I don't think we should annoy him now. Perhaps later on he'll tell us
about the tattoo and its meaning."
"Perhaps," echoed Penny. "However, if I am any judge of character, Anchor
Joe isn't the talkative type. As soon as he gets over the shock of this
accident, he'll lock those lips of his. We'll learn nothing."
"Why are you so convinced there's a deep mystery connected with the
tattoo?"
"I can't explain it, Lou. I just _know_ there is. I'll never rest until I
learn the significance of those words, _All_ and _One_."
Within a half hour Mrs. Weems and Mr. Parker arrived at the cottage,
bringing a supply of linen, food, and comforts for the injured man. The
housekeeper agreed to assume charge until Anchor Joe could be safely
removed to a hospital.
When Mr. Parker drove to Riverview the girls accompanied him. During the
ride Penny questioned her father regarding Anchor Joe.
"I know almost nothing about him," he replied. "He was sent to me by the
Acme Employment Agency, and I didn't bother to ask for a recommendation."
"I've learned that he's a friend of John Munn," revealed Penny. "As soon
as he's able to get about again, I mean to ask him a number of things."
Mr. Parker drove Louise to her home, and at Penny's request dropped her
off at the _Weekly Times_ office.
"By the way, what about dinner tonight?" he inquired. "Shall we dine at
the Commodore Hotel?"
"Oh, Dad, I wish I could," Penny sighed wistfully. "Work is stacked a
mile high on my desk. I'll just grab a sandwich somewhere and work late."
"I am afraid you are taking the newspaper business too seriously,"
replied her father. "Shall I leave the car for you?"
"It would be a help."
"All right, Penny."
Mr. Parker gave her the car keys, and walked on to his own newspaper.
Entering the _Times_ building, Penny spoke to several high school boys
who were working in the advertising office, and climbed the stairs to her
own office.
For the next half hour she checked over galley proofs, marking
corrections on the margins.
"I never imagined there could be so many things to do on a weekly," she
sighed. "One never gets through."
A board creaked in the newsroom. Penny heard it and glanced up. A shadow
passed slowly across the frosted glass of the office door.
"Come in," she called.
No one answered, and the shadow disappeared. Penny waited a moment, then
impatiently arose and went to the door. The newsroom was deserted.
"Queer," she thought. "Someone walked past my office door."
Thinking that it might have been one of the high school boys, Penny went
to the head of the stairs and called:
"Did anyone come up here a moment ago?"
"Not unless it was by way of the back entrance," was the reply.
Decidedly puzzled, Penny returned to her desk. As she sat down a sheet of
paper lying on the blotter pad drew her attention. She was certain it had
not been there a few minutes earlier.
Reaching for it, she gasped in astonishment. The paper bore a message
scrawled in black ink and read:
"To the Editor of the _Weekly Times_:
You are hereby warned to give up your newspaper which offends public
taste. We give you three days to wind up your business and close doors. A
word to the wise is sufficient."
CHAPTER
11
_MR. JUDSON'S DAUGHTER_
Penny read the message three times. Obviously, it had been placed on her
desk during the few minutes she had been absent. Yet she reasoned that it
would be useless to search for the cowardly person who undoubtedly had
slipped from the building.
"So I am warned to close shop!" she muttered angrily. "And the _Weekly
Times_ offends public taste!"
Penny crumpled the paper into a ball, hurling it toward the wire basket.
Reconsidering her action, she recovered the note and, carefully smoothing
the wrinkles, placed it in her purse.
"I'll show this to Dad," she told herself. "But no one else."
When Penny's anger had cooled she was left with a vague sensation of
misgiving. Resolutely she reflected that it was not unusual for editors
to receive threatening notes. Often her father had shown her such
communications sent to the _Star_ by cranks.
"It doesn't mean a thing," she assured herself. "Not a thing. I'll keep
on publishing the _Weekly_ as long as I please."
One fact contributed to Penny's uneasiness. Often she worked late in the
building, and a single light burning from an upper story window
proclaimed to any street watcher that she was alone. In the future she
must use far more caution.
Try as she would, Penny could not forget the warning. After the boys who
comprised the advertising staff had gone home for dinner, she caught
herself listening tensely to every unusual sound. At length she shut the
desk and arose.
"I'm doing no good here," she thought in disgust. "I may as well go
home."
Taking particular care to lock all doors and windows, Penny left the
building. Street lights were blinking on as she climbed into the parked
automobile.
Driving mechanically, she weaved through downtown traffic, now and then
halting for a red light. As she was starting ahead from an intersection,
an elderly man suddenly stepped from the curb. His gaze was upon the
pavement, and he did not see the car.
Penny swerved the wheel and slammed on the foot brake. The edge of the
fender brushed the man's overcoat. He gasped in astonishment and
staggered backwards.
Penny brought the car to a standstill at the curb.
"You're not hurt?" she called anxiously.
"No--no," the man murmured in a bewildered way.
As he turned his face toward her, Penny recognized Matthew Judson, the
former publisher of the _Morning Press_. Calling him by name, she invited
him into the car.
"Let me take you home, or wherever you are going," she urged. "You don't
look well, Mr. Judson. I am afraid I frightened you."
"It was my fault," admitted the old gentleman, staring at Penny. "I--I
was thinking about something when I stepped from the curb."
"This is a dangerous intersection. Please, Mr. Judson, can't I take you
home?"
"If you insist," he murmured, entering the car. "You seem to know my
name, but I haven't the pleasure of your acquaintance."
"I'm Penny Parker. My father publishes the _Star_."
"Oh, yes." Mr. Judson's voice became spiritless.
"Your home is on Drexel Boulevard, I believe?" Penny inquired.
Matthew Judson nodded and in the same dull, lifeless voice supplied the
address. He made no attempt at conversation.
As she stole occasional glimpses at the man, Penny thought that his face
bore lines of mental fatigue and discouragement. He stared straight ahead
with glazed, unseeing eyes.
Hoping to start a conversation, she presently remarked that she was the
managing editor of the _Weekly Times_. For the first time Matthew Judson
displayed interest.
"Oh, are you the girl who has taken over my building?" he asked.
"Yes, Mr. Veeley allows me the use of it rent free. I hope you don't
mind?"
"Mind?" repeated Mr. Judson, laughing mirthlessly. "Why should I?"
"Well, I thought--that is--" Penny began to stammer.
"You thought that because I gave up my own paper I might not wish to see
the building used by another?"
"Something like that," admitted Penny.
"I try not to think about the past," said Mr. Judson quietly. "Long ago I
made my decision, and now must abide by it. I realize that I never can
publish the _Press_ again. I'm broken, beaten!"
The old man spoke with such bitterness that Penny glanced quickly at him.
There was an expression in his dark eyes which startled her.
"Surely one can't be defeated as long as he's willing to fight," she
ventured. "Why, if you chose to make a come-back, I'm certain you would
succeed."
Mr. Judson shook his head impatiently. "You don't understand. I am
through--finished. All I can hope to do is to hold fast to what little I
have, and try to protect Pauletta."
"Pauletta is your wife?" Penny inquired kindly.
"My daughter. If it weren't for her--" Mr. Judson hesitated, then
finished in a voice quite casual: "If it weren't for her, I probably
would end it all."
Penny was shocked.
"Why, Mr. Judson!" she protested. "You can't mean that!"
"Don't be alarmed," he said, smiling faintly. "I have no intention of
taking the easy way out."
A dozen questions flashed through Penny's mind, but she was afraid to ask
any of them. From Mr. Judson's remarks it was fairly evident that he
never had relinquished the _Press_ voluntarily. Could financial
difficulties alone account for his state of mental depression?
In the darkening twilight the car approached a white-painted brick house,
set back some distance from the boulevard. Once an elegant dwelling,
peeling paint had made it an unsightly residence. Roof shingles were
curling, the front porch sagged, while an iron fence only partially hid a
wide expanse of untended lawn.
"This is my home," said Mr. Judson. "Turn into the driveway if you wish."
Penny stopped the car just inside the iron gate.
As Mr. Judson alighted, a girl who appeared to be in her early twenties,
arose from a bench. A white collie at her side, she came toward the car.
Midway across the lawn, she paused, staring. Then, she half turned as if
to retreat.
"Pauletta," called Mr. Judson. "Will you come here, please?"
Reluctantly the girl approached the car, her gaze meeting Penny's almost
defiantly. Pauletta was a beautiful girl with auburn hair and steel-blue
eyes.
"Pauletta, this is Miss Parker," said her father.
"How do you do," responded the girl coldly.
The instant Penny heard the voice she knew where she previously had seen
Mr. Judson's daughter--on the steamer _Goodtime_! Pauletta was the girl
who had tossed a wig and clothing into the river.
"How do you do, Miss Judson," she responded. "Haven't we met before?"
Pauletta kept her face averted from her father. She met Penny's gaze with
a bold stare.
"I think not," she said evenly. "No, Miss Parker, you are mistaken."
CHAPTER
12
_OLD HORNEY_
Penny made no reply to Pauletta and the silence became unbearable.
"Won't you stay for a few minutes?" Mr. Judson invited. "Pauletta, why
not show Miss Parker our rose garden?"
"It's rather dark," his daughter replied. "Anyway, she wouldn't care to
see it."
"Indeed, I should," contradicted Penny. Deliberately she switched off the
car ignition.
Pauletta glared at her, but dared make no protest in her father's
presence. With a shrug she led Penny along a gravel path to the rear of
the house. Mr. Judson remained behind.
As soon as they were beyond hearing, Penny said quietly:
"Need we pretend? I am sure you recall that we met aboard the
_Goodtime_."
"Yes, I remember now," admitted Pauletta coldly. "You were with another
girl."
"And you were accompanied by a young man."
"A friend of mine."
"This may be something of a shock," said Penny, "but my chum and I saw
you drop a bundle containing a wig into the river."
"Oh!"
"The bundle caught fast and I fished it out."
"You have no proof it was mine! You--you won't tell Father?"
"Not if you can offer a good reason why I shouldn't."
"There are any number of them. You mustn't tell my father! That's why I
pretended not to know you."
"I certainly wish you would explain. Tillie Fellows was robbed that
night."
"Who is Tillie Fellows?"
"One of the excursionists. Her pocketbook was taken shortly before the
boat docked."
"You can't believe I had anything to do with it!"
"I don't wish to think so, but your actions were very strange."
"I can explain everything," Pauletta said hurriedly. "My reason for
wearing a disguise was a simple one. I didn't care to have anyone on the
boat recognize me."
"Why, may I ask?"
Before Pauletta could answer, Mr. Judson came around the corner of the
house.
"Please say nothing about it to Father," the young woman pleaded in a
whisper. "I'll explain everything later."
Penny nodded, and for Mr. Judson's benefit, offered a few remarks about
the roses.
"We once had a beautiful garden," commented Pauletta. "Now it's in ruin,
the same as the yard. Father doesn't look after the place as he should."
"The grounds are large," replied Mr. Judson mildly.
"You shouldn't try to do the work yourself," Pauletta protested. "It was
foolish of you to let the gardener go."
Penny felt increasingly ill at ease. As they wandered about the grounds,
Pauletta kept making disparaging remarks, thoughtless comments which
wounded her father. However, he offered no rebuttal, nor did he reprove
his daughter.
"I really must be going," said Penny at last. "It's getting very dark."
Mr. Judson walked with her to the car, closing the gate after she had
driven from the grounds. He stood there a moment, the wind rumpling his
gray hair. Then he raised his hand in friendly salute and turned toward
the house.
"Poor Mr. Judson," she thought. "So discouraged and yet so gallant! How
can Pauletta be completely blind to his suffering? Doesn't she realize?"
Penny did not regret having kept the young woman's secret, for she felt
that the revelation of their meeting would only add to Mr. Judson's
troubles. Pauletta represented his entire life, and if it developed that
she had acted unbecomingly, the shock might be a severe one.
"I can't believe that Pauletta would steal," she told herself. "She must
have had another reason for wearing the disguise."
Penny was satisfied that if Mr. Judson had not interrupted, the young
woman would have explained her puzzling actions. Therefore, she was
willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. She made up her mind that
she would return as soon as she could to talk privately with Pauletta.
The Parker house was dark and deserted when Penny let herself in with a
key. Her father had not expected her home so early and, disliking an
empty house, had remained away. There was no telling where he had gone.
After preparing a belated dinner for herself, Penny spent an hour with
her studies. However, her mind kept reverting to the events of the day. A
great deal had happened. Her meeting with Peter Fenestra had been
interesting. Anchor Joe's mishap worried her, and she remained disturbed
by the threatening message left on her desk.
"Could it have been written by a prowler in the building?" she mused.
"Ever since we started the paper I've felt that someone was hiding there.
It may be a scheme to get me away."
Before dropping off to sleep Penny made up her mind that the following
night she would set a trap for the intruder. Taking Louise into her
confidence, she made careful plans. Preparing a tasty lunch, the girls
wrapped and laid it conspicuously on the counter of the downstairs
advertising room.
"Now the stage is set," declared Penny. "Louise, you go upstairs to my
office and tap on the typewriter. I'll hide here and see what happens."
After Louise had gone, Penny secreted herself in a storage closet not far
from the counter. By leaving the door open she could see fairly well in
the dark room for street lights cast a reflection through the plate glass
windows.
The minutes stretched into a half hour. Louise's typewriting, at first
very energetic, began to slacken in speed. Penny moved restlessly in the
cramped quarters. She had not imagined that waiting could be so tedious.
An hour elapsed. Far down the street a clock struck ten times.
With a weary sigh Penny arose from the floor. Inactivity bored her, and
she no longer could sit quietly and wait.
As she started from her hiding place, intending to call Louise, a door
opened at the west end of the room. Instantly Penny froze against the
wall, waiting.
A flashlight beam played across the floor, missing her by a scant two
feet.
Penny, her heart beating at a furious rate, remained motionless. She
could see the squat, shadowy figure of a man moving toward her. Boards
squeaked beneath his weight.
Midway across the room, the man paused, evidently listening to the steady
clatter of Louise's typewriter. Satisfied, he went to the window where he
stood for several minutes watching street traffic.
As he turned again, the beam of his flashlight swept across the front
counter, focusing upon the package of food. The man gave a low
exclamation of pleasure. With the swiftness of a cat he darted to it and
tore off the paper wrapping.
Penny waited until he was eating greedily. Then stealing along the wall,
she groped for the electric light switch. As she pressed it, the room was
brilliantly illuminated. At the same instant, the girl gave a shrill
whistle, a signal to Louise that the culprit had been trapped.
The man at the counter whirled around, facing Penny with startled dismay.
He was a gaunt, unshaven fellow in his late fifties with shaggy hair, and
soiled, unpressed clothing.
Before he could retreat, Louise came down the stairway, blocking the
exit.
"What are you doing here?" Penny questioned him. "Why did you steal my
lunch?"
The man's lips moved nervously but no sound issued from them.
"Shall I call the police?" prodded Penny. She gave him a severe glance.
"No, don't do that," the man pleaded, finding his voice. "Don't call the
police. I'll go. I won't bother you any more."
"Why have you been hiding in the building?"
"Because I have no other place to sleep, Miss. The cops chase you off the
park benches."
Penny was surprised by the man's speech which belied his disreputable
garments. His tone was well modulated, his manner respectful.
"You've been living in this building a long while?" she asked curiously.
"Maybe six months. I sleep down in the furnace room. I didn't do any
harm."
"You're hungry, aren't you?" Penny inquired, less severely.
"Yes, I am, Miss. Lately I haven't been eating any too often."
"You may finish the lunch," said Penny. "And there's a thermos bottle of
coffee under the counter."
"Thank you, Miss, thank you. I surely am obliged."
With a hand which trembled, the man poured himself a cup of the steaming
beverage.
"You haven't told me your name," said Penny after a moment.
"Folks just call me Horney. Old Horney."
"What is your real name?"
"Mark Horning," the man answered reluctantly.
"I'm curious to learn how you've been getting in and out of the
building."
"With a key." Old Horney devoured the last bite of sandwich, and poured
himself a second cup of coffee.
"A skeleton key, you mean?" Penny asked in surprise.
"No, Miss. I have my own key. In the old days I used to work here."
"You're a former _Press_ employee?"
"Sure, I know it's hard to believe," Old Horney replied, "but when a
fellow's out of a job and money, it doesn't take long to go to seed. I
lost my place when Judson closed down."
"And you've been unable to find other work?"
"In the past nine months I've worked exactly six days. No one hires an
old fellow any more. If I could have kept on with Judson three more years
I'd have been due for my pension."
"What work did you do on the paper?" asked Penny with growing interest.
"I was a pressman."
Penny shot Louise a glance which was almost triumphant. Her voice when
she spoke held an undertone of excitement.
"Horney," she said, "it's barely possible I may be able to find some sort
of work for you later on. Do you mind writing your name on this paper?"
The old man took the sheet she handed him, without hesitation scrawling
his name, _Mark Horning_.
Penny studied the writing a moment. To her relief it bore not the
slightest resemblance to the warning message left on her desk the
previous night.
"Horney," she questioned, "did you ever try to frighten me away from this
building?"
"Oh, no, Miss," he replied. "Once I tiptoed up to your office. When I saw
you were working there, I slipped down to the basement again."
"Did you ever place a note on my desk?"
"I never did."
Penny was satisfied that Horney had told the truth. Yet if he were not
the culprit she was unable to guess who had warned her to abandon the
plant.
"Horney, I've decided that we need a watchman around this place," she
said abruptly. "If you want the job, it's yours."
"You're not turning me out?"
"No, you may stay. I can't promise much of a salary, but at least you'll
have a place to sleep and enough food."
"You're mighty kind," Horney mumbled gratefully. "Mighty kind." He
hesitated and then added: "I promise you won't be sorry you did it, Miss.
Maybe you'll find I can be of some real use around this plant. I'm at
your service and what's more, I'm for you one hundred per cent."
CHAPTER
13
_PAPER PROBLEMS_
The next afternoon Penny and Louise arrived at the _Weekly Times_ to find
that the entire lower floor had been cleaned and swept. Old Horney was
discovered in the composing room, stirring up a great cloud of dust with
a stub of a broom.
"I was just cleaning the place up a bit," he said apologetically. "Hope
you don't mind."
"Mind?" laughed Penny. "I'm delighted. Our staff of janitors has lost
interest here of late."
"I set a little type for you last night, too."
"Why, Horney! I didn't know you were a linotype operator."
"I'm not," answered the old man, "but I can learn most anything if I set
my mind to it. If you have any jobs you want done just turn them over to
me."
"Horney," said Penny soberly, "more than anything else I would like to
publish the _Weekly_ in my own plant. The obstacles seem almost too great
to overcome; do you think it could be accomplished?"
"Why, sure," said Horney. "If I had some tools and a little to do with I
could get the presses ready in a day."
"What about the stereotyping work?"
"I could master the trick of it," declared Horney confidently.
"Horney, you're a jewel!" laughed Penny. "I'll place you in charge of my
production department, but I fear I can't give you a salary in proportion
to your duties."
"Don't worry about that, Miss. I would rather be working than sitting
around with nothing to do."
"Then look over the plant and make up a list of the things you must
have," suggested Penny. "I'll go over to the _Star_ this minute and
arrange for printing paper."
Leaving Louise in charge of the office, she jubilantly set forth for her
father's plant. Now that Old Horney had been added to the staff of the
_Weekly_, problems which previously had seemed unsurmountable suddenly
had become easily solved.
Entering the _Star_ building, Penny went directly to the stockroom,
wandering about until she found Mr. Curry, the foreman.
"Here's something for you," she grinned, offering a slip of paper.
"What's this?" Mr. Curry asked with a puzzled frown. "An order for a roll
of paper?"
"Yes, Mr. Curry," explained Penny. "At last I am going to publish my own
sheet over in the old _Press_ building. Dad is staking me to a little
paper."
"A little! Why, one of these big rolls would print more copies of your
paper than you could sell in six months! And paper is expensive. How
about a half-roll or even a quarter? It would be a lot easier to handle."
"Oh, all right," agreed Penny. "Just so I get enough to print my first
issue."
Mr. Curry led the way to one of the presses, pointing to a roll of paper
mounted on a feeding rack.
"That one is about half used up," he said. "Will it do?"
"Yes, I guess so," agreed Penny. "May I have it right away?"
Mr. Curry replied by pushing a tram along a miniature railway which ran
under the press. With surprising skill, he maneuvered the roll into
position on the carrier. Then he pushed the tram to the elevator, moved
the portable paper lift over the roll, and up it went to the platform.
The elevator grounded at the first floor where the paper was rolled to
the loading dock with pry bars.
"There you are," said the foreman.
"All I need now is a truck," Penny cried exultantly. "Thanks, Mr. Curry!"
Standing guard beside her paper she waited until one of the _Star_
drivers had finished unloading his cargo and was ready to pull from the
dock.
"How's chances fer a ride, buddy?" asked Penny, jerking her thumb in the
manner of a hitch-hiker. "Me and my paper to the _Weekly Times_."
"Okay," laughed the trucker.
He rolled the paper onto the truck, and Penny climbed into the cab beside
him. At the _Times_ building she had the roll set off at the rear
entrance where Old Horney easily could get it to the press room.
Highly elated, Penny mounted the steps two at a time, bursting in upon
Louise who was busy writing headlines.
"Got it!" she announced. "About six hundred pounds of paper. That should
keep the _Weekly_ going for awhile."
"Here's something to dampen your enthusiasm." Louise thrust a letter
toward her. "Another kick on that octopus tattoo story you wrote. A Mrs.
Brown says she heartily disapproves of such outlandish tales, and that
she'll never buy another copy of the _Times_."
"At least it proves my story attracted attention," chuckled Penny.
"Anything else while I was gone?"
"Yes, Mrs. Weems 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," interrupted Penny. "Did Mrs. Weems say anything
about Anchor Joe?"
"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."
Penny swept her desk clear of papers and locked the drawers. "If you have
any spare time you might see what you can do with my algebra assignment,"
she suggested. "I missed every problem but one yesterday."
"I have my own lesson troubles," responded Louise. "I'm wading up to my
neck in Latin, and the next monthly quiz is certain to drown me."
"Teachers have no consideration," sighed Penny. "None at all."
Gathering up her school books, she bade Louise good-bye and left the
office. On the stairway she met Old Horney.
"I've made my list," he said, offering it to her. "I figure we can't get
out the paper with less than this."
Penny glanced at the paper and slipped it into her purse.
"I'll get the things somehow," she promised. "By the way, there's a roll
of paper on the loading dock."
"I've already hauled 'er in," replied Old Horney. "Any other jobs for
me?"
"No, you seem to be one jump ahead," laughed Penny.
They descended the stairway together, the steps creaking beneath their
weight. There was a different look to Old Horney, Penny thought, stealing
a glance at him. His hair had been cut and his face was clean-shaven.
Work had given him a new outlook, a desire to recover his self respect.
"I suppose you knew Matthew Judson rather well?" she remarked
reflectively.
"Oh, sure."
"What was he like, Horney?"
"Well--" the old man hesitated, at a loss for words. "Judson was queer,
sort of cold and unfriendly except to those who knew him best, but he was
a square-shooter."
"The employes liked him?"
"Everyone did except a few chronic sore-heads."
"Horney, was it true that the _Press_ was making money at the time it
closed?"
"That's what everyone on the paper thought. It was a shock to us all when
Judson closed down. 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 good-bye 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 that. Judson wasn't the gambling
type."
"Why do you think he gave up the paper, Horney?"
"I've done a lot of speculating on it," the old man admitted. "This is
just my own idea, but I figure Judson 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, Horney?"
"Nothing you could call that. But the day before Judson quit he was in
the pressroom. He was sort of thinking out loud, I guess. Anyhow he said
to me, 'Horney, 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,"
declared Penny. "I feel very sorry for Mr. Judson."
Bidding Horney good-bye, she hurried home for her automobile. However, as
she drove toward the river cottage she kept thinking about what the old
pressman had told her.
"It's barely possible his theory is right," she mused. "But why should
Mr. Judson submit to blackmail even for his daughter's sake? Somehow the
pieces of the puzzle refuse to fit."
CHAPTER
14
_AN EMPTY BEDROOM_
Darkness was inking the sky as Penny drew up at the end of the road.
Parking her car between scraggly box-elders, she walked swiftly along the
river trail, soon approaching within view of the Parker cottage.
The fallen tree had been sawed into cord wood, the yard cleaned of sticks
and debris, and only the damaged porch remained to remind one of the
severe storm.
As Penny opened the screen door, Mrs. Weems came from the kitchen.
"Joe is asleep," she warned in a whisper. "Perhaps we should talk
outside."
Penny nodded and followed the housekeeper to the porch swing.
"How is he doing?" she inquired.
"Oh, much better," replied Mrs. Weems. "The doctor was here an hour ago.
Joe is out of danger but must remain in bed for at least another day."
"I was afraid when you telephoned that something had gone wrong here."
"No," confessed the housekeeper, "I was merely lonesome for news. Is
everything going well at home?"
"Oh, yes, we're getting along fine."
"I hope you remembered to bring in the milk. And you didn't neglect the
dusting?"
Penny smiled ruefully.
"I might have known you would let everything go," sighed Mrs. Weems. "No
doubt it's my duty to remain here, but I feel I should be at home."
"Anchor Joe needs you, Mrs. Weems. Has he talked very much?"
"Not a great deal. He ate a hearty lunch and seems in no pain."
"Did you see his back, Mrs. Weems?"
"Yes, the cut was an ugly one. The doctor changed the dressing while he
was here."
"I mean the tattoo," said Penny impatiently. "Didn't you notice it?"
"I saw that he had one, if that's what you mean."
"You didn't question him about it?"
"Certainly not, Penny. Why should I?"
"Don't you read the _Weekly Times_? Anchor Joe's tattoo is a dead ringer
for the one John Munn had on his back. Joe's already admitted that he
knows Munn. For all we know they may be bitter enemies. Perhaps it was
Anchor Joe who pushed Munn off the bridge!"
"Penny, your ideas grow wilder each day," protested Mrs. Weems. "I hope
you don't talk such nonsense to other people."
"All the same, Anchor Joe bears someone a grudge," insisted Penny. "He
mentioned a person who had 'ratted.' Didn't you learn a single fact about
him, Mrs. Weems?"
"His last name is Landa and he came to Riverview three weeks ago. He has
no family."
"I think I'll question him myself when he awakens."
"No, I can't allow that," said Mrs. Weems sternly. "The doctor would
never approve."
"I promise not to excite him."
"The answer is no! Now I wish you would help me by bringing in the
washing. I must start supper."
Penny obediently took the basket and unpinned sheets and pillow cases
from the line. She had just finished when she observed a tall, well-built
young man with military stride, approaching through the trees. He tipped
his hat politely.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "I am trying to find the Parker cottage."
"Your search is at an end," answered Penny. "You've come to the right
place."
"Do you have a man working here named Joe Landa?"
"Why, yes, we have."
"Where may I find him, please?"
"Joe is confined to his bed," explained Penny. "Unless it is very
important I am afraid we can't allow you to talk with him today."
"It is important," said the stranger. "I am Clark Moyer, from the Federal
Bureau of Investigation."
Penny's eyes opened wide. "A G-man?" she demanded.
"I am an investigator for the government," he replied, smiling.
"And you're after Anchor Joe?"
"I am here to question him."
"What has he done, Mr. Moyer?"
"I am not permitted to discuss a case to which I have been assigned," he
returned, amused by her display of interest. "It's quite possible that
Landa is not the man I seek. How long has he worked here?"
"Only a few days. He--he hasn't killed anyone, has he?"
"No," smiled the government man, "it's not that serious. The man I am
after is short and wiry, sandy hair and blue eyes. He has a tattooed
anchor on his right arm."
"And one on his back?" Penny asked eagerly.
"I wouldn't know about that. Does my description fit the man who has been
working here?"
"Yes, it does! Almost exactly."
"Then I'd like to talk with him."
"Come into the cottage," invited Penny. "I'll call Mrs. Weems."
Summoned from the kitchen, the housekeeper listened to Mr. Moyer's
request that he be permitted to see the injured man.
"If you are a government investigator I suppose it will be all right,"
she said reluctantly. "But the doctor's orders were that he was to be
kept absolutely quiet."
"I'll only ask a question or two," promised Mr. Moyer.
"Is Joe wanted on a criminal charge?" the housekeeper asked.
"I was sent to check up on a man who calls himself Joe Landa. That's all
I can tell you."
From the kitchen came the unmistakable odor of scorching potatoes. Mrs.
Weems ran to jerk the pan from the stove.
"Penny, you see if Joe is awake yet," she called over her shoulder.
"I'll go with you," said Mr. Moyer quickly. "If I have made a mistake it
may not be necessary to disturb the man."
"This way," directed Penny.
She led the government man down the hall to the rear bedroom. The door
was closed. She twisted the knob and pushed, at first easily, and then
with increasing force.
"It seems to be stuck," she said. "The recent rains must have caused the
wood to swell."
"Let me try," offered Mr. Moyer.
He took Penny's place, and after testing the door, gave it a hard upward
push. There was a loud crash as it suddenly swung open.
"Goodness! What was that?" exclaimed Penny.
"A barricade. Keep back."
To Penny's astonishment the government man drew his revolver before
entering the room. Disregarding the order to remain behind, she followed
him inside.
"I might have expected this!" he muttered.
Penny's gaze swept the room. A chair lay overturned on the floor. The
bed, still bearing the imprint of a man's body, was empty.
"Why, where's Joe?" murmured Penny. "His clothing is gone, too!"
Mr. Moyer strode to the open window.
"You think he left that way?" Penny questioned. "He must have heard us
talking!"
The government man nodded as he stepped through the opening to the
ground.
"He heard us all right. There's no question now that he's the man I am
after! And I'll get him, too!"
Briefly examining the ground beneath the window, Mr. Moyer turned and
walked swiftly toward the river.
CHAPTER
15
_INFORMATION FROM TILLIE_
Penny lost no time in telling Mrs. Weems that Anchor Joe had disappeared.
"Well, of all things!" exclaimed the housekeeper as she saw the deserted
bedroom. "He was here a half hour ago. I know because I came in while he
was sleeping."
"He must have heard Mr. Moyer inquiring about him," declared Penny.
"Obviously he ran away to avoid the interview."
"Then that means he's guilty."
"I'm afraid so, Mrs. Weems. What do you suppose he did to have a
government man after him?"
"He may have been a gangster."
"Anchor Joe?" asked Penny, smiling. "He hardly looked the type."
"In any event, we're fortunate to be rid of him."
"I wish we could have questioned him," Penny said gloomily. "Now I may
never learn about that octopus tattoo."
"You and your tattoo!" scoffed Mrs. Weems, beginning to strip linen from
the bed. "Anchor Joe certainly deceived me. He seemed such a pleasant
sort and I was sorry for him."
"I still am," said Penny. "The poor fellow is in no condition to be
wandering around. I rather hope Mr. Moyer overtakes him soon. Then at
least he'll get the medical attention he requires."
While Mrs. Weems straightened the bedroom, she wandered to the river's
edge. Only a few stars were pricking the sky, and it was impossible to
see very far. There was no sign either of Mr. Moyer or the man he
pursued.
Penny returned to the cottage to eat supper with Mrs. Weems.
"Now that Anchor Joe has gone, I may as well go home tonight," declared
the housekeeper. "I can't leave, though, until I've cleaned the cottage
and set it to rights."
"How much longer will it take?"
"Oh, an hour or two."
"While I am waiting I may walk over to Peter Fenestra's place," Penny
remarked. "I shouldn't mind seeing Tillie Fellows again."
"You'll be cautious in crossing the river?"
"Of course," laughed Penny. "I won't be gone long."
She washed the dishes for Mrs. Weems and then set forth for the Fenestra
farmhouse. Frogs croaked as she crossed the swaying bridge, and far
upstream she heard the faint chug of a motorboat. Otherwise, the night
was unusually still.
Emerging from among the trees, Penny saw a light glowing in the distance.
Knowing that it came from the Fenestra house, she used it as a beacon to
guide her.
Passing the barn, she climbed a fence and entered the yard. The house was
dark save for a single light burning in the kitchen. She could see Tillie
Fellows moving about.
Penny knocked on the side door. Through the window she observed Tillie
freeze into a tense attitude of fear. To reassure the girl she called her
name in a loud voice.
Immediately Tillie ran to open the door.
"Oh, it's you!" she exclaimed in relief. "I was frightened."
To Penny's surprise Tillie wore a silk dress. Pocketbook, hat and gloves
lay upon the kitchen table.
"I am afraid I've come at an awkward time," she apologized. "You were
going somewhere?"
"I'm leaving here," Tillie answered grimly. She closed the door behind
Penny.
"You mean for good? You've found another job?"
Tillie shook her head. "I've been discharged. He didn't give me a week's
advance wages either."
"Oh, that's too bad," said Penny sympathetically. "But you'll find a
better place. You said you didn't like it here anyway."
"I've hated it. Peter Fenestra is such a suspicious person. Why do you
think he discharged me?"
"I can't guess, but I should like to know."
"He accused me of prying!"
"How unjust."
"Well, in a way, I was trying to learn about things I shouldn't," Tillie
admitted honestly. "It was that storm cave."
"Did you get down into it?" Penny asked.
"No, but I tried. Old Peter was gone this afternoon and I decided to find
out what he keeps hidden underground."
"The padlock wasn't locked?"
"Usually it is, but today he forgot. I got the door open. Just as I
started down the steps he grabbed me by the shoulder. I was scared half
to death."
"You mean Fenestra had hidden himself in the cave?" Penny questioned in
astonishment.
"Yes, it was a trick to catch me prying. He said so himself, Penny. He
only pretended to go away, then lay in wait."
"Did he threaten you?"
"No, he just told me to get out and never come back. It wouldn't surprise
me if he leaves here himself soon."
"Why do you say that, Tillie?"
"Because he's afraid of his own shadow. But I don't blame him for being
nervous. This house is being watched!"
As if fearing that unfriendly eyes were upon her at that very moment,
Tillie went to the window and after peering into the yard, lowered the
blind.
"Twice I've seen men hiding in the wheat field just back of this place,"
she confided. "The first time there was only one, but yesterday I saw
three."
"Are you sure they were watching this house, Tillie?"
"Oh, yes, they were lying on the ground. For an hour they scarcely
moved."
"Didn't you tell Fenestra?"
"I was afraid to do it, but I think he knew. All day he kept inside the
house, and I saw him at the windows. He was as jumpy as a cat. Another
thing--I saw him loading his revolver."
"He must fear for his life."
"I'm sure of it, Penny. Even if he's only going to the barn he carries
the revolver with him."
A clock on the shelf above the stove struck eight times.
"Mercy!" exclaimed Tillie, "I must hurry or I'll never get away before
Old Peter returns. Excuse me while I run upstairs for my suitcase."
"Where is Fenestra now?" Penny inquired before the girl could leave.
"In Riverview I suppose. He went away right after supper."
"Run along and get your suitcase," Penny advised. "I'll drive you into
town."
"Oh, thanks," the girl answered gratefully. "It won't take me long."
After Tillie had gone, Penny walked to the window and rolled up the
blind. Across the yard she could see the disfiguring mound of earth and
cement. What secret did the storm cave guard? Why was it always kept
padlocked?
Abruptly she went to the foot of the stairs and called:
"Oh, Tillie, I'm going outside for a minute. I'll come back."
"All right," agreed the girl. "Sorry to keep you waiting but I still have
a few things to pick up."
Leaving by the side door, Penny paused on the porch for a moment.
Carefully she glanced about the yard and surrounding fields. A thin
quarter moon rising over the pine trees gave dim shape to the barn and
silo. She could see no one, yet Tillie's revelation that strange men
spied upon the house, made her attentive to danger.
Swiftly she crossed the lawn to the storm cave. As she had fully
expected, the slanting door was padlocked.
"Oh, shoot!" she exclaimed impatiently. "I want to get down there!"
She jerked at the padlock several times, and then accepting the
situation, turned toward the house. As she walked, Penny's eyes fastened
absently upon a clump of lilac bushes some twenty yards from the cave.
They were moving gently as if stirred by a wind. Yet there was no wind.
Penny did not pause, but every sense became alert. Her heart pounded.
Distinctly she could see a man crawling on hands and knees behind the
lilacs.
CHAPTER
16
_BEHIND THE LILACS_
Without disclosing by her actions that she had observed anything amiss,
Penny walked steadily on toward the house. Her first thought had been
that it was Peter Fenestra who spied upon her. However, as the figure
straightened she knew she had been mistaken. The man was not Fenestra.
Before she could see his face, he moved to another clump of bushes, and
then was enveloped by darkness.
Entering the house, Penny blew out the kerosene lamp and stood by the
window, watching. She could not see the man. He had vanished completely.
"That proves that Tillie was correct," she thought. "This house _is_
being watched. I wonder why."
As she waited, Tillie came down the stairway, carrying her luggage.
Observing that the kitchen was dark, she paused in alarm.
"It's all right," Penny called reassuringly. "I blew the light out so
that I wouldn't be seen from outside."
"Is anyone there?" Tillie demanded, coming quickly to the window. Her
pallid features were rigid with fear and her breathing quickened.
"He's gone now, I think."
"There was someone a moment ago?"
"Yes, a man, hiding behind the lilacs. I believe he must have been
watching the house--or possibly the storm cellar!"
"Then you see I was right," Tillie declared. "Oh, this is a dreadful
place, and I'll be glad to leave it."
"I almost wish you were staying," said Penny slowly. "You might be able
to learn what's hidden in that cave."
"Not with Peter Fenestra so suspicious. Anyway, you couldn't hire me to
remain even if he would allow it. I'd rather starve."
"You have no place to go, Tillie?"
"I'll find work. If not in Riverview then I can return to the country.
Anything will be better than what I've had."
Penny groped in the dark for the lamp, relighting it.
"Tillie," she said, "how would you like to work at our place for a few
days?"
"You don't mean it."
"I do if it can be arranged," Penny affirmed. "We have a housekeeper, but
it occurred to me that she might take your place here."
"She'd be very foolish to give up a good job for this."
"It would only be temporary. I think I can induce her to make the change
for a few days. The question is, can we get Peter Fenestra to accept
her?"
"I doubt if he'll hire anyone now that I am leaving. Why do you want your
housekeeper in such a place as this, Penny?"
"Only for one reason. To learn what's going on here. I confess you've
made me very curious about the storm cave."
"Fenestra would watch her every minute, the same as he did me. It won't
work."
"It will if Mrs. Weems can get the job," declared Penny confidently.
"First of all, we must make Fenestra so uncomfortable he'll want someone
to take care of the house. Is he a good cook?"
"Oh, wretched. And the trick of keeping a good fire going is simply
beyond him. Why, if we turned the damper, it never would occur to him to
change it."
"Thanks for the idea," laughed Penny. "Let's hide the breakfast supplies,
too."
Tillie was quite certain that her friend did not know what she was doing,
but she offered no objection to the plan. Before leaving the house they
altered the stove damper, hid the coffee pot, and placed salt in the
sugar bowl.
"If Old Peter doesn't get his coffee in the morning he'll simply rave,"
chuckled Tillie. "Missing it may be the one thing which will make him
hire a new housekeeper."
The girls were watchful as they crossed the yard, but they observed no
one lurking about the premises. Evidently the man who had hidden behind
the lilacs had taken himself elsewhere.
Penny escorted Tillie to the parked automobile, leaving her there while
she went to the cottage for Mrs. Weems. The housekeeper was ready and
waiting by the time she arrived.
"Penny, I nearly gave you up," she sighed. "Why did it take so long?"
"I've been busy finding you a new position," chuckled Penny. "Starting
tomorrow morning, you're to work for Peter Fenestra instead of us."
In the act of locking the cottage door, Mrs. Weems turned to face the
girl.
"Penny," she said, "I am tired tonight and in no mood for your jokes."
"This isn't a joke, Mrs. Weems. I really do want you to change jobs with
Tillie Fellows. You remember I told you about her."
Not giving the housekeeper an opportunity to speak, she rapidly outlined
her plan.
"Early tomorrow morning I'll drive you to Fenestra's farm," she ended
gleefully. "You're to knock on the door, and say you're looking for a job
at very low wages. Fenestra will be so desperate he'll welcome you with
open arms. Then as soon as he's off his guard you learn what is hidden in
the storm cave."
"How lovely," said Mrs. Weems. "I've listened to your crazy schemes for
years, Penny, but this one takes the prize!"
"You'll do it, won't you?"
"I certainly will not." The housekeeper spoke with biting emphasis.
"Oh, Mrs. Weems," Penny moaned. "You don't realize how much this means to
me! If only you'll go there, I may be able to get a wonderful scoop for
the _Weekly Times_."
"I wish you never had started that paper. I declare, ever since you took
over the old _Press_ plant, you've done the wildest things."
"This isn't wild," Penny argued. "It's absolutely logical. I would try
for the job myself only I know Fenestra wouldn't give it to me. Besides,
I am kept busy at the plant."
"I refuse to play detective for you, Penny. That's final."
Completely downcast, Penny followed Mrs. Weems along the river trail.
However, she had no intention of giving up so easily.
"Then if you won't," she remarked, "I must take Tillie to a charity home.
She had intended to start working at our place."
"The girl may spend the night with us, if you like. We have an extra
room."
"Tillie would never accept such a favor," insisted Penny. "More than
anything else she wants a job. Mrs. Weems, please reconsider--"
"It's a crazy scheme!"
"No, it isn't," Penny refuted, and noting indications of weakening,
launched into another lengthy argument.
Mrs. Weems drew a deep sigh. "I don't know why I allow you to twist me
around your finger the way you do."
"You'll try for the job?"
"I suppose so. But what will your father say?"
"He'll call it clever journalism," chuckled Penny. "Don't you worry about
Dad. Just leave everything to me."
During the ride to Riverview Mrs. Weems was further influenced by Tillie
Fellows' account of Fenestra's peculiar actions. Gradually she began to
share Penny's opinion that the man might have reason to fear for his
life. However, she could not agree with the girls that anything of great
value was hidden in the cave.
"Perhaps we're wrong," Penny conceded, "but you must go there with an
open mind, Mrs. Weems. Observe everything you can and report to me.
Particularly I want to learn what Fenestra knows about John Munn and the
octopus tattoo."
"I shan't try very hard to get the job," threatened the housekeeper.
At seven the next morning Penny awakened Mrs. Weems from a sound slumber,
reminding her that it was time to start for the Fenestra farm. Protesting
that the idea seemed crazier than ever, the housekeeper snuggled down
beneath the covers again.
"You promised you would go," reminded Penny brutally. "Please hurry,
because I must get you established before I go to school."
By the time Mrs. Weems was dressed, breakfast and the car awaited her.
She drank the bitterly strong coffee and, still protesting, allowed Penny
to drive her within view of the Fenestra farm.
"Is that the place?" she inquired with distaste as the automobile halted.
"Yes, I don't dare go any closer for fear Fenestra will see me. You know
the story you're to tell him."
"Which one? You've suggested so many that my mind is a-whirl."
"Then make it simple. Just say you're a widow, out of work, and that
you're a wonderful housekeeper. I'll wait here. If you go inside I'll
know you've been given the job."
"When will you come for me?"
"I'll try to see you tomorrow. But hold the fort until I arrive even if
it's a week."
A bundle of clothing under her arm, Mrs. Weems trudged on down the road.
Penny watched her with misgiving. The adventure was not to the
housekeeper's liking, and it was doubtful that her application for work
would be an enthusiastic one.
Turning the car in the road, she pulled to one side and waited. Mrs.
Weems had reached the farmhouse. Following instructions, she knocked at
the side entrance. In a moment or two the door was opened by Peter
Fenestra.
Anxiously, Penny watched. The interview seemed to be taking a long while,
but at least Fenestra had not closed the door in the housekeeper's face.
Then, to her delight, Mrs. Weems followed the man into the house.
"The job is hers!" she thought exultantly. "If she doesn't fail me, I may
yet break an important story in my paper! I feel in my bones that Peter
Fenestra's cave soon will yield its secret!"
CHAPTER
17
_THE ART OF TATTOO_
At school, during the afternoon assembly period, Penny received a note
from Louise which read:
"The _Weekly Times_ is in urgent need of feature stories for our next
issue. Any ideas?"
Penny scrawled a huge zero on the paper, decorated it with angel wings,
and sent it down the aisle. An answer came immediately.
"You'll have to do something about it. All of our reporters are taking a
vacation until after monthly exams. Can't you write some sort of story?"
Penny considered the problem as she studied her history lesson. Just as
the dismissal bell rang an inspiration seized her.
"Lou, I do have an idea!" she declared, linking arms with her chum. "How
about an interview with Ellis Saal?"
"Who is he?" inquired Louise, somewhat dubiously.
"A tattoo artist who has a little shop on Dorr Street. He takes passport
pictures, too. I noticed the place weeks ago."
"What makes you think the story would be worth printing?"
"Tattooing is a fascinating subject."
"It is to you. I doubt if our readers share your enthusiasm."
"They will when they read my story," countered Penny.
Early the next morning she presented herself at Mr. Saal's place of
business, a den-like crack in the wall, barely wide enough to accommodate
a door.
Pausing, she stared at a sign which proclaimed that for a nominal sum Mr.
Saal would tattoo or photograph all comers. In a glass frame were
displayed many samples of tattooing--bleeding hearts, clasped hands,
sailing ships, birds in flight and other artistic conceptions.
Penny entered the shop. The front end of the long, narrow room was
unoccupied, but the sound of hammering led her to the rear. A man of some
sixty-odd years was engaged in making a new shelf. As he saw her the
hammer dropped from his hand.
"Good morning," said Penny in her friendliest tone. "Are you Mr. Saal?"
"That's me," he replied, regarding her curiously.
"Excuse me for bothering you," apologized Penny, "but I should like to
interview you for my newspaper."
Mr. Saal's intelligent but somewhat child-like eyes fixed her in a steady
stare.
"A reporter," he said finally in a long suffering tone. "They wouldn't
respect a man's privacy--or anything else for that matter, I reckon."
"There is one thing I am sure all reporters respect, Mr. Saal," responded
Penny. "Art. From the samples of your work which I saw out front I am
sure you are a great tattoo artist."
Mr. Saal melted like a lump of butter on a hot stove. Penny had struck
his weakest spot.
"You flatter me," he said, a faint pattern of a smile etching his face.
"I admit I'm good, although maybe not quite the best in the business.
What do you want to know?"
"A story about the tattooing business in general and you in particular,
Mr. Saal. How do you do it? How did you start? Who was the most famous
person you ever tattooed? What is your favorite design? Do you think a
tattoo looks better on the arm or the chest? What--?"
"Hold it, young lady, hold it. You seem to be a living question mark."
Mr. Saal motioned for Penny to follow him to the front of the shop. As he
offered her a chair she took a quick glance at a row of dirty, smeary
bottles of chemicals on a shelf above her head.
"Now let's take your first question," said Mr. Saal, seating himself
opposite the girl. "I can't tell you how to tattoo--that's a secret of
the profession."
"How much do you charge for one?"
"Depends upon how much a fellow is willing to pay. Take this town--it's a
cheap place. Nobody has any money. The King of England paid fifty dollars
for his tattoo and what do I get? I'm lucky if it's a dollar. And mostly
hoodlums to work on. You can't give a man much of a tattoo for a dollar."
"Do you ever remove tattoos, Mr. Saal?"
"It's against the law," the man replied briefly.
"I didn't know that," said Penny in surprise. "Why?"
"Crooks can be identified by their tattoos. Oh, it's easy for a fellow to
get one on, but not so easy to get it off."
"But it can be done?" Penny persisted. "Have you ever removed one?"
"I'm the only man in the state who can take off a tattoo so it doesn't
show," boasted Mr. Saal. "The surgeons have tried, but you always can see
where it was."
"Tell me about some of the tattoos you've removed," urged Penny.
"I've told you more than I should now," said Mr. Saal. "You'll print it
in the paper and then I'll get into trouble with the police."
"This will be strictly confidential," promised Penny.
"It's this way," Mr. Saal justified himself. "I never do any work for
crooks--not me. But if a law-abiding, respectable citizen comes here and
says he's sick of his tattoo, then sometimes I take it off for him if
he's willing to pay the price. Fact is, I'm workin' on a mighty
interesting case right now. It's a design that's rare--an octopus."
Penny did not trust herself to speak for a moment. Carefully she
controlled her voice as she said casually:
"How interesting, Mr. Saal, An octopus tattoo! Was the man a sailor?"
"He was an old salt all right, though he denied it."
"What is his name?"
"I couldn't tell you that," answered Mr. Saal. "I have to protect my
customers."
"Tell me more about the tattoo," urged Penny.
"It's just a figure about so large--" Mr. Saal demonstrated with his
hands, "on the man's back. Funny place for a tattoo, ain't it?"
"I should say so," agreed Penny. "Is it merely a figure of an octopus? No
words or anything like that?"
"There are two words. I took 'em off last week."
"Two?" inquired Penny. "What are they, Mr. Saal?"
"They don't make sense. The words are _For One_."
"I once saw an octopus tattoo such as you describe," declared Penny. "But
I distinctly recall that the design used only a single word. It was
_One_."
"Is that so?" inquired Mr. Saal. "Maybe the tattoo isn't as uncommon as I
thought. But I never saw one like it before."
"I wonder what can be the significance of the words?"
"I was asking my customer about it. He pretended he didn't know, but I
figure maybe he and some buddies had a sentence tattooed on 'em."
"You mean that if one were able to read several tattoos together, the
words would make sense?"
"That's right," nodded Mr. Saal. "I don't know about this octopus tattoo,
but I figure it may have been that way."
"Did your customer have any other tattoos on his body?" Penny questioned.
"An anchor, for instance?"
"Didn't notice 'em if he did."
"I suppose it takes a long while to remove a tattoo. Does your customer
come often?"
"Every Tuesday and Thursday night. He complains because I don't do the
work faster, but I tell him if he wants a good job it has to be done
carefully."
Before Penny could ask another question, two young sailors swaggered into
the shop. Ellis Saal, scenting business, immediately arose.
"Be careful what you write up," he warned as he left her. "There's been a
lot of articles on tattooin', but not a one that's right. It just ain't
possible for a reporter to write a true story unless it's about a murder
or a fire!"
"I'll be careful," promised Penny.
Leaving the shop, she walked slowly to her parked car. The information
obtained from the tattoo artist both excited and mystified her.
"I don't believe Mr. Saal could have been mistaken about the words which
were incorporated in the design," she thought. "And I'm equally certain I
wasn't mistaken about Anchor Joe's tattoo. It had only the single word,
'One.'"
Mr. Saal's declaration that his customer was not the possessor of a
tattooed anchor caused Penny to wonder if the person could be Joe Landa.
However, the man was wanted by government agents and it seemed reasonable
to believe that he might seek to remove tell-tale markings.
"I know what I'll do," she decided. "Thursday night I'll watch Mr. Saal's
shop. In that way I may be able to learn the identity of his mysterious
customer!"
CHAPTER
18
_PAULETTA'S EXPLANATION_
Penny compressed the facts given her by Ellis Saal into a brief, lively
feature story for the _Weekly Times_. She was careful not to divulge that
the man had removed a tattoo from a customer, but to Louise she confided
the entire story.
"All unwittingly, Mr. Saal gave me just the clue I need," she declared
enthusiastically. "It will be a gigantic step forward if I learn the
identity of his mysterious customer."
"What's to be gained by it?" asked Louise as she slugged a story and
speared it on a hook. "What will be proven?"
"Well, if I'm ever going to solve the mystery I must gather every fact I
can," Penny said defensively. "I aim to learn the meaning of those
strange tattoos and, above all, the reason why John Munn was pushed from
the bridge."
"You have your work cut out for you," responded Louise dryly.
"But Mr. Saal's information helps. You remember I told you that John
Munn's tattoo bore the word _All_. Anchor Joe's was exactly the same
except for the word, _One_. And now Ellis Saal has a customer with two
words on his back: _For One_. Why, I believe I have it!"
Penny sprang from her chair, eyes dancing with excitement.
"You have what?" asked Louise calmly.
"It came to me like a flash--the meaning of those tattooed words! If we
haven't been dumb!"
"Kindly stop jumping around, and explain."
"Mr. Saal told me he thought several sailors might have had a sentence
incorporated in their tattoo. That is, only a word or two was used in
each design, but taken as a whole it would make sense."
"And you think you have the phrase?"
"I do, Louise! Why couldn't it be: _All for one, one for all_?"
"If the men were close friends, that would be fairly logical. But the
words we have to juggle don't make such a sentence, Penny."
"Obviously there must be a fourth sailor whose tattoo includes the words,
'for all,'" argued Penny. "Then it would fit perfectly."
"Just because four men were pals, you think they would have such nonsense
tattooed on their backs?"
"That's my theory."
"If you're right, then the mystery is solved."
"Far from it," corrected Penny. "I haven't learned who pushed John Munn
from the bridge or why. You remember how Anchor Joe talked about someone
who had 'ratted'? The four of them must have been in on a scheme, and one
man betrayed his comrades."
"Better bridle that imagination before it takes you for too wild a ride,"
chuckled Louise.
"Then you think there's nothing to my theory?" Penny demanded in an
injured tone.
"I think that if you speculate upon it much longer we'll never get any
work done," Louise replied, turning once more to her typewriter. "These
headlines must be composed if ever we expect to get another paper on the
street."
Disappointed that her chum did not take the matter more seriously, Penny
went to consult Old Horney in the composing room. The pressman had proven
to be worth many times the small salary which the girls paid him. Not
only had he made the rotary presses ready for service, but he had cleaned
and oiled every useable piece of machinery in the building. Eagerly he
awaited the day when Penny would print the _Weekly_ in her own plant.
"Everything's all set," he told her with a worshipful grin. "Whenever you
give the word, we can go to press."
"That's fine," Penny praised. "Louise and I have been having a few
difficulties, financial and otherwise. But I hope it won't be long now."
She talked with Old Horney about various technical problems, then
returned to her desk. Slipping a sheet of paper into her typewriter, she
composed a letter to a well known steamship, the _Dorasky_.
Slipping it into her pocket, she opened the door of Louise's office.
"Do you mind staying here alone for awhile?"
"No, of course not. Where are you going?"
"To mail an important letter. Then I want to drive out to Fenestra's farm
and see Mrs. Weems."
"I'll look after everything until you get back," Louise promised. She
glanced curiously at the letter but did not ask to whom it was directed.
Penny dropped the stamped envelope into a convenient corner mailbox, and
then drove toward the outskirts of the city. Nearing Drexel Boulevard it
suddenly occurred to her that she never had found time to revisit Matthew
Judson's home.
"Pauletta owes me an explanation for the way she acted the other day,"
she thought. "I have a notion to stop and see if she's alone."
Penny impulsively spun the wheel, and followed the boulevard to the
Judson home. The iron gate stood open. She drove through, up the curve of
cement to the house.
In response to her knock, an untidy colored maid admitted her to a dark,
dusty living room. As she awaited Pauletta, her wandering gaze noted a
number of significant details. The walls had not been decorated in many
years, upholstered furniture had assumed a moth-eaten appearance, and the
entire room seemed spiritless.
Pauletta came slowly down the circular stairway. She hesitated as she
recognized Penny, but could not retreat.
"How do you do," she said somewhat stiffly. "Nice of you to call."
"I think you know why I came," said Penny. "We were unable to talk when I
was here before."
"I've told you all there was to it," Pauletta declared, seating herself
opposite the girl. "Frankly, I can't see that the affair is any of your
concern. I wore the disguise because I didn't wish to be recognized on
board the _Goodtime_."
"Your explanation isn't very satisfactory, I'm afraid. Tillie Fellows is
staying at our home now."
"What of it?"
"She was robbed that night on the boat."
"We discussed it before," Miss Judson said in exasperation. "You insult
me by suggesting that I may have snatched the girl's pocketbook! Why
should I steal when my father is wealthy? I've always had everything I
want."
"I should like very much to believe you," said Penny quietly. "But unless
you are willing to offer a complete explanation, I am afraid I can't."
"Very well, if I must, I'll tell," Miss Judson replied angrily. "You may
have read in the newspapers that I am engaged to marry Major Howard
Atchley?"
"The story escaped me."
"I admire Howard very much," resumed Pauletta, still in an icy tone. "He
comes from an excellent family, is well-to-do, and in Father's opinion
will make me a good husband."
"Your opinion differs?" Penny inquired softly.
"I do not love Howard, and I never shall. On the night you saw me aboard
the _Goodtime_ I had gone with another friend of mine, Carl Feldman,
intending to enjoy the excursion trip."
"Your father knew nothing about it?"
"I told him I was going with another girl."
"Oh, I see."
"There was nothing wrong about it," Pauletta said irritably. "But I'm
fairly well known. I realized that if I were recognized, Father or Howard
might learn about it. Then there would be trouble, for Howard is a very
jealous person."
"So you resorted to the wig and glasses?"
"Yes, that was my sole reason. Major Atchley met me at the boat. Before
joining him I threw the bundle of clothing into the river. Now are you
satisfied with my explanation?"
"I am," said Penny. "In fact, I never believed that you had robbed
Tillie."
"You certainly acted that way."
"Perhaps, I only wanted to learn the truth."
Miss Judson did not reply. Her cold stare made it evident that she
disliked Penny and regarded her as a meddler.
"Is there anything else you wish to know?" she asked after a lengthy
silence.
"Nothing, Miss Judson. I was only thinking that I would like to help you
and your father."
"Thank you. We don't require assistance."
"Perhaps you don't," said Penny, "but your father needs friends. He
admitted to me that if it weren't for you he would be tempted to end
everything."
The words stunned Pauletta. "Father never said that!" she exclaimed.
"He did."
"I can't believe it. Why, Father's the most cheerful person in the
world!"
"In your presence, possibly. The loss of the _Morning Press_ must have
been a heavy blow to him."
"Father wasn't forced to give up the paper," Pauletta protested. "He did
it because he was tired of working so hard."
"Was that what he told you?"
"Why, yes. I know of no other reason."
"The general belief seems to be that your father speculated on the stock
market, losing large sums of money."
"That can't be true," denied Pauletta. "To my knowledge Father never
gambled. He may have bought a few stocks from time to time, but only for
investment."
"Then you feel sure he did not dispose of the _Press_ because he needed
money?"
Pauletta hesitated before she answered. "It never occurred to me before,
but Father has been rather close the past year. I thought it was sheer
carelessness when he let this place run down. He always gave me
everything I wanted."
"Why does he favor your marriage to the Major?"
"Perhaps money does enter into it," Pauletta said slowly. "Many times
Father has reminded me that I would have every luxury as Howard's wife."
"Your friend Carl is poor?"
"He has a fairly good position, but not much money. Father always seemed
to like Carl. That was why I couldn't understand when he asked me not to
see him again."
"I am sure your father thinks only of your welfare."
"But I would rather marry Carl and be poor always than to have riches
with Howard."
"You've not told your father that?"
"Why, no. It never occurred to me that money had influenced him."
"There's another rumor," said Penny. "I suppose I shouldn't mention it."
"I wish you would."
"I've heard it said that your father disposed of the _Press_ because he
had been blackmailed."
"By whom?"
"I haven't the slightest idea. It was only a rumor."
"There may be truth in it," Pauletta replied in a low voice. "You've
opened my eyes, Miss Parker. I've been very blind."
"Then you think someone may have forced your father to pay money?"
"I don't know. But Father has acted strangely ever since he gave up the
paper. Once a month, on the fourth, he receives a visit from a queer
looking man. Always he tries to get me out of the house before the fellow
comes."
"Don't you know his name?"
"No, Father has never told me. The man seldom stays longer than ten
minutes."
"Can you describe him?"
"Not very well because I never saw him at close range. I should say he's
middle-aged, dark and cruel looking. Not at all the sort Father would
choose for a friend."
"Your father offers no explanation as to why the man comes?"
"None. He refuses to discuss the subject. I've noticed, though, that for
days after the fellow leaves he's very nervous and uneasy."
"Excuse me for asking so many questions, Miss Judson, but do you know of
any reason why your father might be blackmailed?"
"No, I don't. I am sure he's never been involved in anything
dishonorable."
Penny had no more to tell, and she was convinced that Pauletta had given
a truthful account of the situation. Feeling that she was not
particularly welcome, she arose to leave.
"I am glad you came," Pauletta said, extending her hand. "Please excuse
my rudeness. There were so many things I failed to understand."
"You must forgive me, too," replied Penny. "I didn't mean to meddle. I
truly want to help your father."
"I wish I could help him, too," said Pauletta in a troubled voice. "In
the past I fear I've been very selfish and inconsiderate."
"There's a way to help if you're willing to do it."
"I don't understand."
"You say that on the fourth of each month a man comes here to see your
father. If you tried could you learn his name?"
"I might drop in upon them at an awkward moment, compelling Father to
introduce me."
"Are you willing to do it?"
"Why, yes, but I fail to see what will be gained."
"Perhaps nothing, perhaps a great deal," replied Penny. "If the man is a
blackmailer, it should help for us to know his name."
"I'll learn what I can."
"Then until the fourth, good-bye. And please, not a word to Mr. Judson.
We must work secretly."
Reflecting upon the information given her by Pauletta, Penny drove on
toward Peter Fenestra's home. A quarter of a mile away she parked the
car, and set off afoot, hoping to attract no attention should the owner
be at home.
It was well that she took the precaution. She was three hundred yards
from the grounds when suddenly she saw a man emerge from behind the barn.
At a glance she observed that he was too short to be Peter Fenestra.
As Penny paused to watch, the man moved stealthily across the yard to the
front door of the farmhouse. His face turned slightly in her direction,
and she recognized Anchor Joe.
"What can he be doing here?" she thought in amazement.
The question soon was answered. Glancing quickly about, Anchor Joe
dropped a white envelope on the front porch. Then he pounded several
times on the door before darting to the shelter of the lilac bushes.
CHAPTER
19
_MRS. WEEMS' REPORT_
Several minutes elapsed before the door was opened by Peter Fenestra. He
glanced alertly about the yard, and then his gaze fell upon the envelope.
Penny heard him mutter to himself as he picked it up.
Fenestra's face became convulsed with rage as he tore open the flap and
saw the message. Still muttering, he crumpled the paper and thrust it
into his pocket. Entering the house, he slammed the door.
With Peter at home Penny dared not try to see Mrs. Weems. As she
hesitated, debating, Anchor Joe came from his hiding place. He did not
see the girl.
"Joe!" she called softly.
The sailor turned. Recognizing her, he ran in the opposite direction
across the yard. Keeping low behind a hedge, he started toward the river.
"Joe! Come back!" Penny called again.
Paying no heed, the sailor fled through the fields. Soon he was hidden by
tall trees and bushes.
Penny felt deeply disturbed, wondering if Anchor Joe made a practice of
watching the Fenestra home. She was inclined to believe that this had not
been his first visit there.
Unexpectedly the farmhouse door swung open. Penny barely had time to step
behind a large maple before Peter Fenestra came down the path. He went
directly to the barn, and a few minutes later backed out his automobile.
"Good!" thought Penny. "He's likely driving to Riverview. Now I can talk
to Mrs. Weems without fear of interruption."
As soon as the car had disappeared down the main road, she ran to the
kitchen door and knocked. When it was not opened immediately, she thrust
her head inside and called the housekeeper's name.
"Here I am," answered Mrs. Weems, hurrying from the dining room. "I hope
you've come to take me home, Penny Parker!"
"No, only to receive your report." Penny sank into a chair beside the
stove. "You don't act very pleased with your new job."
"It's a dreadful place. I was crazy to say I would stay here."
"Haven't you learned anything?"
"I've learned that Peter Fenestra 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?" Penny asked. "Were you able to find out
what Fenestra stores in it?"
"Of course not. The padlock always is locked, and he keeps the key in his
pocket."
"But he does have something hidden there?" Penny questioned eagerly. "He
goes down into it at night?"
"I've seen him enter the cave 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. Weems?"
"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," declared Mrs. Weems. "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."
Penny frowned. "I can't guess what he could be cooking," she said.
"Surely he doesn't have a still down there."
"I doubt it very much. Probably you've built up a great mystery about
nothing."
Pouring hot water over the dishes, Mrs. Weems began to wash them. Penny
picked up a towel and automatically wiped and stacked them away.
"I didn't imagine that this house was being watched," she replied. "Only
a few minutes ago I saw Anchor Joe steal to the door and leave a letter
for Mr. Fenestra."
"Anchor Joe!"
"Mr. Moyer never caught him it seems. But why should the fellow come
here? What message did he leave Fenestra?"
"I heard a knock on the front door," Mrs. Weems admitted. "Fenestra
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 Joe left it on the doorstep. It may have been a threatening
note. I'd give a lot to know."
"Fenestra has been very nervous since I came here," Mrs. Weems
contributed. "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," declared Penny. "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," responded Mrs. Weems. "Fenestra is a
careful man. He leaves no papers lying about."
"It will do no harm to look."
Penny climbed the creaking stairs and was followed by Mrs. Weems.
"This is his room," said the housekeeper, opening a door. "I haven't made
the bed yet."
She busied herself smoothing covers while Penny wandered about. The room
had no rug. It was furnished with an old fashioned dresser, a wash stand
and a bed with a high headboard.
Penny 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. Weems as the girl bent to
open one of the bags. "You'll find nothing except clothing. I tell you,
Peter Fenestra is a very cautious man."
"I can believe it," agreed Penny. "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?" Penny picked up a sheet of notebook
paper from the dresser.
"Don't get excited over that," laughed Mrs. Weems.
"It's only a grocery list which Fenestra made up. He doesn't trust anyone
to spend his money for him."
"Is this Fenestra's writing?" Penny studied the paper with intense
interest.
"Yes, it is."
"Mrs. Weems, I've seen this writing before!" Penny exclaimed. "I'm almost
certain of it. There's a marked resemblance!"
"A resemblance to what, Penny?"
"Why, to a threatening note I received. I guess I never told you. Someone
left a message on my desk at the newspaper office, warning me to give up
my paper."
"And you think Peter Fenestra left it there?" inquired the housekeeper,
smiling.
"This looks like the same writing."
"Probably you are mistaken, Penny. Why should he have any interest in
your paper?"
"He came to the office one day, questioning me about a story I ran
concerning John Munn. I shall keep this and compare it with the note."
Carefully folding the paper, Penny slipped it into her dress pocket. Mrs.
Weems 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," pleaded Penny. "I feel in my bones that we're
about to make an important discovery."
"Those bones of yours!" complained the housekeeper. "Tell me, how is
Tillie Fellows 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."
Penny was paying no attention to Mrs. Weems' words. She had picked up the
waste paper basket and was examining the contents. There were a few
advertising circulars, an unaddressed envelope and a crumpled ball of
paper. The latter, Penny carefully smoothed.
"Mrs. Weems!" she exclaimed. "Look at this!"
The housekeeper hastened to her side. Curiously, she examined the paper.
It bore no writing, only a crude drawing of an octopus.
"This must be the paper which Anchor Joe left on the doorstep only a few
minutes ago!" cried Penny excitedly.
"You think it may have been intended as a warning to Peter Fenestra?" The
housekeeper regarded the drawing rather dubiously.
"I'm sure of it, Mrs. Weems! Don't you see? The drawing is a copy of the
tattoo which both Anchor Joe and John Munn had on their backs!"
"Yes, it does look the same as Joe's marking," conceded the housekeeper.
"But what does it mean? Why was it sent to Fenestra?"
"I wish I knew."
"One thing is clear. That boatman your father hired is a downright
scamp."
"He's wanted by the government. We know that. But Fenestra may be a
rascal, too. Why should Anchor Joe 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,"
declared Mrs. Weems with finality. "I am ready to leave here whenever you
are. I've decided not to bother giving Fenestra notice."
"You can't go now. You can't!" moaned Penny. "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. Weems, do
this one favor and I'll never ask another."
"Until next time, you mean. But to please you I'll stay until Friday. Not
a day longer. However, I warn you, if I see Anchor Joe prowling about, I
shall summon the sheriff."
"That's all right with me," grinned Penny. "I must skip now before
Fenestra gets back from town. Just keep your eye on him and report to me
if anything unusual happens."
CHAPTER
20
_PICNIC BY MOONLIGHT_
Penny had never found it necessary to explain fully to her father what
had become of Mrs. Weems. She had mentioned rather carelessly that the
housekeeper was helping out at the Fenestra home for a few days, and he
had accepted the substitution of Tillie Fellows without too many
questions.
At breakfast on Wednesday morning, the publisher waited until Tillie had
gone to the kitchen, and then asked in an undertone:
"How much longer is this to continue? When is Mrs. Weems coming home?"
"Friday morning, Dad. Don't you like Tillie's cooking?"
"It's awful," he whispered. "These eggs taste as if they had been fried
in lard."
"They were," chuckled Penny. "Tillie was brought up to be frugal. She
never wastes butter."
The discussion was brought to an abrupt end by the appearance of Tillie.
Mr. Parker immediately switched to another subject, that of a barbecue
picnic which he gave each summer to the _Star_ employes. Penny had
forgotten that the outing was scheduled for that night at the cottage.
"I'm glad you reminded me, Dad," she said. "I'll be there with bells to
eat my share of roast beef. Mind if I bring Old Horney?"
"Invite him if you like," replied Mr. Parker. "But no others. This is a
newspaper picnic, not a bread line as you made it last year."
After school that afternoon Penny worked as usual at the _Times_ office.
She was busy figuring advertising space when she glanced up and saw Fred
Clousky standing in the doorway.
"Are--are you busy?" asked the boy diffidently.
"Yes, I am," said Penny with discouraging brevity.
"I don't want to bother you," Fred murmured, "but I was wondering--do you
have a job for me around here? I'd like to work on a real paper. Being
editor of _Chatter_ is okay but you don't get any practical experience."
"Oh, so you want a job?" inquired Penny. Inclined to give him a short
answer, she thought better of it. "Everything considered," she said,
"what you need, Fred, is to learn about different kinds of type. It's so
easy to get name-plates and various headlines mixed!"
Fred kept his gaze on his shoes.
"I have just the job for you," resumed Penny. "You can sort and clean the
type when it's broken out of the page forms. If you do that well, perhaps
you can work up later on."
"When do I start?" Fred asked in a crushed voice.
Penny was surprised for she had expected him to decline such a dirty,
menial job. In a far more friendly tone she directed him to seek Old
Horney who would be found in the composing room.
"Fred isn't so bad after all," she thought after he had gone. "I'll give
him an office job next week."
Penny returned to her work. In need of an extra sheet of paper, she tried
to open the lower drawer of her desk. It was stuck fast. She tugged at it
several times, finally pulling it out entirely. A folded newspaper
clipping dropped to the floor.
Wondering what it might be, she picked it up. The torn sheet, yellow with
age, bore the picture of a young man. The face was vaguely familiar
although the name beneath it read, Matthew Jewel.
"Matthew Jewel," she whispered. "But it's Matthew Judson! Judson as a
young man. He must have changed his name!"
The two column headline drew her attention.
MATTHEW JEWEL BEGINS TEN YEAR SENTENCE IN NEW YORK PRISON FOR
MISAPPROPRIATION OF BANK FUNDS
The clipping, she noted, had been cut from a New York paper and was dated
twenty years earlier. It reported Matthew Jewel's conviction, following
an admission that he had stolen two thousand dollars belonging to the
Berkley Savings Bank.
Penny studied the picture again. Not the slightest doubt entered her mind
that the young man of the story and Matthew Judson were the same
individual. Evidently the clipping had been saved by the former
publisher, and in some manner had become lodged beneath the drawer.
"I'm sure no one in Riverview ever knew that Judson served a term in
prison," she thought. "He came here years ago with his daughter, and to
all appearances had led an upright life."
After perusing the item again, she returned it to the drawer which she
carefully locked. She knew that the information was of utmost importance.
Was it not possible that she had stumbled upon a motivation for Judson's
strange behavior of the past year? Could not the data contained in the
clipping have provided an unscrupulous person with a basis for blackmail?
"But why should Judson ruin his career rather than face exposure?" she
reflected. "Other men have made mistakes in their youth and started over
again. The truth might have humiliated him, but Riverview people would
have taken a charitable attitude."
Deeply troubled, Penny gathered together her belongings and went in
search of Old Horney. Finding him initiating Fred Clousky in his new
duties, she discreetly invited him to attend the picnic.
"Thank you mightily," responded the pressman, "but I'm not dressed for
it. These pants are so shiny you could use 'em for a mirror."
"Don't you worry about your clothes, Horney. Besides, it will be so dark
no one will notice. Dad gave you a special invitation."
"Did he now?" The old pressman could not hide his pleasure. "Well, if you
think he really wants me, maybe I'll go."
"You wash up while I get the car," Penny urged. "We're rather late."
Within ten minutes, Old Horney met her at the front entrance. His hair
was combed, he wore a frayed coat, and had contrived to polish his shoes.
"Horney," Penny said abruptly as they drove toward the river, "did you
ever hear that Matthew Judson had been in trouble before he gave up his
paper?"
"You mean financial?" the pressman inquired.
"No, I meant of a personal nature. I've been thinking over your theory
that Judson was blackmailed."
"Maybe I oughtn't to have said what I did. It was just my own idea."
"I'm inclined to believe there may be something to it, Horney. Now
supposing that Judson had stolen money or had been in prison--"
"It couldn't have been that," interrupted the pressman. "Why, Judson was
so honest he bent over backwards."
Penny was tempted to tell Horney about the clipping, but refrained from
doing so. However, she was satisfied that employes of the _Morning Press_
had gained no inkling of Mr. Judson's prison record.
The picnic was well under way by the time Penny and the pressman arrived
at the river cottage. A caterer had taken complete charge, and with his
crew of helpers, prepared to serve nearly two hundred boisterous, hungry
newspaper employes.
Always a favorite, Penny immediately was surrounded by a group of
friends. Assured that Horney had found welcome with pressmen
acquaintances, she entered wholeheartedly into the frivolity.
Jerry Livingston, frowning away all other young men, became her escort
for the evening. After supper had been served, he guided her firmly away
from the group.
"We don't want to hear any speeches," he said. "Let's go look at the
moon."
"Can't we see it here?" countered Penny.
"A moon to be appreciated properly must be seen from a sandy beach,"
chuckled Jerry. "Preferably from a nice comfortable shoulder."
Breaking away, Penny raced ahead of him, along the beach to the
suspension bridge. She was halfway across when he overtook her, rocking
it so violently that she had to cling to him for support.
"Stop that, Jerry Livingston! You'll break the bridge!"
"Then don't try to run away from me. Will you let me show you the moon?"
"No, I know you, Jerry. You show it to all the girls."
"If I do, it's just as a rehearsal. You see, Penny, I've hoped that
someday I might get a chance to show it to you."
"What a line you have," laughed Penny. "But I won't play. As a
moon-shower your technique is terrible. Better practice some more."
Jerry chuckled and slipping his hand in hers, led her on across the
bridge.
"If you won't look at the moon," he said, "then take a squint at Old Man
River."
"I believe I prefer the moon after all," Penny returned, raising her eyes
to the disc of light sailing serenely through the star-pricked sky. "It
_is_ beautiful."
Her reverie was broken by Jerry's voice. His hand tightened on her own.
"Penny!" he exclaimed. "Look over there!"
Farther down the river in an open space, the forms of two struggling men
were silhouetted in the moonlight.
"Oh, Jerry," Penny cried, "they're fighting!"
"And to the death," added Jerry grimly. "Come on, before it's too late!"
CHAPTER
21
_ELLIS SAAL'S CUSTOMER_
Penny followed the reporter, quickly overtaking him. Their pounding
footsteps were heard by the two men who abruptly ceased their desperate
struggles. Observing the pair, they turned and fled, one toward the
river, the other toward the road.
"Well, we broke that up in a hurry!" exclaimed Jerry. "Wonder what made
them run?"
"They must have been afraid we would recognize them," answered Penny.
"Didn't you think that one man looked like Peter Fenestra?"
"I never have seen him to my knowledge. He was the fellow who ran along
the river?"
"No, the other. Fenestra's farmhouse is across the fields." Penny pointed
toward a light shining dimly from a window.
"They've both disappeared now," Jerry commented, moving to the river
bank. "Wonder how the row started anyway?"
"Fenestra has been threatened," revealed Penny. "Yesterday Anchor Joe
left a drawing of an octopus on his doorstep."
"What was the idea?"
"It must have been intended as a warning of some sort. Anchor Joe, and
other men, too, keep watch of the house."
"How did you learn that, Penny?"
"I've made observations. Besides, Tillie Fellows, who worked there, told
me what she had seen. Fenestra is afraid for his life."
"Maybe it was Anchor Joe who attacked him tonight."
"It may have been. I wish we could have seen those men at close range."
Penny walked on to the clearing where the pair had fought. Grass had been
beaten down over a large area, indicating that the struggle had not been
a brief one. A shiny object gleamed in the moonlight. Penny picked it up,
then called softly to Jerry who had remained by the river bank.
"What is it?" he asked, coming quickly to her side.
"I've found a key, Jerry! It was lying here on the ground."
"One of the men must have lost it from his pocket."
"This may have been what they were fighting over, Jerry!"
"What makes you think that?"
"Doesn't the key look as if it belonged to a padlock?"
"Yes, it does, Penny."
"Then I am convinced this key will fit the lock on Peter Fenestra's storm
cellar! His attacker was trying to get it away from him!"
"Just a minute," remonstrated Jerry. "You're traveling too fast for me.
Explain the storm cellar part."
"You'll promise not to use anything I tell you for the _Star_?"
"That's fair enough."
Satisfied that Jerry would keep his promise, Penny told him everything
she had learned at the Fenestra farm. The reporter asked many questions
about the storm cave.
"So you believe this key may unlock the door?" he mused.
"I'd like to try it, at least."
"Now?"
"There never will be a better time. Mrs. Weems thinks that Fenestra is
getting ready to leave Riverview."
Jerry hesitated only briefly. "All right, I'm with you," he said. "Lead
the way."
They were leaving the river when both were startled to hear the
suspension bridge creak beneath human weight. As they paused, listening,
a familiar voice called:
"Jerry! Hey, Jerry!"
"Here!" responded the reporter.
A figure emerged from the trees, and they recognized Salt Sommers, the
_Star_ photographer.
"Say, I've been lookin' everywhere for you," he complained. "You're
wanted back in Riverview."
"What is this, a gag?" Jerry asked suspiciously.
"It's no gag. The Fulton Powder Company just blew up. Joe, and Gus, and
Philips are already on their way. DeWitt sent me to get you."
"The Fulton Powder Plant!" Jerry exclaimed, falling into step with Salt.
"That's a big story!"
"It sure is, and we're late! Get a move on, brother."
Jerry glanced toward Penny, remembering that she too had a "story" to be
covered.
"We'll go to Fenestra's place tomorrow," he promised hurriedly.
Knowing that Penny might try to investigate the cave alone, he hooked his
arm through hers, pulling her along.
"Back you go to camp," he said. "This is no place for a little girl at
night."
Penny's protests went unheeded. Jerry and Salt marched her between them
to the cottage. Unceremoniously turning her over to her father, they
leaped into a press car, and were gone.
Hours later the picnic came to an end. Riding home with her father after
taking Horney to the _Times_ building, Penny was startled to observe a
light in an upstairs window of the Parker house.
"Why, that's in Mrs. Weems' room!" she exclaimed. "She can't be home!"
Penny was mistaken. Upon hastening upstairs to investigate, she was met
at the bedroom door by the housekeeper.
"Why, Mrs. Weems! I thought you intended to stay on the farm until
tomorrow!"
"I decided a few hours would make no difference. Penny, the place was
unbearable."
"How did you get home?"
"By taxicab."
"Oh, I wish you had stayed one day longer," sighed Penny. "Did you learn
anything since I saw you last?"
"Nothing of value. Fenestra came home a short time before I left. He was
in a dreadful temper."
"Had he been in a fight?" Penny asked quickly.
"There was a black and blue mark across his cheek."
"Then I was right!" exclaimed Penny triumphantly. "I wish I knew for
certain who attacked him."
Questioned by Mrs. Weems, she described the scene witnessed at the river,
and proudly displayed the key.
"Why, it does resemble one I've seen Fenestra use," declared the
housekeeper.
"Then it must unlock the cave! Tomorrow I'll go there and find out!"
"You'll do no such thing," replied Mrs. Weems firmly. "That is, not
without your father's permission."
"But you know Dad won't be in favor of it," groaned Penny. "I simply must
go there and get a scoop for the _Weekly_."
"No, Penny, you need to be protected from your own recklessness. Your
father must be consulted before you visit the farm again."
"Either he'll say I can't go, or if he thinks there's anything to the
story, he'll turn it over to a _Star_ reporter. Whichever he does, I
lose."
"Penny, I am in no mood to listen to your pleadings," Mrs. Weems said
wearily. "If you'll excuse me, I'll go to bed."
Grumbling at the decision, Penny went to her own room. She did not feel
equal to a spirited discussion with her father that night.
"Here, I'm on the verge of solving a great mystery," she grieved.
"Perhaps the most stupendous of my life! And now I'm told I must stay
away from Fenestra's farm. It's enough to turn my hair gray."
Penny overslept the next morning, barely awakening in time to reach
school by nine o'clock. A surprise oral history quiz caught her
completely unprepared. She missed three questions in succession, and was
told that she must remain after school for a special study session.
Released at four-thirty, Penny hastened to the _Star_ office. Neither her
father nor Jerry were there, nor could anyone tell her when they would
return. Discouraged, she sought Louise who as usual was working at the
_Times_ plant.
"Such luck as I am having," Penny complained. "Mrs. Weems says I can't go
to Fenestra's farm without Dad's permission, and he's hiding from me."
"I wish you would forget that storm cave and the octopus tattoo," said
Louise unsympathetically. "Maybe then we could get out another issue of
this old paper."
Penny gazed at her rather queerly. "You're sick of it, aren't you?" she
asked.
"No," Louise denied, "it's been fun, and we've learned a lot. But there's
so much work. It never ends."
"It will soon," replied Penny quietly. "Our advertisers are dropping off
one by one. Sales are falling, too."
"We always can quit," said Louise cheerfully.
"No, we can't," Penny's mouth drew into a tight line. "Fred Clousky would
taunt me to my dying day. I'll never close the plant except in a blaze of
journalistic glory!"
"But you just said we're failing--"
"What the _Weekly_ needs and must have is a tremendous story! Somehow I'm
going to get it!"
"You're nothing if not persistent," said Louise admiringly. "Oh, before I
forget it, Old Horney has been up here several times inquiring for you."
"More bad news I suppose."
"He didn't say why he wished to talk with you. I thought he seemed rather
disturbed, though."
"I'll see what he wants."
Penny sought Horney in the composing department and pressroom, and even
ventured into the basement. The old man was not to be found. Concluding
that he had left the building, she gave up the search.
She helped Louise read proof until six o'clock, and then telephoned home
to inquire if her father were there. Learning from Mrs. Weems that he did
not expect to come until later, she decided to remain downtown for her
own dinner.
"Why don't you stay with me, Lou?" she invited. "Afterwards, I'll take
you on a little adventure."
"Not to Fenestra's?" her chum demanded suspiciously.
"Unfortunately, no. I shall do a bit of spade work by watching Ellis
Saal's shop. This is Thursday, you know."
"It will be a long, tedious wait."
"I'll consider it well worth the time if I learn the identity of Saal's
customer. You don't care to come?"
"On the contrary, I do. I'll telephone Mother."
The girls dined at a café not far from the _Weekly Times_ and soon
thereafter stationed themselves a half block from Ellis Saal's shop. An
hour elapsed. Several times they became hopeful as persons paused to gaze
at the exhibits in the show window, but no one entered. A cold wind made
their vigil increasingly uncomfortable.
"If we don't get action in another fifteen minutes I am going home,"
chattered Louise.
A clock struck eight-thirty. Five minutes later Penny observed a familiar
figure coming briskly down the street. She touched her chum's arm.
"It's Peter Fenestra," Louise murmured. "You don't think he's the one?"
"We'll soon see."
Fenestra was too far away to notice the girls. As they watched, he walked
to the doorway of Ellis Saal's shop. Quickly he glanced about as if to
ascertain that the street was deserted. Then he slipped into the shop,
closing the door behind him.
CHAPTER
22
_GHOSTS OF THE PAST_
"Peter Fenestra," murmured Louise. "Can there be any doubt that he is the
customer Ellis Saal meant?"
"Not in my opinion," rejoined Penny.
"Isn't it possible that he went into the shop to have a photograph taken,
or for some other reason?"
"Possible but not probable. No, Lou, we should have guessed long ago that
Fenestra is an ex-sailor. It's all becoming clear now."
"Then I wish you would explain to me."
"Don't you see? Anchor Joe, John Munn, Fenestra, and perhaps a fourth man
must have been good friends at one time. They had their tattoos with that
phrase, _All for one, one for all_, pricked on their backs. Then Fenestra
must have done something which made the others angry. They followed him
here to get even with him."
"What makes you think that?" Louise asked dubiously.
"Anchor Joe gave us a good broad hint. Then we know that he and at least
one other man have kept watch of the Fenestra farm."
"What can the man have done to offend them?"
"I can't guess that part," admitted Penny. "Another thing, why should
Fenestra decide to have his octopus tattoo removed?"
"And who pushed John Munn off the bridge?" Louise added. "We're as much
in the dark as ever."
"Not quite," amended Penny. "I feel that if only we could get into that
storm cave, we might learn the answer to some of our questions."
"You're not thinking of investigating it tonight?"
Penny shook her head. "I can't without Dad's permission. It's a pity,
too, because I know a big story is awaiting me, if only I could go out
there and get it."
"I'm sure of one thing. We'll never dare print a word against Fenestra
without absolute proof."
"No," agreed Penny, her eyebrows knitting in a frown, "it would lead to
legal trouble."
Deciding that nothing more could be learned by waiting, the girls
returned to the parked car. Motoring toward Louise's home, they discussed
various angles of the baffling case. Confronting them always was the fact
that Peter Fenestra's reputation in Riverview was excellent, while Anchor
Joe and John Munn appeared to be persons of questionable character.
"You never learned why Joe was wanted by the authorities?" Louise
inquired, alighting at her doorstep.
"No, I haven't seen Mr. Moyer since that day at the cottage. I'm
reasonably sure Joe is still at liberty."
"He may be the one at the bottom of all the trouble," declared Louise.
"We tend to suspect Fenestra of evil doing because we dislike him so
heartily."
"That's so, Lou. The best way is to have no opinions and wait for facts.
But waiting wears me to a frazzle!"
After parting from her chum, Penny did not drive home. Instead, she
turned into Drexel Boulevard, and presently was ringing the doorbell of
the Judson home.
The door was opened by Matthew Judson. Penny had not expected to meet the
former publisher. Somewhat confusedly she inquired for Pauletta.
"My daughter isn't here now," replied Mr. Judson. "I expect her home
within a few minutes. Won't you wait?"
"No, thank you," Penny declined. "I'll drop in some other time."
"I wish you would stay," urged Mr. Judson. "I find an empty house so
depressing."
Penny hesitated, and then followed the former publisher to the living
room. Mr. Judson had been reading the newspaper. He swept it from a chair
so that the girl could sit opposite him.
"Tell me how you are getting on with your newspaper," he urged in a
friendly tone.
Penny talked entertainingly, relating the various difficulties which
beset a young publisher.
"I've even received threatening notes," she revealed. "Or rather, one. I
think it was left on my desk by a man named Peter Fenestra."
"Fenestra?" Mr. Judson's face darkened.
"Yes," answered Penny, watching the publisher attentively. "Do you know
him?"
"Only by reputation. He's a scoundrel!" His voice grew quite intense.
"Can you tell me anything definite against him?"
"No--no, I can't. I only advise you to have nothing whatsoever to do with
him."
The telephone rang and Mr. Judson arose to answer it. During his absence,
Penny thought swiftly. Dared she mention the clipping which she had found
in the publisher's desk? She did not wish to antagonize him, yet there
were many questions she longed to ask.
Mr. Judson presently returned. Penny decided to risk his anger.
Casually she introduced the subject by mentioning that she was using Mr.
Judson's former office and desk as her own.
"Yesterday I came upon a clipping caught beneath the lower drawer," she
said quietly. "It concerned a man named Matthew Jewel. He bore a striking
resemblance to you."
The publisher raised his eyes to stare intently at Penny. His hands
gripped the chair arms so hard that the knuckles became a bluish-white.
Splotches of red appeared on his forehead.
"Matthew Jewel?" he murmured at last.
"Yes, Mr. Judson, but you have nothing to fear from me. I shall not
expose you."
"Then you know?"
"The likeness was unmistakable. I read the clipping, too."
The publisher arose, nervously walking to the fireplace. His hands
trembled as he fingered an ornament on the shelf.
"I searched everywhere for that clipping when I cleaned out my desk," he
mumbled. "I've gone through every imaginable torture fearing it would be
found. And now I am to be exposed!"
"But I assure you I have no intention of telling anyone," said Penny
earnestly. "Your past is your own."
"A man's past never is his own," responded Mr. Judson bitterly.
"I shouldn't have mentioned it. I hoped I might be able to help you."
"You haven't told Pauletta?"
"No, nor any other person."
Mr. Judson's tenseness relaxed slightly. He paced across the room and
back, then faced Penny.
"All my life," he said very quietly, "I have tried to spare Pauletta the
knowledge that her father was--a convict. I haven't much to offer, but
I'll give anything within reason to keep the story out of the paper."
"You don't understand," interrupted Penny. "I have no intention of
printing the information, or of telling anyone. I want nothing from you.
But I do wish you would tell me the true story. I am sure there were
extenuating circumstances."
Mr. Judson sagged into an armchair. "None," he said. "None whatsoever. I
used money which did not belong to me. My wife was desperately sick at
the time and I wanted her to have the care of specialists. She died while
I was serving my sentence."
"Why, you did have a reason for taking the money," said Penny kindly.
"You should have been granted a pardon."
"A theft is a theft. When I left prison, I made a new start here, and
devoted myself to Pauletta who was then a little girl."
"How old was she?" inquired Penny.
Mr. Judson gave no indication that he heard the question. He resumed:
"The truth had been kept from Pauletta. She believes that I was abroad
during those years I spent in prison. Here in Riverview I prospered,
people were kind to me. I made money and made it honestly. The future was
very bright until a year ago."
"Then you gave up your newspaper," commented Penny. "Why?"
"Can't you guess?"
"Blackmail?"
Mr. Judson nodded. "One day a man came to me, a man I had known in
prison. He threatened to expose me unless I paid him a large sum of
money."
"And you agreed?"
"I did."
"Wasn't that rather foolish? People would have been charitable if you had
admitted the truth."
"I considered it from every angle, particularly from Pauletta's
standpoint. I gave the man what he asked, although it cost me the
_Morning Press_. But that was not the end."
"He still bothers you?"
"Yes, I'll pay as long as I have a penny. I've thought of taking Pauletta
and going away, but he would trace me."
"Who is the man, Mr. Judson?"
"I can't tell you."
"Is it either Anchor Joe Landa or Peter Fenestra?"
Mr. Judson's face did not alter. "I can't tell you," he repeated.
"I wish you would talk to Dad," Penny said after a moment. "He might be
able to help you."
"No," returned Mr. Judson, growing agitated again, "you gave your promise
that you would not tell."
"Of course, I'll keep it," responded Penny. "It does seem to me, though,
that the easiest thing would be to admit the truth and be rid of the man
who robs you. Pauletta would understand."
Mr. Judson shook his head. "I have made my decision," he said. "As long
as I can, I shall abide by it."
There was nothing Penny could do but bid Mr. Judson good evening and
leave the house. His secret troubled her. If he had told her the entire
truth, it seemed very foolish of him to meet the demands of a
blackmailer.
"I wonder if Mr. Judson did tell me everything?" she mused. "I had a
feeling that he was keeping something back."
The car rolled into the driveway of the Parker home. As Penny jumped out
to open the garage doors, a man, who had been sitting on the back
doorstep, arose. His face was hidden, but she knew it was not her father.
"Who is it?" she called uneasily.
The voice was reassuring. "It's Horney, Miss Penny. I've been waitin' for
you."
"What brings you here?" she asked, hurrying to meet him. "I hope nothing
bad has happened at the _Times_."
"Everything's fine there. I've got a letter I thought you would want to
see right away. Found it tonight when I was sweeping up. It answers a lot
of questions you've been askin'."
Penny took the paper from Old Horney's gnarled hand. "Not about Matthew
Judson?" she asked.
"Read it and you'll see," encouraged the pressman. "Judson was
blackmailed just as I always thought. And by the man who signed this
letter."
CHAPTER
23
_PENNY'S PLIGHT_
It was too dark for Penny to read the letter. Stepping to the car, she
switched on the headlights and held the paper in its brilliant beam.
The letter read:
Dear Matthew:
Sorry to bother you again, Old Pal, but I know you're always willing to
give an old buddy and cellmate a helping hand. I don't want to tip off
the New York cops where you are, and you can trust me to keep mum if you
come through with another six thousand. This is my last request.
Peter F.
"Peter Fenestra!" exclaimed Penny. "And it's no surprise either! Horney,
where did you find this letter?"
"It was in a pile of rubbish down in the basement. I don't know how it
got there."
"Peter Fenestra has a habit of leaving notes on Mr. Judson's desk,"
declared Penny. "This one may have blown off and been swept out without
the publisher seeing it!"
"Don't you figure it's a blackmail attempt?"
"Of course it is, Horney. You've not shown the letter to anyone?"
"Only to you. From the threat I dope it out that Judson was sent to
prison years ago, and he's still wanted."
Penny nodded as she placed the letter in her pocketbook. His guess was a
shrewd one, but she could tell him nothing without breaking her promise
to Mr. Judson.
"Horney," she said, "a great deal hinges upon this letter. You'll not
tell anyone what you've learned?"
"Oh, I'll keep it to myself. I'm not one to get Judson into trouble. He's
had enough of it already."
Penny noticed that her father's car was not in the garage. She reasoned
that since he had not come home he must be working late at the _Star_
office as he frequently did.
"Jump in, Horney," she invited, swinging wide the car door. "I'm going
downtown to find Dad. I'll give you a ride."
She was grateful that the pressman had little to say as they sped through
dimly lighted residential streets.
How much he suspected she could only guess. But the letter had made it
clear to her that the former publisher never had completed his prison
sentence.
"That was why he didn't answer me when I asked about Pauletta's age!" she
thought. "He must have escaped from prison soon after he was sent there!"
No longer did Penny wonder why Mr. Judson had not refused Peter
Fenestra's repeated demands for money. Obviously he had feared a far
worse fate than exposure--return to the New York state prison.
The car turned into the deserted _Star_ loading dock. Few lights were
visible in the building, for the day staff had gone home and only the
scrub women were at work. Penny could not see the windows of her father's
office from the street. Nor did she observe a man who slouched against a
wall, not far from where the car had stopped.
Old Horney stepped from the running board, thanking Penny for the ride.
"Guess I'll amble up the street and get a cup of coffee."
"You'll be sure not to mention the letter?" Penny reminded him.
"I won't tell a soul. You know, I was thinkin' about it as we rode
downtown. Peter Fenestra came into the office a couple of times just
before Judson closed the plant. He was a dirty blackmailer, all right!
Wouldn't that letter I gave you be enough to send him up?"
"I should think so, Horney. But the problem is how to take care of him
without ruining Mr. Judson."
"Better show the letter to your father," advised the pressman. "Maybe
he'll have some ideas."
Tipping his hat, Old Horney moved briskly away.
Penny entered the rear vestibule, speaking to three scrub women who were
locking up their cleaning equipment before leaving the building. Not even
the elevator man was on duty, so she climbed the stairs. Switching on a
light in the newsroom, she passed through it to her father's office.
The room was dark.
"Not here," thought Penny. "I was afraid of it."
Deciding to telephone home, she entered one of the glass enclosed booths
at the end of the newsroom. As she lifted the receiver, a voice from
behind her said distinctly:
"Put that down!"
Startled, Penny whirled around. Peter Fenestra stood in the doorway of
the booth.
"Come out of there!" he ordered harshly.
Penny obeyed with alacrity as she tried to gather her wits. The building
was practically deserted, and Fenestra took care to stand between her and
the outside door.
"What do you want here?" she demanded coldly.
"The letter."
Penny stared at him blankly. Her astonishment was genuine.
"Don't pretend you don't know," Fenestra said harshly. "I want the letter
you and that old man were talking about."
"Oh!" Light broke upon Penny. "So you heard our conversation! You were
listening!"
"I happened to be standing in the loading dock. I know you have the
letter. Hand it over."
Penny backed a few steps away toward her father's office. "So you admit
you wrote it?" she challenged.
"I admit nothing. But I want that letter."
"You'll not get it," Penny defied him. "Peter Fenestra, you were the one
who put that warning note on my desk a few days ago! And I know why, too!
You were afraid I'd learn too much about the octopus tattoo. Well, I've
learned plenty!"
Fenestra's face became contorted with rage. He choked, "You've been down
in the cave!" and started toward Penny.
Thoroughly frightened, she eluded his grasp. Running into her father's
office, she slammed the door. Bracing her body against it, she managed to
turn the key before Fenestra could force it open.
"Come out of there!" he shouted furiously. "Come out, I say!"
"And I say I won't!" retorted Penny. "Just try to get in!"
She pushed her father's heavy desk across the room, placing it in front
of the door.
Fenestra rattled the handle several times, and threw his body against the
panel once or twice. Then she heard footsteps as he walked away.
"That's only a trick to get me to come out," thought Penny. "I won't be
stupid enough to fall into his trap. I'll stay right here."
Walking to the window, she gazed down. Cars were passing along the
street. If she shouted for help someone might hear her. However, to
explain her predicament would be rather awkward.
Penny's gaze fell upon the telephone which had fallen from the desk to
the floor. Picking it up, she dialed the number of her own house. Mrs.
Weems answered.
"Hello," said Penny cheerfully, "Dad hasn't come home yet by any chance?"
"He's just now driving into the garage," the housekeeper replied. "I'll
call him."
A moment later Penny heard her father's voice at the other end of the
wire.
"Dad," she said, "I'm down at your office, sitting behind some barbed
wire entanglements. I wish you'd get a policeman and see what you can do
about rescuing me."
"Is this one of your jokes?" Mr. Parker demanded.
Fearful that her father would hang up the receiver, Penny talked fast and
to the point. Mr. Parker assured her he would come without a moment's
delay.
"I guess that will teach Peter Fenestra not to get funny with me!" she
congratulated herself. "It pays to do a little thinking. Fenestra will be
arrested, and then I'll drive out and learn what he hides in his cave."
Penny sniffed the air. She could smell smoke, and she thought it must be
coming from a cigarette. Evidently Fenestra had stolen to the door and
was patiently waiting for her to emerge.
"He'll have a long wait," she chuckled.
Gradually her elation died. The odor of smoke had grown stronger. She saw
a wisp of it filter beneath the door crack. Penny's heart caught in her
throat. Tensely she listened. Was it imagination or could she hear the
crackle of flames?
"Fenestra may be burning the papers of a scrap basket just to smoke me
out," she thought. "Probably that's just what he's doing."
Pulling the heavy desk away from the door, she stood with her ear against
the panel. Distinctly she could hear the crackle of flames. The wood felt
warm to her cheek.
Suddenly Penny was afraid. Frantically she turned the key in the lock.
The door swung outward to the pressure of her shoulder. A wave of heat
rushed in.
Penny staggered backward, horrified by the sight which met her eyes. At
the end of the newsroom, where the exit should have been, rose a towering
barrier of flames.
CHAPTER
24
_A BARRIER OF FLAMES_
Escape through the newsroom was cut off. Panic seized Penny, but only for
an instant. Retreating, she telephoned the fire department. Then finding
a chemical extinguisher, she began fighting the flames.
Black, rolling smoke billowed into her face, choking and blinding her.
The heat drove her back.
From far down the street came the wail of a siren. Penny rushed to a
window. A pumper and a hook-and-ladder truck swung around the corner,
lurching to a stop.
Raising the sash, she stepped out onto the ledge, waving to the men
below.
"Stay where you are!" shouted a fireman. "We'll get you!"
A ladder shot up, but Penny did not wait to be carried to safety. Before
a fireman could mount, she scrambled down with the agility of a monkey.
"The fire started in the newsroom," she gasped. "But it's already spread
into the composing department."
"Anyone else in the building?"
"I don't think so. There were three scrub women, but they're probably out
now."
Lines of hose were stretched to the hydrants, and streams of water began
to play on the flames. A crowd, following in the wake of the fire
engines, was ordered back by the police. One young man broke through,
darting to Penny's side.
"Jerry!" she exclaimed.
"Gosh, how did it start?" he demanded. "Why, Penny, your hair is singed!"
"I was in it," she said briefly. "I can't explain now, but the fire was
started by Peter Fenestra."
"On purpose?"
"I don't know about that. He was smoking a cigarette."
"Have you told the police?"
"Not yet. I'm waiting for Dad."
A car inched through the crowd, stopping a few yards away. Mr. Parker
leaped out and ran toward the burning building. He was stopped at the
entrance by a fireman.
"Let me in there!" the publisher shouted, trying to free himself. "My
daughter's inside!"
"No, here I am, Dad!" Penny cried, grasping his hand.
Mr. Parker said no word, but he pulled her to him in a rough embrace. The
next moment he was trying once more to enter the building, intending to
save important papers.
"Take it easy, Parker," advised the fireman, barring the door with his
hose. "The smoke's bad in there."
"Will the building go?"
"We'll save most of it," the fireman assured him confidently.
Penny plucked at her father's sleeve. "Dad, oughtn't the police be sent
after Peter Fenestra? He's responsible for this, and a lot of other
things, too!"
"You mean Fenestra set the fire?"
Above the roar of flames, Penny tersely disclosed how the man had
compelled her to take refuge in the inner office room. Jerry also heard
the story, and when she had finished, he said to Mr. Parker:
"Chief, let me take a couple of policemen and nail that fellow! Maybe we
can arrest him at the farm before he makes a get-away."
"Go ahead," urged Mr. Parker.
"I'm going along," declared Penny, and darted away before her father
could stop her.
Twenty minutes later, with a police cruiser dispatched to Fenestra's
place, she and Jerry drove there in Mr. Parker's car. Parking some
distance down the road, they walked cautiously toward the farmhouse which
loomed dark against the sky. No lights burned in the windows. The grounds
appeared deserted.
"Looks as if Fenestra isn't here," observed Jerry. "No use waiting for
the police."
Boldly going to the front door he pounded on it, ordering in a loud
voice: "Open up!"
"He's not here," said Penny after a moment. "Unless perhaps he's hiding."
"The place looks deserted to me."
Penny glanced toward the storm cave, remembering that she had the key to
the padlock in her pocket. Jerry read her thought, and followed as she
went quickly toward the mound.
"It's locked," he said, indicating the padlock.
"Here's the key." Eagerly Penny offered it to Jerry. "I'm sure this must
be the one."
The reporter gave her a flashlight to hold while he tried to fit the key
into the lock.
"It's no go, Penny."
"But I was so sure, Jerry." She stooped to examine the padlock. "Well, no
wonder! It's been changed."
"Then we're out of luck until the police get here."
"Isn't there any way we can open it ourselves?"
"Maybe I can break it."
"There should be tools in the barn, Jerry."
"I'll see what I can find."
Leaving Penny, the reporter disappeared in the direction of the barn.
Extinguishing the flashlight, she patiently waited.
Suddenly she was startled to hear running footsteps. Barely had she
crouched behind the storm cave before a man emerged from among the pine
trees adjoining the road. It was Peter Fenestra and he was breathing
hard.
Straight toward the cave he ran. Pausing at the slanting door, he peered
quickly about, and then fumbled with the padlock. In desperate haste he
jerked it loose, swung back the hinged door, and descended the stone
steps.
Penny waited a moment, then crept to the entrance.
Fenestra had not taken time to lower the door behind him. A light shone
from an underground room at one side of the main passageway, and she
could hear the man's heavy boots scuffing on a cement floor.
Penny considered going after Jerry and decided against it. Fenestra's
frantic haste suggested that he might not linger long in the cave. What
could he be doing beneath ground?
With Jerry so near, she felt that it would not be too dangerous to
investigate. Warily she tiptoed down the steps.
A low, rounding doorway opened from the descending passage. Peering into
the dimly lighted room, Penny did not immediately see Peter Fenestra.
Instead her gaze roved about the walls of what appeared to be a workshop.
Tools were neatly arranged over a bench, while a cupboard of shelves
contained miscellaneous mechanical parts.
At the far end of the cave stood an urn-like contrivance which the girl
took to be an electric furnace. An armored cable ran from it to a heavy
wall switch having two blades and a sizable wooden handle. Plainly it was
designed to carry a very heavy current.
Peter Fenestra came from behind the furnace. Penny saw him throw the
switch. Almost immediately she heard a low hissing sound from the
interior of the metal oven. Slowly the furnace heated, and soon glowed
weirdly.
As she pondered what the man could be intending to do, she heard a slight
sound at the stairway entrance. Thinking that Jerry had returned, she
started up the steps. Not one figure but three loomed in the doorway!
Penny flattened herself against the dirt wall. But she could not avoid
being seen. A flashlight beam focused upon her, and the next instant a
revolver muzzle bit into her side.
"Keep quiet!" she was ordered in a whisper. "You won't be hurt!"
Penny stared into the grim face of Anchor Joe. Behind him came John Munn,
and a man she had never seen before. In a flash she knew why they were
there--to avenge themselves upon Peter Fenestra.
Quietly as the men had moved, they had been heard in the next room.
"Who's there?" Fenestra called sharply.
John Munn and Anchor Joe stepped into the rectangle of light, their
revolvers trained upon the man.
"Just three of your old pals, Otto," drawled Anchor Joe. "Reach!"
"Listen, Joe, you got me all wrong," Peter Fenestra whined. "I can
explain why I kept the gold. I'll give it all to you if that's what you
want. I'll do anything--don't shoot."
"Shootin' would be too good for you," retorted Anchor Joe. "We got other
plans." His face was dark with rage.
"Sure, we know how to deal with a traitor," added John Munn, deftly
whisking a revolver from Fenestra's hip pocket. "You thought you could
hide from us. You thought by changing your name, and coming to this
out-of-the-way town you could fool us. Why, you dirty rat, you even
thought you could get by with pushing me off a bridge!"
"Your greed kept you here," taunted Anchor Joe. "You couldn't bear to
leave any of those gold bars behind."
"You thought you'd melt down the last of 'em tonight and skip," added
John Munn. "You're goin' on a long trip all right, but with us!"
A pair of steel cuffs were slipped over Fenestra's wrists. Speedily, the
sailors searched the cave, gathering up several bags of what Penny
assumed to be gold.
"How about this bar?" John Munn asked his companions. "Can we handle it?"
"Too heavy," answered Anchor Joe. "With Moyer hot on our trail, we've got
to travel light. Get going and I'll follow."
Munn and his companion marched Peter Fenestra from the cave. Taking a
cord from his pocket, Anchor Joe bound Penny's hands and feet.
"I'm tying 'em loose," he said. "And I'll leave the cave door open. After
we're gone you can yell for help."
"Joe, where are you taking Fenestra? What has he done?"
The sailor did not answer. Seizing a bag of gold, he slung it over his
shoulder and went quickly up the stairs. Penny was left in the darkness.
CHAPTER
25
_SAILORS' REVENGE_
Minutes later, Jerry, returning from the barn, heard Penny's muffled
scream for help. Descending into the cave he immediately freed her and
learned what had happened.
"Fenestra used this furnace for melting down gold all right!" he
exclaimed, peering into the dark cavern. "Wonder where he got it?"
"It must be stolen gold--government gold, perhaps," gasped Penny. "Jerry,
those men have been gone only a minute or two!"
"Then maybe we can get 'em yet!"
Jerry had heard an automobile turn into the yard. Hopeful that it might
be the awaited authorities, he and Penny ran up the stone steps. To their
joy they saw that it was the police cruiser.
In terse sentences they told their story to the officers. Penny had no
idea which direction the men had gone, but the reporter recalled having
seen a group of four walking toward the river just as he had left the
barn.
With Jerry and Penny standing on the running board, the police car headed
in the direction of the Big Bear. Suddenly a series of explosive sounds
were heard, staccato noises similar to the back-firing of an automobile
exhaust.
"Shots!" exclaimed Jerry. "From the river, too!"
The car drew to a halt. The policemen leaped out and started across the
fields. Disregarding orders to remain behind, Penny and Jerry followed.
Breathlessly, they reached the rim of the river. A beam of light directed
their gaze to the opposite shore. A high-powered motor boat had pulled
away and was fast gathering speed. Flashes of gunfire from its decks were
answered by the revolvers of men on the river bank.
Shielding Penny with his body, Jerry drew her behind a tree. In a moment
as the motor boat passed beyond range, firing ceased. Then they slid down
the bank to learn what had occurred.
Penny saw that Peter Fenestra had been captured. He was handcuffed to Mr.
Moyer, and she instantly guessed that the other four men were government
operatives.
"Find a boat and start after those three sailors who got away!" Moyer
ordered his men tersely. "I'll take this fellow to town."
Penny edged forward, obtaining an excellent view of Peter Fenestra's
downcast face. Quietly she made her accusations, telling of the cave
where she had been imprisoned.
"So that was how the gold was melted down," commented Moyer.
He then explained that for days his operatives had watched the river
where they knew Anchor Joe had hidden a motorboat. Surprised in the act
of taking off, the sailors had exchanged shots with the government men,
but by abandoning Fenestra and the gold, they had escaped.
"This man's real name is Otto Franey," Moyer revealed, indicating
Fenestra. "He and the three sailors were shipmates aboard the _Dorasky_."
"They're wanted for stealing gold?" questioned Penny.
"Yes, they got away with four gold bars taken from the _Dorasky_. You
see, about a year ago a consignment of gold was shipped by a Swiss bank
to the New York Federal Reserve. Because of heavy fog the bars were
unloaded at the pier instead of being taken off at Quarantine. They were
removed in a sling and dumped on the wharf to await the mail truck."
"And the four sailors saw a chance to steal some of the bars?" questioned
Jerry.
"Yes, how they accomplished it we don't know. But hours later a mail
driver refused to sign for one of the bags because it had been slit open.
Four bars valued at approximately fourteen thousand dollars each were
missing. Investigation disclosed that a sailor, Otto Franey, had jumped
ship. A few days later Joe Landa, John Munn and Jack Guenther also
disappeared."
"Each man was marked with an octopus tattoo, wasn't he?" Penny inquired
eagerly.
"Yes, although I did not learn that until a day or so ago. Otto has been
trying to get his tattoo removed so that it would be harder to trace him.
The four sailors had their backs marked with an octopus design and words
which read, _All for one, one for all_, when put together. They were
feeling very friendly toward each other at that time."
"Then I was right!" exclaimed Penny. "And the four conspired to steal the
gold bars?"
"Otto was entrusted by his pals to dispose of the stolen gold. Instead,
he gave them the slip and tried to keep it for himself. Evidently he
rigged up a furnace and melted the metal into useable form. But the three
sailors trailed him here, determined to avenge themselves."
As Fenestra was hustled to a waiting car, Penny told Mr. Moyer everything
she knew about the prisoner, save his connection with Matthew Judson.
Deliberately she withheld information about the blackmail plot.
While the prisoner was being loaded into the government car, another
automobile drew up nearby. Recognizing Mr. Parker at the wheel, Penny and
Jerry ran to tell him the latest news.
"Full speed ahead, Chief!" exclaimed the reporter, sliding into the front
seat. "We've got a big story by the tail!"
"A lot of good it does us," responded the publisher gloomily.
"You mean the firemen failed to save the _Star_ building?" Penny asked
anxiously.
"The building's saved, but considerable damage was done by fire and
water. We can't use the plant for several days. It's enough to make a man
ill! Scooped by the opposition when the story is ours!"
"You forget the little _Weekly Times_," reminded Penny. "Old Homey has
everything ready to roll. I'm turning the plant over to you."
"To me?" Mr. Parker did not understand her meaning.
"Yes, gather your mechanical force. The plant's yours for the night."
"Penny, you're the tops!" the publisher exclaimed, starting the car with
a lurch. "Together we'll get out an extra that will be an extra!"
After that Penny lost all sense of time as events transpired with
rapidity and precision. As if by magic the staff of the _Star_ appeared
to take over the _Times_ plant. The building shook off its lethargy and
machinery began to turn.
Allowing Jerry to write the big story, Penny tried to be everywhere at
once. She fluttered at DeWitt's elbow as he drew a dummy of the front
page.
"Let's make it 96-point type," she urged. "Splashy! A double column story
with a break-over to page three."
"Anything you say," was DeWitt's surprising answer.
In the composing room, printers were locking the forms, using pages
previously made ready for the next issue of the _Weekly Times_.
Stereotypers were testing the pneumatic steam tables. Pressmen under Old
Horney's direction oiled the double-deck rotaries and tightened bolts.
At last came the moment when the starter plate was fitted into place on
the cylinder. With a half turn of a T wrench Old Horney made it secure.
"She's ready," he announced, flashing the signal light. "You push the
button, Penny."
Trembling with excitement, she started the press rolling. Faster and
faster it went. In a moment papers dropped so swiftly from the folder
that her eye could not follow. A conveyer carried them upward over the
presses to the distributing room.
Mr. Parker offered Penny a paper, smiling as he saw her stare at the
nameplate. Instead of the _Star_ it read: _The Weekly Times_.
"Why, Dad!" she exclaimed. "They've made a mistake."
"It's no mistake," he corrected. "This is your extra. Your name appears
as Managing Editor."
"So that was why DeWitt was so agreeable to all my suggestions?" she
laughed. "I might have guessed."
Later, while newsboys cried their wares, Penny and her father sat in the
private office, talking with Matthew Judson. From his own lips they
learned how he had submitted to blackmail rather than disgrace Pauletta
by returning to prison.
"Your case is a deserving one," Mr. Parker told him kindly. "I assure you
we'll never publish the story, and I'll do everything in my power to help
you obtain a pardon."
Before leaving the office, Mr. Judson promised Penny he would tell his
daughter the truth, allowing her to break her engagement to Major Atchley
if she chose.
"We'll go away somewhere," he said. "California, perhaps. Although I'll
never try to publish a paper again, at least my life will cease to be a
torment."
Alone with her father once more, Penny had two requests to make.
"Name them," he urged.
"Can you get Tillie Fellows a job?"
"Easily."
"And will you take Horney into your own plant?"
"I'll be glad to do it as soon as the _Star_ operates again. Until
remodeling work is completed I have no plant."
"Yes, you have, Dad. This building is yours if you can make arrangements
with Mr. Veeley."
"Penny! You're willing to give up the _Weekly_?"
"Willing?" she laughed. "I'm hilariously crazy to get rid of it. Matters
have reached a state where either I must abandon the paper or my
education. I've only awaited a chance to end my career in a blaze of
glory."
"A blaze expresses it very mildly," smiled Mr. Parker. "In all modesty,
let us say a conflagration!"
"Oh, why be modest?" grinned Penny. "Let's come right out and call it a
holocaust! That's the strongest word I know."
THE END
Transcriber's Notes
--Replaced the list of books in the series by the complete list, as in
the final book, "The Cry at Midnight".
--Silently corrected a handful of palpable typos.
--Conforming to later volumes, standardized on "DeWitt" as the name of
the city editor.
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