Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Charlie Howard, and the
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Signal
in the
Dark
_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, 1946, BY CUPPLES AND LEON CO.
Signal in the Dark
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
_CONTENTS_
CHAPTER PAGE
1 HELP WANTED _1_
2 EXPLOSION! _10_
3 SPECIAL ASSIGNMENT _18_
4 THE MISSING PLATES _26_
5 SHADOW ON THE SKYLIGHT _35_
6 BEN'S STORY _44_
7 MAN OVERBOARD! _52_
8 A SWINGING CHAIN _61_
9 THE METAL DISC _69_
10 COUNTRY SKIES _79_
11 A FAMILIAR CAR _87_
12 THE PROFESSOR'S HELPER _96_
13 BEHIND OFFICE DOORS _104_
14 A NOTE FROM BEN _112_
15 THE DEMONSTRATION _120_
16 SUSPICION _128_
17 MAJOR BRYAN _137_
18 A SECOND TEST _144_
19 THE LANTERN SIGNAL _153_
20 A CROOK EXPOSED _161_
21 IN SEARCH OF WEBB _170_
22 SALT'S MISSING CAMERA _178_
23 ESCAPE BY NIGHT _184_
24 A RAID ON THE _Snark_ _192_
25 PICTURE PROOF _200_
CHAPTER
1
_HELP WANTED_
"The situation is getting worse instead of better, Penny. Three of our
reporters are sick, and we're trying to run the paper with only a third
of our normal editorial staff." Anthony Parker, publisher of the
_Riverview Star_, whirled around in the swivel chair to face his daughter
who sat opposite him in the private office of the newspaper. "Frankly,
I'm up against it," he added gloomily.
Penny, a slim girl with deep, intelligent blue eyes, uncurled herself
from the window ledge. Carefully, she dusted her brown wool skirt which
had picked up a cobweb and streaks of dirt.
"You could use a janitor around here too," she hinted teasingly. "How
about hiring me?"
"As queen of the dustmop brigade?"
"As a reporter," Penny corrected. "I'm serious, Dad. You're desperate for
employes. I'm desperate for spending money. I have three weeks school
vacation coming up, so why not strike a bargain?"
"The paper needs experienced workers, Penny."
"Precisely."
"You're a very good writer," Mr. Parker admitted. "In fact, in months
past you turned in some of the best feature stories the _Star_ ever
printed. But always they were special assignments. We must have a
reporter who can work a daily, eight-hour grind and be depended upon to
handle routine stories with speed, accuracy and efficiency."
"And you think I am not what the doctor ordered?"
"I think," corrected Mr. Parker, "that you would blow your pretty little
top by the end of the second day. For instance, it's not easy nor
pleasant to write obituaries. Yet it must be done, and accurately. On
this paper, a new reporter is expected to do rewrites and other tedious
work. You wouldn't like it, Penny."
"I'd take it neatly in my stride, Dad. Why not try me and see?"
Mr. Parker shook his head and began to read the three-star edition of the
paper, its ink still damp from the press.
"Give me one sound, logical reason for turning me down," Penny persisted.
"Very well. You are my daughter. Our editors might feel that they were
compelled to treat you with special consideration--give you the best
assignments--handle you with kid gloves."
"You could take care of that matter easily enough."
"If they took my instructions seriously, you might not like it," the
newspaper owner warned. "A reporter learns hard and bitter lessons. Mr.
DeWitt, for instance, is a fine editor--our best, but he has a temper
and--"
The frosted glass door swung open and an elderly, slightly bald man in
shirt sleeves slouched in. Seeing Penny, he would have retreated, had not
Mr. Parker called him back.
"What's on your mind, DeWitt?"
"Trouble," growled the editor. "That no-good, addle-brained boy we hired
as night police reporter, just blew up! Said it was too confining to sit
in a police station all night waiting for something to happen! So he gets
himself a job in a canning factory! Now we're another employee short."
"Dad, let me take over the night police job!" Penny pleaded.
Both her father and Mr. DeWitt smiled as if suffering from intense pain.
"Penny," Mr. Parker explained gently. "Night police work isn't suitable
for a girl. Furthermore, it is one of the most undesirable jobs on a
paper."
"But I want to work somewhere, and you're so stubborn!"
Mr. DeWitt studied Penny with concentrated interest. Hope flickered in
his eyes. Turning abruptly to Mr. Parker he asked: "Why not, Chief? We
could use her on the desk for rewrite. We're mighty hard up, and that's a
fact."
"What about the personnel problem?" Mr. Parker frowned. "How would the
staff take it?"
"Some of the reporters might not like it," Mr. DeWitt admitted, "but
who's running this paper anyhow?"
"I often wonder," sighed Mr. Parker.
Detecting signs of a weakening, Penny appealed to Mr. DeWitt. "Wouldn't I
be a help to you if I were on the staff?" she urged.
"Why, sure," he agreed cautiously.
"There, you see, Dad! Mr. DeWitt wants me!"
"Penny, it's a personnel problem," her father explained with growing
impatience. "The other reporters might not consider you a welcome
addition to the staff. You would expect favors."
"I never would!"
"We need her," said Mr. DeWitt significantly. "We really do."
With two against him, Mr. Parker suddenly gave in.
"All right," he agreed. "Penny, we'll put you on as a cub reporter. That
means you'll start as a beginner with a beginner's salary and do routine
work until you've proved your merit. You'll expect no special
consideration. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly!" Grinning from ear to ear, Penny would have agreed to
anything.
"Furthermore, if the work gets you down, I won't have you coming to me
asking for a change."
"I'll never darken your office door, Dad. Just one question. How much
money does a beginner get?"
"Twenty-five dollars."
Penny's face was a blank.
"It will be more than you are worth the first few weeks," Mr. Parker
said.
"I'll take it," Penny declared hastily. "When do I start?"
"Right now," decided her father. "DeWitt, introduce her to the staff, and
put her to work."
Feeling highly elated but a trifle self-conscious, Penny followed Editor
DeWitt past the photography studio and the A.P. wire room to the main
newsroom where reporters were tapping at their typewriters.
"Gang," said Mr. DeWitt in an all inclusive introduction. "This is Penny
Parker. She'll be working here for a few weeks."
Heads lifted and appraising eyes focused upon her. Nearly everyone nodded
and smiled, but one girl who sat at the far end of a long typewriter
table regarded her with an intent, almost hostile stare. And as luck
would have it, Mr. DeWitt assigned Penny to the typewriter adjoining
hers.
"This is Elda Hunt," he introduced her. "Show Penny the ropes, will you?"
The girl, a blonde, with heavily-rouged cheeks, patted the rigid rolls of
her hair into place. Staring at Mr. DeWitt, she answered not a word.
"I'll have a lot to learn," Penny said, trying to make friendly
conversation.
Elda shrugged. "You're the publisher's daughter, aren't you?" she
inquired.
"Yes."
"Then I don't think you'll have too hard a time," the girl drawled.
Penny started to reply, but thought better of it. Seating herself beside
Elda, she unhooded the typewriter, rolled a sheet of copy paper into it,
and experimented with the keys.
The main newsroom was a confusion of sound. Although work was being
handled with dispatch, there was an air of tension, for press time on the
five-star edition was drawing close. Telephones were ringing, and Editor
DeWitt, who sat at the head of the big rectangular desk, tersely assigned
reporters to take the incoming calls. Not far from Penny's ear, the
police shortwave radio blared. Copy boys ran to and fro.
Benny Jewell, the assistant editor, tossed her a handful of typewritten
sheets.
"Take these handouts and make 'em into shorts," he instructed briefly.
"Handouts?" Penny asked in bewilderment. "Shorts?"
"Cut the stories to a paragraph or two each."
"Oh," said Penny, catching on. "You want me to rewrite them."
At her elbow, Elda openly snickered.
Color stained Penny's cheeks, but she quietly read the first sheet, which
was an account of a meeting to be held the following week. Picking out
the most important facts, she boiled the story down to two short
paragraphs, and dropped the finished copy into the editor's wire basket.
Only then did Elda speak. "You're supposed to make two carbons of every
story you write," she said pityingly.
The girl might have told her sooner, Penny thought. However, she thanked
her politely, and finding carbon paper, rewrote the story. In her
nervousness she inserted one of the carbons upside down, ruining the
impression. As she removed the sheets from the machine, she saw what she
had done. Elda saw too, and smiled in a superior way.
"She dislikes me intensely," Penny thought. "I wonder why? I've not done
a thing to her."
Aware that she had wasted paper and valuable time, Penny recopied the
story a third time and turned it in to the editor. After that, she
rewrote the additional stories with fairly good speed. By watching other
reporters she learned that the carbon copies were speared on spindles
which at intervals a copy boy collected and carried away.
A telephone rang, and this time, Mr. DeWitt, looking straight at Penny,
said: "An obituary. Will you take it?"
She went to the phone and copied down the facts carefully, knowing that
while death notices were routine, they were of vital interest to readers
of the paper. Any mistake of fact could prove serious.
Returning to her typewriter, she wrote the item. But after she had turned
it in, Mr. DeWitt called her to his desk. He was pleasant but firm.
"What day are services to be held?" he asked. "Who are the survivors?
Where did the woman die? Furthermore, we never use the word 'Funeral
Home'. Instead, we say 'mortuary'."
Penny telephoned for more information, and finally after rewriting the
notice twice more, succeeded in getting it past Mr. DeWitt. But as he
tossed the story to a copy reader, she saw that he had pencilled several
changes.
"There's more to writing routine stories than I thought," she reflected.
"I'll really have to dig in unless I want to disgrace Dad."
Penny was given another obituary to write which proved nearly as
difficult as the first. Hopelessly discouraged, she started for the rest
room to get a drink and wash her hands.
As she entered the lounge, voices reached her ears, and instantly she
realized that Elda Hunt was talking to another girl reporter about her.
"The publisher's daughter!" she heard her say scathingly. "As if we
aren't having a hard enough time here, without having to coddle her
along!"
"I didn't think she seemed so bad," the other replied. "She'll catch on."
"She'll be promoted over all our heads if that's what you mean!" Elda
retorted bitterly. "I know for a fact, she's starting at fifty a week,
and no experience! If you ask me, it's unfair! We should walk out of
here, and see how those fine editors would like that!"
CHAPTER
2
_EXPLOSION!_
Penny's first thought was to accost the two girls and correct the
misstatements. But sober reflection convinced her she could make no
graver mistake. Far better, she reasoned, to ignore the entire matter.
She quickly washed her hands, purposely making enough noise to draw
attention to her presence. Elda and her friend became silent. A moment
later, coming through the inner door of the powder room, they saw her,
but offered no comment. Penny hastily returned to the newsroom.
For the remainder of the day she worked with deep concentration, only
dimly aware of what went on about her. Seemingly there were endless
numbers of obituaries to write. Telephones rang constantly. Work was
never finished, for as soon as one edition was off the press, another was
in the making.
Now and then Penny caught herself glancing toward an empty desk at the
far corner of the room. Jerry Livingston had sat there until a year ago
when he had been granted a leave of absence to join the Army Air Force.
Unquestionably the _Star's_ most talented reporter, he had been Penny's
best friend.
"I wish Jerry were here," she thought wistfully. "But if he were, he'd
tell me to buckle down and not let this job lick me! Dad warned me it
would be hard, monotonous work."
Penny worked with renewed energy. After awhile she began to feel that she
was making definite progress. Mr. Jewell, the assistant editor, made
fewer corrections as he read over her copy, and now and then she actually
saw him nod approvingly. Once when she turned in a rewritten
"hand-out"--a publicity story which had been sent to the paper in
unusable form--he praised her for giving it a fresh touch.
"Good lead," he commented. "You're coming along all right."
Elda heard the praise and her eyes snapped angrily. At her typewriter,
she slammed the carriage. No one noticed except Penny. A moment later,
Mr. DeWitt called Elda to his desk, saying severely:
"Watch the spelling of names, Elda. This is the third one we've checked
you on today. Don't you ever consult the city directory?"
"Of course I do!" Elda was indignant.
"Well, watch it," Mr. DeWitt said again. "We must have accuracy."
With a swish of skirts, Elda went back to her desk. Her face was as dark
as a thunder cloud. Deliberately she dawdled over her next piece of copy.
After she had turned it in, she returned to the editor's desk to take it
from the wire basket and make additional corrections.
"Just being extra careful of names," she said arrogantly as the assistant
editor shot her a quick, inquiring glance.
Thinking no more of the incident, Penny kept on with her own work. She
took special care with names, even looking up in the city directory those
of which she was almost certain. When she turned in a piece of copy, she
was satisfied that not a name or fact was inaccurate.
Late in the afternoon, she noticed that Mr. DeWitt and Mr. Jewell
appeared displeased about a story they had found in the Five Star edition
of the paper. After reading it, they talked together, and then sorted
through a roll of discarded copy, evidently searching for the original.
Finally, Mr. DeWitt called:
"Miss Parker!"
Wondering what she had done wrong, Penny went quickly to his desk.
"You wrote this story?" he asked, jabbing a pencil at one of the printed
obituaries.
"Why, yes," Penny acknowledged. "Is anything wrong with it?"
"Only that you've buried the wrong man," DeWitt said sarcastically.
"Where did you get that name?"
Penny felt actually sick, and her skin prickled with heat. She stared at
the story in print. It said that John Gorman had died that morning in
Mercy Hospital.
"The man who died was John Borman," DeWitt said grimly. "It happens that
John Gorman is one of the city's most prominent industrialists. We've
made the correction, but it was too late to catch two-thirds of the
papers."
Penny stared again at the name, her mind working slowly.
"But Mr. DeWitt," she protested. "I don't think I wrote it that way. I
knew the correct name was Borman. I'm sure that was how I turned it in."
"Maybe you hit a wrong letter on the typewriter," the editor said less
severely. "That's why one always should read over a story after it's
written."
"But I did that too," Penny said, and then bit her lip, because she
realized she was arguing about the matter.
"We'll look at the carbons," decided Mr. DeWitt.
They had been taken from the spindles by copy boys, but the editor
ordered the entire day's work returned to his desk. Pawing through the
sheets, he came to the one Penny had written. Swiftly he compared it with
the original copy.
"You're right!" he exclaimed in amazement. "The carbons show you wrote
the name John Borman, not Gorman."
"I knew I did!"
"But the copy that was turned into the basket said John Gorman. Didn't
you change it on the first sheet?"
"Indeed I didn't, Mr. DeWitt."
Scowling, the editor compared the two copies. Obviously on the original
sheet, a neat erasure had been made, and a typewritten letter _G_ had
been substituted for _B_.
"There's something funny about this," Mr. DeWitt said. "Mighty funny!"
His gaze roved about the typewriter table, focusing for an instant upon
Elda who had been listening intently to the conversation. "Never mind,"
he added to Penny. "We'll look into this."
Later, she saw him showing the copy sheets to the assistant editor.
Seemingly, the two men were deeply puzzled as to how the error had been
made. Penny had her own opinion.
"Elda did it," she thought resentfully. "I'll wager she removed the sheet
from the wire basket when she pretended to be making a correction on her
own story!"
Having no proof, Penny wisely kept her thoughts to herself. But she knew
that in the future she must take double precautions to guard against
other tricks to discredit her.
At the end of the day, the newsroom rapidly emptied. One by one,
reporters covered their typewriters and left the building. A few of the
girls remained, among them, Penny and Elda. Editor DeWitt was putting on
his hat when the telephone rang.
Absently he reached for it and then straightened to alert attention.
Grabbing a sheet of copy paper, he scrawled a few words. Eyes focused
upon him, for instinctively everyone knew that something important had
happened.
DeWitt hung up the receiver, his eyes staring into space for an instant.
Then he seized the telephone again and called the composing room.
"Hold the paper!" he ordered tersely. "We're making over the front page!"
The news was electrifying, for only a story of the greatest importance
would bring an order to stop the thundering presses once they had started
to roll.
Calling the photography room, DeWitt demanded: "Is Salt Sommers still
there? Tell him to grab his camera and get over to the Conway Steel Plant
in double-quick time! There's been a big explosion! They think it's
sabotage!"
The editor's harassed gaze then wandered over the little group of
remaining reporters. Elda pushed toward the desk.
"You want me to go over there, Chief?" she demanded eagerly.
DeWitt did not appear to hear her. Seizing the telephone once more, he
tried without success to get two of the men reporters who had left the
office only a few minutes earlier.
Slamming down the receiver, his gloomy gaze focused upon Elda for an
instant. But he passed her by.
"Miss Parker!"
Penny was beside him in a flash.
"Ride with Salt Sommers to the Conway Plant!" he ordered tersely. "Two
men have been reported killed in the explosion! Get everything you can
and hold on until relieved!"
Seizing hat and purse, Penny made a dash for the stairway. No need for
DeWitt to tell her that this was a big story! Because all the other
reporters except Elda were gone, she had been given the assignment! But
could she make good?
"This is my chance!" she thought jubilantly. "DeWitt probably thinks I'll
fold up, but I'll prove to him I can get the facts as well as one of his
seasoned reporters."
Penny was well acquainted with Salt Sommers, who next to Jerry Livingston
was her best friend. Reaching the ground floor, she saw his battered car
starting away from the curb.
"Salt!" she shouted. "Wait!"
The photographer halted and swung open the car door. She slid in beside
him.
"What are you doing here, Penny?" he demanded, shifting gears.
"I'm your little assistant," Penny broke the news gently. "I just started
to work on the paper."
"And DeWitt assigned you to this story?"
"He couldn't help himself. Nearly everyone else had left the office."
The car whirled around a corner and raced through a traffic light just as
it turned amber. Suddenly from far away, there came a dull explosion
which rocked the pavement. Salt and Penny stared at each other with alert
comprehension.
"That was at the Conway Plant!" the photographer exclaimed, pushing his
foot hard on the gas pedal. "Penny, we've got a real assignment ahead of
us!"
CHAPTER
3
_SPECIAL ASSIGNMENT_
Darkness shrouded the streets as the press car careened toward the
outskirts of the city where the Conway Steel Plant was situated. Rattling
over the river bridge, Salt and Penny caught their first glimpse of the
factory.
Flames were shooting high into the sky from one of the buildings, and
employes poured in panic through the main gate. No policemen were yet in
evidence, nor had the fire department arrived.
Pulling up at the curb, Salt seized his camera and stuffed a handful of
flashbulbs into his pockets. Grabbing Penny's elbow, he steered her
toward the gate. To get through the barrier, they fought their way past
the outsurging, panic-stricken tide of fleeing employes.
"Scared?" Salt asked as they paused to stare at the shooting flames.
"A little," Penny admitted truthfully. "Will there be any more
explosions?"
"That's the chance we're taking. DeWitt shouldn't have sent you on this
assignment!"
"He couldn't know there would be other explosions," Penny replied.
"Besides, someone had to cover the story, and no one else was there. I
can handle it."
"I think you can too," said Salt quietly. "But you'll have to work alone.
My job is to take pictures."
"I'll meet you at the car," Penny threw over her shoulder as she left
him.
Scarcely knowing how or where to begin, she ran toward the burning
building. One of the smaller storage structures of the factory, it was
not connected with the main office. The larger building remained intact.
Workmen with an inadequate hose were making a frantic effort to keep the
flames from spreading to the other structures.
Penny ran up to one of the men, plucking at his sleeve to command
attention.
"What set off the explosion?" she shouted in his ear.
"Don't know," he replied above the roar of the flames.
"Anyone killed?"
"Two workmen. They're over there." The man waved his hand vaguely toward
another building.
Unable to gain more information, Penny ran toward the nearby structure.
The wind, she noted, was carrying flames in the opposite direction.
Unless there were further explosions, danger of the fire spreading was
not great.
Entering the building, she met several men who appeared to be officials
of the company.
"I'm looking for Mr. Conway!" she accosted them. "Is he here?"
"Who are you?" one of the men asked bluntly.
"I'm Penny Parker from the _Star_."
"My name is Conway. What do you want to know?"
"How many killed and injured?"
"Two killed. Three or four injured. Perhaps more. We don't know yet."
Penny asked for names which were given her. But when she inquired how the
explosion had occurred, Mr. Conway suddenly became uncommunicative.
"I have no statement to make," he said curtly. "We don't know what caused
the trouble."
As if fearing that Penny would ask questions he did not wish to answer,
the factory owner eluded her and disappeared into the darkness.
Running back to the burning building, Penny caught a glimpse of Salt
taking a picture. From another workman she sought to glean additional
details of the disaster.
"I was in the foundry when the first blast went off!" he revealed. "Just
a minute before the explosion, I seen a man in a light overcoat and a
dark hat, run from the building."
"Who was he?"
"No one I ever saw workin' at this plant. But I'll warrant, he touched
off that explosion!"
"Then you think he was a saboteur?"
"Sure."
Penny did not place too much stock in the story, but as she wandered
about among the excited employes, she heard others saying that they too
had seen the strange man running from the building. No one knew his name
nor could they provide an accurate description.
Sirens screamed, proclaiming the arrival of fire engines. As the ladders
went up, and streams of water began to play on the blazing structure,
Salt snapped several more pictures. His hat was gone, and his face had
become streaked with soot.
"I got some good shots!" he told Penny enthusiastically as he sought her
at the fringe of the crowd. "What luck you having?"
Penny told him everything she had learned.
"We'll talk with the Fire Chief and then let's head for a telephone and
call the office," Salt declared.
As they started toward the fire lines, a strange sound accosted their
ears. Hearing it, Salt stopped short to listen. From the gates outside
the factory came the rumbling murmur of an angry crowd.
"A mob must be forming!" Salt exclaimed. "Something's up!"
He started for the gate with Penny hard at his heels.
At first they could not see what had caused the commotion. But as the
group of angry employes swept nearer the gate, a man in a light overcoat
who apparently was fleeing for his life, leaped into a car which waited
at the curb.
"Quick!" Penny cried. "Take a picture!"
Salt already had his camera into position. As the car started up, the
flash bulb went off.
"Got it!" Salt exclaimed triumphantly.
Penny tried to note the license number of the automobile, but the plate
was so covered with mud she could not read a single figure. The car
whirled around a corner and was lost to view.
"Salt, that man may have been the one who set off the explosion!" Penny
cried. "The mob is of that opinion at least!"
Angry employes now were bearing directly toward Penny and Salt. Suddenly
a woman in the crowd pointed toward the photographer, shouting: "There he
is! Get him!"
Dismayed, Penny saw then that Salt wore a light overcoat which bore a
striking resemblance to the garment of the fleeing stranger. Their builds
too were somewhat similar, for both were thin and angular. In the
darkness, the mob had failed to see the car roll away, and had mistaken
Salt for the saboteur.
"Let's get out of here!" Salt muttered. "One thing you can't do is argue
with a mob!"
He and Penny started in the opposite direction, only to be faced by a
smaller group of workmen who had swarmed from another factory gate.
Escape was cut off.
"Tell them we're from the _Star_!" Penny urged, but as she beheld the
angry faces, she realized how futile were her words.
"They'll wreck my equipment before I can explain anything!" Salt said
swiftly. He thrust the camera into her hands. "Here, take this and try to
keep it safe! And these plates!"
Empty-handed, Salt turned to face the mob. Not knowing what to do, Penny
tried to cut across the street. But the crowd evidently had taken her for
a companion of the saboteur, and was determined she should not escape.
"Don't let her get away!" shouted a woman in slacks, her voice shrill
with excitement. "Get her!"
A car was coming slowly down the street. Its driver, a woman, was
watching the flaming building, and had rolled down the window glass to
see better. The window of the rear seat also was halfway down.
As the women of the mob bore down upon Penny, she acted impulsively to
save Salt's camera and the precious plates. Without thinking of the
ultimate consequence, she tossed them through the open rear window onto
the back seat of the moving car.
The driver, her attention focused upon the blazing factory, apparently
did not observe the act, for she continued slowly on down the street.
"D F 3005," Penny noted the license number. "If only I can remember!"
The factory women were upon the girl, seizing her roughly by the
shoulders and shouting accusations. Penny's jacket was ripped as she
jerked free.
"I'm a reporter for the _Star_!" she cried desperately. "Sent here to
cover the story!"
The words made not the slightest impression upon the women. But before
they could lay hands upon her again, she fled across the street. The
women did not pursue her, for just then two police cars rolled up to the
curb.
Penny, greatly relieved, ran to summon help.
"Quick!" she urged the policemen. "That crazy mob has mistaken a reporter
for one of the saboteurs who escaped in a car!"
With drawn clubs, the policemen battled their way through the crowd.
Already Salt had been roughly handled. But arrival of the police saved
him from further mistreatment, and fearful of arrest, the mob began to
scatter. In another moment the photographer was free, although a bit
battered. His coat had been torn to shreds, one eye had been blackened,
and blood trickled from a cut on his lower lip.
"Are you all right?" he asked anxiously as Penny rushed to him.
"Oh, yes! But you're a sight, Salt. They half killed you!"
"I'm okay," Salt insisted. "The important thing is we've got a whale of a
story, and we saved the camera and pictures."
A stricken look came over Penny's face.
"Salt--" she stammered. "Your camera--"
"It was smashed?"
"No, I tossed it into a car, but the car went on down the street. How
we'll ever find it again I don't know!"
CHAPTER
4
_THE MISSING PLATES_
Salt did not criticise Penny when he learned exactly what had happened.
"I'd rather lose a dozen pictures than have my camera smashed," he
declared to cheer her. "Anyway, we may be able to trace the car and get
everything back. Remember the license number?"
"D F 3005," Penny said promptly, and wrote it down lest she forget.
"Let's call the license bureau and get the owner's name," the
photographer proposed, steering her toward a corner drugstore. "Gosh,
it's late!" he added, noticing a clock in a store window. "And they're
holding the paper for our story and pictures!"
"I certainly messed everything up," Penny said dismally. "At the moment,
it seemed the thing to do. When those women started for me, I thought it
was the only way to save the camera."
"Don't worry about it," Salt comforted. "I'll get the camera back."
"But how will we catch the edition with your pictures?"
"That's a horse of a different color," Salt admitted ruefully. "Anyway,
it's my funeral. I'll tell DeWitt something."
"I'll tell him myself," Penny said firmly. "I lost the pictures, and I
expect to take responsibility for it."
"Let's not worry ahead. Maybe we can trace that car if we have luck."
Entering the drugstore, Penny immediately telephoned Editor DeWitt at the
_Star_, reporting all the facts she had picked up.
"Okay, that's fine," he praised. "One of our men reporters, Art Bailey,
is on his way out there now. He'll take over. Tell Salt Sommers to get in
here fast with his pictures!"
"He'll call you in just a minute or two," Penny said weakly.
From another phone, Salt had been in touch with the license bureau. As
Penny left the booth to join him, she saw by the look of his face that he
had had no luck.
"Couldn't you get the name of the owner?" she asked.
"It's worse than that, Penny. The license was made out to a man by the
name of A. B. Bettenridge. He lives at Silbus City."
"Silbus City! At the far end of the state!"
"That's the size of it."
"But how did the car happen to be in Riverview?"
"The man or his wife probably is visiting relatives here, or possibly
just passing through the city."
"And there's no way to trace them," Penny said, aghast. "Oh, Salt, I've
not only lost your pictures, but your camera as well!"
"Cheer up," Salt said brusquely. "It's not that bad. We're sunk on the
pictures, that's sure. But unless the people are dishonest, I'll get the
camera again. I'll write a letter to Silbus City, or if necessary, go
there myself."
Penny had little to say as she rode back to the _Star_ office with the
photographer. Editor DeWitt was not in the newsroom when they returned,
but they found him in the composing room, shouting at the printers who
were "making up the paper" to include the explosion story.
Seeing Penny and Salt, he whirled around to face them. "Get any good
pictures?" he demanded.
"We lost all of 'em," Salt confessed, his face long.
"You what?"
"Lost the pictures. The mob tore into us, and we were lucky to get back
alive."
DeWitt's stony gaze fastened briefly upon Salt's scratched face and torn
clothing, "One of the biggest stories of the year, and you lose the
pictures!" he commented.
"It was my fault," Penny broke in. "I tossed the camera and plates into a
passing car. I was trying to save them, but it didn't work out that way."
DeWitt's eyebrows jerked upward and he listened without comment as Penny
told the story. Then he said grimly: "That's fine! That's just dandy!"
and stalked out of the composing room.
Penny gazed despairingly at Salt.
"If you hadn't told him it was your fault, he'd have taken it okay," Salt
sighed. "Oh, well, it was the only thing to do. Anyway, there's one
consolation. He can't fire you."
"I wish he would. Salt, I feel worse than a worm."
"Oh, buck up, Penny! Things like this happen. One has to learn to take
the breaks."
"Nothing like this ever happened before--I'm sure of that," Penny said
dismally. "What ought I to do, Salt?"
"Not a thing," he assured her. "Just show up for work tomorrow the same
as ever and don't think any more about it. I'll get the camera back, and
by tomorrow DeWitt will have forgotten everything."
"You're very optimistic," Penny returned. "Very optimistic indeed."
Not wishing to return through the newsroom, she slipped down the back
stairs and took a bus home. The Parker house stood on a knoll high above
the winding river and was situated in a lovely district of Riverview.
Only a few blocks away lived Louise Sidell, who was Penny's closest
friend.
Reluctant to face her father, Penny lingered for a while in the dark
garden, snipping a few roses. But presently a kitchen window flew up, and
Mrs. Maude Weems, the family housekeeper called impatiently:
"Penny Parker, is that you prowling around out there? We had our dinner
three hours ago. Will you please come in and explain what kept you so
long?"
Penny drew a deep sigh and went in out of the night. Mrs. Weems stared at
her in dismay as she entered the kitchen.
"Why, what have you done to yourself!" she exclaimed.
"Nothing."
"You look dreadful! Your hair isn't combed--your face is dirty--and your
clothes! Why, they smell of smoke!"
"Didn't Dad tell you I started to work for the _Star_ today?" Penny
inquired innocently.
"The very idea of you coming home three hours late, and looking as if you
had gone through the rollers of my washing machine! I'll tell your father
a thing or two!"
Mrs. Weems had cared for Penny since the death of Mrs. Parker many years
before. Although employed as a housekeeper, salary was no consideration,
and she loved the girl as her own child. Penny and Mr. Parker regarded
Mrs. Weems almost as a member of the family.
"Where is Dad?" Penny asked uneasily.
"In the study."
"Let's not disturb him now, Mrs. Weems. I'll just have a bite to eat and
slip off to bed."
"So you don't want to see your father?" the housekeeper demanded alertly.
"Why, may I ask? Is there more to this little escapade than meets the
eye?"
"Maybe," Penny admitted. Then she added earnestly: "Believe me, Mrs.
Weems, I've had a wretched day. Tomorrow I'll tell you everything.
Tonight I just want to get a hot bath and go to bed."
Mrs. Weems instantly became solicitous. "You poor thing," she murmured
sympathetically. "I'll get you some hot food right away."
Without asking another question, the housekeeper scurried about the
kitchen, preparing supper. When it was set before her, Penny discovered
she was not as hungry as she had thought. But because Mrs. Weems was
watching her anxiously, she ate as much as she could.
After she had finished, she started upstairs. In passing her father's
study, she saw his eyes upon her. Before she could move on up the steps,
he came to the doorway, noting her disheveled appearance.
"A hard day at the office?" he inquired evenly.
Penny could not know how much her father already had learned, but from
the twinkle of his eyes she suspected that DeWitt had telephoned him the
details of her disgrace.
"Oh, just a little overtime work," she flung carelessly over her
shoulder. "See you in the morning."
Penny took a hot bath and climbed into bed. Then she climbed out again
and carefully set the clock alarm for eight o'clock. Snuggling down once
more, she went almost instantly to sleep.
It seemed that she scarcely had closed her eyes when the alarm jangled in
her ear. Drowsily, Penny reached and turned it off. She rolled over to go
to sleep again, then suddenly realized she was a working woman and leaped
from bed.
She dressed hurriedly and joined her father at the breakfast table. He
had two papers spread before him, the _Star_, and its rival, the _Daily
Times_. Penny knew from her father's expression that he had been
comparing the explosion stories of the two papers, and was not pleased.
"Any news this morning?" she inquired a bit too innocently.
Her father shot back a quick, quizzical look, but gave no further
indication that he suspected she might have had any connection with the
Conway Steel Plant story.
"Oh, they did a little dynamiting last night," he replied, shoving the
papers toward her. "The _Times_ had very good pictures."
Penny scanned the front pages. The story in the _Star_ was well written,
with her own facts used, and a great many more supplied by other
reporters. But in comparison to the _Times_, the story seemed colorless.
Pictures, she realized, made the difference. The _Times_ had published
two of them which half covered the page.
"Can't see how DeWitt slipped up," Mr. Parker said, shaking his head
sadly. "He should have sent one of our photographers out there."
"Dad--"
Mr. Parker, who had finished his breakfast, hastily shoved back his
chair. "Well, I must be getting to the office," he said. "Don't be late,
Penny."
"Dad, about that story last night--"
"No time now," he interposed. "On a newspaper, yesterday's stories are
best forgotten."
Penny understood then that her father already knew all the details of her
downfall. Relieved that there was no need to explain, she grinned and
hurriedly ate her breakfast.
Because her father had taken the car and gone on, she was compelled to
battle the crowd on the bus. The trip took longer than she had expected.
Determined not to be late for work, she ran most of the way from the bus
stop to the office. By the time she had climbed the stairs to the
newsroom, she was almost breathless.
As she came hurriedly through the swinging door, Elda Hunt, cool and
serene, looked up from her typewriter.
"Why the rush?" she drawled, but in a voice which carried clearly to
everyone in the room. "Are you going to another fire?"
CHAPTER
5
_SHADOW ON THE SKYLIGHT_
Ignoring the thrust, Penny hung up her hat and coat and went to work.
Neither Editor DeWitt nor his assistant, Mr. Jewell, made any reference
to the explosion story of the previous day.
Another reporter had written the "follow-up" on it which Penny read with
interest. Cause of the explosion, responsible for more than $40,000
damages, had not yet been determined. However, Fire Chief Schirr had
stated that there was evidence the explosion had not been accidental.
Several witnesses had reported seeing a man in light overcoat flee from
the building only a few minutes before the disaster.
"He must have been the fellow who leaped into that waiting car and
escaped!" Penny thought. "And to think, Salt's picture might actually be
evidence in the case, if I hadn't thrown it away!"
She was staring glumly at the story when DeWitt motioned for her to take
a telephone call. It was another obituary.
"After muffing a good story, I'll probably be assigned to these things
for the rest of my time on the paper," Penny thought as she mechanically
scribbled notes.
All morning the obituaries kept coming in, and then there were the
hospitals to call for accident reports, and the weather bureau. After
lunch, a reporter was needed to interview a famous actress who had
arrived in Riverview for a personal appearance. It was just the story
Penny wanted to try. She knew she could do it well, for in months past,
she frequently had contributed special feature stories to the paper.
Mr. DeWitt's gaze focused upon her for an instant, but he passed her by.
"Elda," he said, and she went quickly to his desk to receive
instructions.
Elda was gone a long while on the assignment. When she returned in the
afternoon, she spent nearly two hours typing the interview. Several times
Editor DeWitt glanced impatiently at her, and finally he said: "Let's
have a start on that story, Elda. You've been fussing with it long
enough."
She gave it to him. As Mr. DeWitt read, he used his pencil to mark out
large blocks of what had been written. But as he gave the story to a copy
reader who would write the headline, he said: "Give her a byline."
Elda heard and grinned from ear to ear. A byline meant that a caption
directly under the headline would proclaim: "By Elda Hunt."
Penny, who also heard, could not know that Mr. DeWitt had granted the
byline only because it was customary with a personal interview story. She
felt even more depressed than before.
"See if you can find a picture of this actress in the photography room,"
DeWitt instructed Elda. "Salt Sommers took one this morning, but it
hasn't come up yet."
With a swishing of skirts, for she now was in a fine mood, Elda
disappeared down the corridor. Fifteen minutes elapsed. Penny, busy
writing hand-outs and obituaries, had forgotten about her entirely, until
Mr. DeWitt summoned her to his desk.
"See if you can find out what became of Elda," he said in exasperation.
"Tell her we'd like to have that picture for today's paper."
Penny went quickly toward the photography room. The door was closed. As
she opened it, she was startled half out of her wits by hearing a shrill
scream. The cry unmistakably came from an inner room of the photography
studio and was Elda's voice. At the same instant, a gust of cool air
struck Penny's face.
"Elda!" she called in alarm.
"Here," came the girl's muffled voice from the inner room.
Fearing the worst, Penny darted through the doorway. Elda had collapsed
in a chair, her face white with terror. Wordlessly, she pointed toward
the ceiling.
Penny gazed up but could see nothing amiss. Warm sunshine was pouring
through the closed skylight which covered half the ceiling area.
"What ails you, Elda?" she asked. "Why did you scream?"
"The skylight!"
"What about the skylight?" Penny demanded with increasing impatience. "I
can't see anything wrong with it."
"Only a moment ago I saw a shadow there," Elda whispered in awe.
"A shadow!" Penny was tempted to laugh. "What sort of shadow?"
"I--I can't describe it. But it must have been a human shadow. I think a
man was crouching there."
"Nonsense, you must have imagined it."
"But I didn't," Elda insisted indignantly. "I saw it just before you
opened the door."
"Did the skylight open?"
"Not that I saw."
Recalling the cool gust of wind that had struck her face, Penny took
thought. Was it possible that Elda actually had seen someone crouching on
the skylight? However, the idea seemed fantastic. She could think of no
reason why any person would hide on the roof above the photography room.
"Oh, snap out of it, Elda," she said carelessly. "Even if you did see a
shadow, what of it?"
"It was a man, I tell you!"
"A workman perhaps. Mr. DeWitt sent me to tell you he was in a hurry for
that picture."
"Oh, tell Mr. DeWitt to jump in an ink well!" Elda retorted angrily.
"He's always in a hurry."
"You haven't been watching a shadow all this time, I judge," Penny
commented.
"Of course not. I went downstairs to get a candy bar."
With a sigh, Elda pulled herself from the chair. She really did look as
if she had undergone a bad fright, Penny observed. Feeling a trifle sorry
for the girl, she helped her find the photograph, and they started with
it to the newsroom.
"I'd not say anything about the shadow if I were you, Elda," Penny
remarked.
"Why not, pray?"
"Well, it sounds rather silly."
"Oh, so I'm silly, am I?"
"I didn't say that, Elda. I said the idea of a shadow on the skylight
struck me that way. Of course, if you want to be teased about it, why
tell everyone."
"At least I didn't make a mess of an important story," Elda retorted,
tossing her head.
"Elda, why do you dislike me?" Penny demanded suddenly.
The question was so unexpected that it threw the girl off guard. "Did I
say I did?" she countered.
"It's obvious that you do."
"I'll tell you what I dislike," Elda said sharply. "The rest of us here
have to work for our promotions. You'll get yours without even turning a
hair--just because you're Mr. Parker's one and only daughter."
"But that's not true, Elda. I'm expected to earn my way the same as you.
I'm working at a beginner's salary."
"You can't expect me to believe that!"
"Was it because you thought I was making more money than you, that you
changed the name on the Borman obituary?"
Elda stopped short. She tried to register indignation, but instead, only
looked frightened. Penny was certain of her guilt.
"I haven't told Mr. DeWitt, and I don't intend to," she said quietly.
"But I'm warning you! If anything like that happens again, you'll answer
for it!"
"Well, of all the nerve!" Elda exploded, but her voice lacked fire. "Of
all the nerve!"
Penny deliberately walked away from her.
The day dragged on. At five-thirty Penny covered her typewriter and
telephoned Mrs. Weems.
"I'll be late coming home tonight," she said apologetically. "I thought I
might get dinner downtown and perhaps go to a show."
"Another hard day?" the housekeeper asked sympathetically.
"Much easier than yesterday," Penny said, making her voice sound
cheerful. "Don't worry about me. I'll be home no later than nine."
Though she would not have confessed it even to herself, Penny was
reluctant to meet her father at dinner time. He might not ask questions,
but his all-knowing, all-seeing eyes would read her secrets. At a glance
he could tell that newspaper work was not going well for her, and that
she disliked it.
"I certainly won't give him an opportunity to even think, 'I told you
so,'" she reflected. "Even if it kills me, I'll stick here, and I'll
pretend to like it too!"
Because it was too early to dine, Penny walked aimlessly toward the
river. She paused at a dock to watch two boys fishing, and then sauntered
on toward the passenger wharves.
A young man in an unpressed suit, and shoes badly in need of a shine,
leaned against one of the freight buildings. Seeing Penny, he pulled his
hat low over his eyes, and became engrossed in lighting a cigarette.
She would have passed him by without a second glance, save that he
deliberately turned his back to shield his face. The hunch of his
shoulders struck her as strangely familiar.
Involuntarily, she exclaimed: "Ben! Ben Bartell!"
He turned then and she saw that she had not been mistaken. The young man
indeed was a former reporter for the _Riverview Mirror_, a news magazine
published weekly. Ben had not shaved that day, and he looked years older
than when she last had seen him.
"Hello, Penny," he said uncomfortably.
"Ben, what has happened to you?" she asked. "Why were you trying to avoid
me?"
Ben did not reply for a moment. Then he said quietly: "Why should I want
to see any of my old friends now? Just look at me and you have your
answer."
"Why, Ben! You were one of the best reporters the _Mirror_ ever had!"
"_Were_ is right," returned Ben with a grim smile. "Haven't worked there
for six months now. The truth is, I'm down and out."
"Why, that's ridiculous, Ben! Nearly every paper in town needs a good
man."
"They don't need me."
"Ben, you sound so bitter! What has happened to you?"
"It's a long story, sister, and not for your dainty little ears."
Penny now was deeply troubled, for she had known Ben well and liked him.
"Ben, you must tell me," she urged, taking his arm. "We're going into a
restaurant, and while we have dinner together, you must explain why you
left the _Mirror_."
CHAPTER
6
_BEN'S STORY_
Ben held back.
"Thanks," he said uncomfortably, "but I think I ought to be moving on."
"Have you had your dinner?" Penny asked.
"Not yet."
"Then do come with me, Ben. Or don't you want to tell me what happened at
the _Mirror_?"
"It's not that, Penny. The truth is--well--"
"You haven't the price of a dinner?" Penny supplied. "Is that it, Ben?"
"I'm practically broke," he acknowledged ruefully. "Sounds screwy in a
day and age like this, but I'm not strong enough for factory work. Was
rejected from the Army on account of my health. Tomorrow I guess I'll
take a desk job somewhere, but I've held off, not wanting to get stuck on
it."
"You're a newspaper man, Ben. Reporting is all you've ever done, isn't
it?"